#jt compher smut

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — JT COMPHER x reader (main); TYSON JOST x reader (side); COMPHER x JOST (brief) wc — 14k synopsis — what's a reunion without some groveling?

note — this takes place a few of years after part one, go out with a bang (post-college/college au — tyson and kate are now out-going seniors!) sorry not sorry for the length of this behemoth, i got carried away per usual <3 there are more parts to come, and i would absolutely love to hear any theories/predictions if yall have any!

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

cw — cameos on cameos on cameos, we're at a party so drinking and mention of dr*gs + yacking (no description), drinking games, sorority terms/processes, me getting too invested in multiple subplots and potential background ships, soft!service!dom!JT makes my peabrain go brrrrr, everybodies a bit masochistic because i, registered heathen, am masochistic, reader’s wearing a short skirt for plot reasons, slight compher x josty, oral (reader receiving 2x), unprotected piv (i know, i know, i know i need help), me letting my brat self take the kink reins, praise baby praise, angst AND IM NOT SORRY, + happy fluffy bits... possible cliffhanger??? 

Staring up at the Alpha Chi house is like stepping back in time. 

Like trying on an old pair of shoes you found while deep-cleaning your closet only to find their once-perfect fit gone. Growth is funny that way; you never realize just how far you’ve come until it pinches you.

You’ve outgrown this place, though not from a lack of love or any great tragedy. It occupies a different place in your mind, just as you’re a different person than you were three years ago. 

Your younger self would balk at this development, wouldn’t believe it’d one day feel too small. You can’t fault her for that near-sightedness. In college, your whole world existed on one street. You had everything you needed then between two stop signs.

But your world is bigger now, and your needs are different too. 

Still, it feels good to try on your past for the night. Even if it's a tad ill-fitting. 

The drive between your new life and your old one hadn’t been too bad, but that’s probably because you didn’t do much of said driving. JT got the engine going before you could even make a grab for the keys and, despite spending the last year in the literal trenches of clinical rotations and shelf exams, refused to switch at the halfway mark. Yet, your boyfriend is practically vibrating with excitement as you cross the all-too-familiar threshold hand-in-hand. 

“This is so weird,” JT remarks, his lips low to your ear. His musky cologne, warm and woody, does its best to soothe your nerves.

As you survey the crowd, you nod. 

He didn’t need to elaborate further for you to understand because you were already thinking the very same thing. Watching students, the vast majority as unfamiliar to you as you are to them, milling around your old haunt stirs an odd, uncanny feeling akin to a surreal dream. You’re well-acquainted with the setting, almost to an uncomfortable degree, and you don’t think you’re all that different, but everything still feels foreign.

All the right pieces are there, and you’re sure you’ve put them in their proper places, but the image won’t behave.

You quickly realize the only thing that’s misplaced is you. Grief hangs from your back like a wet blanket. 

“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”

A burst of riotous laughter shakes much of the gloom from your system.

Gabe Landeskog barrels into your boyfriend like an overgrown puppy. Gray-blue eyes twinkling under the rainbow of LEDs, he embraces you both in a warm hug, not minding that the spontaneous act of affection has just cost him an entire Solo cup.

“Compher and the missus,” the blonde addresses you both with a wide grin and a big palm to a cheek each; he gives JT’s a quick pat but merely cups yours. 

His breath still smells of spearmint and something spicy, an imposing combination your eighteen-year-old self could never find comforting. Just another thing that's different now. If you could package the scent for all the little moments of nostalgia, you would. 

“I was starting to think we’d have to drag you from the city kicking and screaming, but alas! You've left the cozy, vanilla bubble of your own volition for a weekend of debauchery with your favorite degenerates.”

JT’s affectionate eye-roll is big and dramatic even in your periphery. The levity brings a smile to your face. It grows wider and wider, enduring until your cheeks burn. If anyone deserves some light-heartedness, it's your sleep-deprived, perpetually-stressed boyfriend.

“A night, Landy. We’ve got to be back by tomorrow night to relieve the dog sitter,” your boyfriend amends with a pat to Gabe’s flushed cheek, returning the favor. 

The older man groans like the overgrown boy he is and will always be. “Look at you, Mr. Responsible. All domestic and shit. With a fur-baby and everything. I bet it’s as well-trained as your firstborn.”

Your eyes follow the line drawn by Gabe’s strong chin past the entryway through to the room used for table-top drinking games.

Half-kneeling on the rickety table you helped customize a few years back is Tyson Jost, head tilted to the sky as he guzzles down the center cup. More beer spills down his chest than into his mouth, effectively turning his white tee sheer. The crowd is comprised mostly of giddy sorority girls who don't mind a bit. 

Free booze and a free show—lucky them!

Once the plastic cup is empty, he crushes it in his palm before sinking the balled plastic into the basketball hoop on the adjacent wall. The converted dining room swells with hoots and hollers so quickly you would’ve thought Tyson emerged from some mythic quagmire, blood-soaked and victorious. But there are no winners in Rage Cage; everybody loses.

Tyson’s loopy grin falters when he registers you and JT on either side of Gabe.

You would like to say nothing’s changed between the three of you over the past couple of years. That you’re just as close as you’d been in college, that distance hadn’t done as much damage as it has.

You'd be lying if you did. 

You tried your best to keep him in the loop; you really did, but that didn’t end up mattering much.

JT hardly had time to socialize with you most of the time, and you’ve practically lived together since graduation. He, like you, tried, but at some point, his bandwidth could no longer accommodate Tyson’s sporadic texts and calls. Many of which came in the dead of night, when your boyfriend’s head was either buried in a textbook or in the pillow beside yours.

Whenever you could, you invited the forward to spend the weekend in the city with the two of you. You even went so far as to offer to put him up in a hotel between your and JT’s respective apartments, knowing your adult salary could stretch further than the Atomic tips he was splitting with Tyler. He always had something conflicting going on, and it didn't feel like your place to question the authenticity of his reasons, so you just kept extending the invitation, hoping things would align eventually.

After finally taking the leap and signing a lease together, you decorated the guest room with Tyson in mind. He’s yet to see it, still.

Your little Kate, on the other hand, needs a frequent flyer program.

A small part of you felt this shift was inevitable once JT went from best friend-slash-unrequited crush to full-blown, live-in boyfriend. Despite Tyson’s insistence on you finally hooking up and “putting everyone out of their misery,” his smile didn’t meet his eyes when JT broke the news that it wasn’t a one-night thing.

Maybe his “little crush” hadn’t been so little after all. 

If that’s the case, you can't blame him for avoiding your slice of grown-up love like the plague. It just would've been nice if he hadn't left you in the dark, wondering where and how you fucked up enough to get iced out.

Tyson responded to every third or so text of yours, so you mostly kept up with him and his life through Kate, who briefly dated him between ill-fated Gunnar stints, and social media. You weren’t sure how often he spoke to JT; after several attempts that ended with your boyfriend clammed up and irritated, you stopped asking.

Judging by how tense he is beside you right now, you have a pretty good guess.

“Yikes,” Gabe drawls. “Trouble in paradise?”

You remain carefully quiet, allowing your boyfriend to decide what, if anything, to share. This—whatever it is —feels like it's more so between them two than Tyson and yourself.

JT clears his throat so hard it cuts through the music blaring through the packed house—some remix you don’t remember learning the words to. “Trouble? Nah, Josty’d have to give us the time of day for that.” 

Gabe laughs, but you know JT isn’t trying to be funny. You can taste the undercurrent of bitter resentment. It’s impossible not to without an artificial buzz.

There’s no time to dwell because a flurry of red hair darts through the crowd dispersing out of the dining room and straight into your arms. A fresh, but faintly-candied scent tickles your nose as the cool metal of a bracelet digs into your neck. 

Kate.

“Fuckin finally!” The almost-grad squeals directly into your ear.

Definitely drunk. Or high—or both. 

“Don’t look at me,” you say, beaming when she pulls back. “I wasn’t driving.”

Kate swats JT’s chest with her open palm. “And this is why we don’t let you drive anywhere, Grandpa.”

The playful jab makes your smile deepen. His driving made her tardy to a ZBZ charity gala one time over a year ago when she made the mistake of hitching a ride with you, and she’s probably brought it up a million times since. Kate pretends to hold a grudge, JT pretends to find it aggravating, and you get to sit back, enjoying the warm camaraderie overfilling your cup.

The pair have been friends almost as long as you've been friends with either of them, but since your graduation, they’ve settled into something more serious and more genuine. Where your connection to Tyson wilted outside the conveniences of college, your relationship with Kate matured and flourished. She’s more than just your chapter-appointed Little Sister to JT now, having become more of a true sister than anything else. Hence the juvenile teasing.

“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”

Your little snatches your hand in hers, tugging you away from JT, who feigns offense.

“And now I’m stealing your girlfriend in retribution for making me wait. Go do… whatever it is you two heathens used to do at parties. We have a pong title to defend.”

“Excellent idea, Madame President,” Gabe declares, hands roughly massaging the male ginger’s shoulders. He tosses a wink in Kate’s direction.

Before the other ginger can drag you away for good, your boyfriend catches your free wrist, pulling you back to him so his lips can find your ear. Breath hot, he drops his voice an octave, “President’s bathroom. One hour. Nod if you understand.”

Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.

“Good girl.”

As your respective keepers separate you, JT shoots you a wink of his own. Then, you lose him in the crowd.

Kate leads you through the sea of party-goers to the living room, her grip on you tight and comforting. Her thumb rubs small circles on the inside of your wrist as you approach the table, almost as if privy to your worry. Kate is incredibly perceptive; she can read someone’s mind without even looking at them. With you, her Spidey senses transcend county lines, so it’s no real surprise she deduced your current condition from no more than your erratic pulse thumping against her palm. 

When you reach the bustling folding table commandeered for the BP tournament, Kate does all the talking.

It’s not too hard to get on the bracket despite the late entry with two newly-minted Alpha Chi brothers manning the post. The absolute last thing they want to do is get on the bad side of the president of their sister chapter (Kate) and the girlfriend of a legendary former chapter president (you). The pairs for the current game are only a couple of throws in, so it’s going to be at least ten minutes before it's your turn.

“You, my dear, look thirsty,” Kate declares through a mischievous grin.

You let her pull you towards the kitchen across the hall but have more difficulty than you expect actually getting there. Every few steps, someone stops either you or Kate. Mostly the latter, but she’s quick to show you off to whoever’s trying to seize her attention. Apparently, Kate’s been building quite the mythos of your time on campus, and it’s very… dizzying, to say the least.

“Kit-Kat!”

Kate abandons the poor freshman boy shooting his shot (and missing fantastically) in favor of the feminine voice sliding into the conversation.

In the blue-ish hue washing over the small space, you’re having a hard time placing her, but she seems very keen on making your acquaintance.

“Blake Meyers,” the newcomer announces, extending her hand with a smile.

You take it, giving her your name and a matching expression in return. The flattened vowels are distinct and recognizable, as is the last name. 

“Meyers?” you ask, attempting to work it out.

“Ava’s younger sister,” Kate interjects. “And one of our best steals this past recruitment.”

Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.

You remember that feeling. What it was like to have an older member, especially someone as established and accomplished as an outgoing ZBZ president, go out of their way to make you feel special. You have zero doubt Blake will be walking on air for the foreseeable future, any of the common little doubts about whether or not she made the right choice vanishing.

“I was really hoping I’d get to meet you tonight,” the freshman tells you bashfully. “Kate gave the most beautiful speech about you and your legacy on Preference Night, and when she told me you might be coming with your boyfriend, I had to put a face to the name. And Jenny was the one who pref-ed me, so it seemed like—I don’t know, a non-negotiable?”

Jenny is one of the twins Kate took her junior year, and she couldn’t have picked better. It gave you peace of mind knowing your Kate would have good people around her once you couldn’t physically be there for her.

You won’t be surprised if Jenny takes Blake as her little. Kate pref-ed her, and before that, you pref-ed Kate. It’s basically a family tradition.

Not long after you thank Kate for her generous words and Blake for her kindness, Thomas, one of the new initiates in charge of the beer pong table, flags you down for your game. Not ready to end your conversation, invigorated by the breezy, jovial chatter your new life lacks, you tug Blake along with you.

Between exceptionally beautiful throws (if you do say so yourself), you learn more about Blake and her roommate and fellow ZBZ spring initiate, Emory. They pepper you with questions: about your first-year college experience, advice on getting the best room possible on the sophomore floor for mandatory live-in, whether or not you got anything particularly valuable in the various leadership positions you held, and what fraternities to steer clear of. You’re more than happy to answer them all. Kate sprinkles in comments and jokes occasionally, but she mostly defers to you so she can celebrate the end of a smooth second term as president.

Once Kate and you have successfully defended your title, you pass the torch to the future of your chapter. Blake and Emory make quick work of the first challengers and are close to a similar sweep with the second pair when your little remembers her earlier mission: refreshments.

This time, you both keep your heads ducked as you speed through the dancing bodies and make a beeline for the dinged-up lockers propped against the wall. You can’t help but smile when you see her reach for the lock—your old lock.

Every upperclassman (and a few select friends of the chapter, like Alpha Chi Sweethearts such as Kate and, once upon a time, yourself) is assigned a secure, personal locker in the oversized kitchen for quick access to personal items. During parties, they essentially become personal coolers. At your very last formal chapter meeting, you will-ed the hunk of metal down to Kate, along with the more sentimentally valuable items you wanted to leave behind with her.

“Wait, can you even drink?” Kate asks you from where she’s kneeling. Sarcasm scrunches her brows together.

“Hilarious,” you reply with a playful glare. “And before you loudly ask about the non-existent fetus like the devious bitch you love being, don’t. Unless you want to give JT an aneurysm."

Kate fishes out two slim, chilled cans as she grumbles about how boring you two have become in your “old age.” She shoves a ratty sweatshirt—an old favorite of Tyson’s—back into the small locker, quickly refastens the lock, and scrambles the dial. Then, she returns to her full height beside you.

“So, do you want to tell me what that wink from Gabe was about?” you ask, brow cocked.

“Do you want to tell me what your horndog of a boyfriend whispered in your ear?” Kate counters.

“Touché.”

Kate cracks open a Spindrift Spiked and slots it into your waiting palm. She taps the rim with her own, then sighs back against the cluttered kitchen island. She’s going to crack, you know it. Kate, even when she has a secret she wants to keep, never stays quiet for long. Especially not when you’re the one doing the asking.

“Okay, so, d’you remember how Tyson was, like, completely apathetic after we broke up right before Heaven & Hell last Halloween?”

You nod, recalling how irritated she was over FaceTime while you helped her pick a costume out of your box of hand-me-downs. You did your best not to laugh because Kate was clearly distressed, but it was kind of hard not to when she was buried in a heap of red and white feathers, wearing a too-small tutu dotted with rhinestones.

Kate takes a sip of the spiked strawberry lemonade before elaborating, “Well, I was understandably pissed—Don’t give me that look, okay? I know I broke up with him, but he shouldn’t have been that blasé that soon—so, I hatched a plan.”

You shake your head, laughing. Kate and her schemes.

“I wasn’t planning on taking Gabe as my date, but when I ran into him at Atomic the day before… I don’t know; I just couldn’t resist. I mean, Tyson worships the man. If anyone’s getting a reaction, it’s Landy. I had to.”

“And?” you prod. 

“And…” she stalls, eyes darting around the kitchen in search of pesky eavesdroppers, cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree. “…we might’ve done it in the backseat of his truck.”

“I’m scared to ask where.”

She buries her face in your shoulder. “The venue’s parking lot.”

Your eyes bulge so hard you, for a split-second, worry they’ll pop out of your head onto the sticky hardwood and land amongst the discarded cans.

“And I didn’t tell you because I was so scared you and JT would hate me,” Kate moans into your skin. She shifts to peer up at you, hesitant. “You don’t, right?”

“I don’t think I’m even capable of hating you, Katie-Kat, let alone for something as silly as banging a hot blonde,” you giggle, and she’s quick to join you. Lowering your voice, “Especially the hottest of hot blondes.”

“I’m so telling JT you said that,” she teases, pulling away.

You shrug and take your first sip. “Go ahead. He’ll agree.”

“And this is why you’re my favorite couple,” she says, bumping her hip against yours. “The worst part is Tyson didn’t even care about that either! At the post-game, when he saw my lipstick smeared all over Gabe’s neck, he high-fived him. Tyson fucking high-fived him for screwing me. His ex-girlfriend! How supremely demented is that?”

“I wish I had an explanation for you, but I don’t. I’m starting to think I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

Kate takes hold of your unoccupied hand and squeezes it three times.

“I’m guessing things haven’t gotten any better?”

You shake your head, eyes downcast like there’s something super interesting between the floorboards. “I know he’s busy, and we’re busy, but he’s acting like our friendship meant nothing.”

“Not to start a therapy session in the middle of a rager, but did you... did you ever actually talk about That Night? I know you said JT whispered, but how positive are you that Josty didn't hear him?"

A few months after That Night, your guilt was on the brink of hemorrhaging. It was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped; you broke down in the middle of Talladega Nights. Fucking Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. All fat tears and snotty, incoherent spiraling, your chest heaved as JT rubbed your back. He was quiet, more concerned than confused, until you calmed down enough to explain what’d been weighing on your conscience. 

Then, your boyfriend looked clueless—because he was. JT didn’t remember his heat-of-the-moment pseudo-promise to taint Josty’s image of you.

After a scene or two, you broached the subject you’d both been avoiding since getting together. You wanted to apologize, and not that you needed JT’s permission, but you felt it wasn’t entirely your amends to make. He agreed but was adamantly opposed to operating on assumption alone. If Tyson was truly upset by the pillow talk he overheard, JT reasoned, he was old enough to be frank about it.

You found yourself agreeing, but also not? On the one hand, you could see this being an instance of your anxious mind making a mountain out of a molehill, finding fault where there’s none. But you knew Tyson, and you knew how sensitive he could be. 

Something shifted that night. You’d known then, too, even in the hazy afterglow. His despondency wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t uncommon for his dejected expression—his forced smile dipped in feigned nonchalance—to visit you in therapy sessions or in your nightmares.

But every time you typed and re-typed one remorseful novel after another, every time your gun-shy thumb hovered over his contact, every time you nearly drove out to your alma mater to track him down… You couldn’t get yourself to see it through. 

At first, it was the nerves, the fear of hearing his pain and seeing his anger. Then, it was your own temper, stoked by indignation, that rose with every sign of withdrawal. Now, it’s just plain, garden-variety sadness.

It was—is disappointing how cleanly he severed ties. There one day and gone the next, no blow-out fight or melancholic hear-to-heart. Tyson was there; he was within reach, but at the same time, not at all. The casual dismissal is worse than outright rejection; the door ajar but wholly uninviting.

"In the moment, I was certain he didn’t. Now? Fuck, the percentage drops every time I replay it in my head,” you murmur, remorse bogging down your confession. "I know you made a point not to bring it up when you were together, but did he ever, I don’t know, say anything?"

Kate shakes her head. "No, sorry. But it's not like we actually did much talking anyway."

You snort despite your woes.

“Alright, that’s enough doom and gloom for one night. How’s my nephew?” Kate asks, bright smile chasing the blues away with all its might.

It’s a distraction and a good one, too. She listens intently as you prattle on about the bi-weekly training sessions you’re starting next month to help with the leash pulling and the ridiculous pet parents you’ve met at the dog park near your apartment. She inquires about the fluffy lamb she brought over the last time she stayed with you—it lasted all of a day in his over-excited grip—then gushes over another variation she saw last week while getting litter for Salem, her diabolical tuxedo cat.

By the time Kate has your phone in her hand, swiping through the designated album and asking more questions than each picture really warranted, you’re feeling a bit better.

Noticing the clock, you stumble through a totally-not-suspicious excuse to venture upstairs—alone. Kate shoots you a knowing look but doesn’t give you a hard time. To be honest, she’s just glad you came tonight. Instead of a witty jab or half-hearted guilt trip, she slips a gold foil square into your unsuspecting palm and sends you on your way with a supportive swat to the rear.

Access to the second floor during parties is typically mediated by two to three gatekeepers, depending on the scale and projected rowdiness of each gathering. Three’s the magic number tonight: two up-and-coming juniors and an outgoing senior. They grant you passage with little more than a nod of acknowledgment.

“What? No riddle this time?” you tease over your shoulder.

The senior, an engineering major with a penchant for brain teasers, answers with a hoot. Cale Makar shakes his head, both amused and flattered you remembered his signature move. His puppy crush on you is an open secret. “I was given strict instructions to ‘keep the shenanigans’ to a minimum with you, Your Majesty.”

“JT?” you venture a guess, hand paused on the paint-chipped banister. He’s the only one who still sprinkles in the silly nickname these days.

“Landy, actually.”

Well, close enough.

You shouldn’t be surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time the former chapter president enlisted Cale, his little, to assist in your and JT’s more salacious antics.

As soon as Gabe had the defenseman under his wing, he was putting him to work. Not that the younger blonde particularly minded, as his affinity for creative, slightly devious schemes rivaled that of Kate’s. It was Cale, you later found out, who ran interference during Semi Formal… while you were defiled on the balcony.

“Still doing his bidding, I see.”

He counters with that lopsided “Get Out of Jail Free” grin. “What can I say? The man puts up a mean bribe.”

As if cued, Cale’s companions, who you now recognize as Alex Newhook and Bowen Byram, step into view. In Alex’s raised grip is a case of Labatt Blue, and in each of Bowen’s, a bottle of bottom-shelf cabernet. You doubt the trio would notice or mind the subpar quality, though. Between their happy heads, Cale fists a bottle of champagne you know he’ll misplace before he can polish it off.

“Jesus, how drunk is he?” you tease, the follow-up to an exaggerated gasp.

Sure, the quality’s shit, but their haul is far more valuable than your appraisal of their job; it’s a frat house, not Buckingham Palace.

“Not drunk enough to not see you here with us.” Cale’s voice tapers off, his pale eyes tracking someone stalking down the hall before nervously flicking up to the ceiling, “…and not up there with JTC.”

JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.

An anticipatory tingling erupts between your inner thighs just knowing he’s up there right now waiting for you. This is the part of your “homecoming” that excited you most and had been since the moment your boyfriend pinned the invite from the alumni association onto the fridge.

As blissfully domestic as your life together has become, it lacks the spontaneity your college life had been brimming with. Your sex life could never be categorized as mundane or clinical, but you’re finding it difficult to replicate the adrenaline rush stealing secret moments inherently provided.

Sometimes, in your more (admittedly) desperate moments, you’ve caught your fingers moving beneath the sheets to mindlessly chase the thrill of those fleeting intimacies, despite how awful the constant wondering and wallowing felt then or, maybe because of it, pain and pleasure are uniquely human indulgences sought in equal measure. When intertwined, they’ve been known to satiate masochistic cravings the way a sad movie or a sprawling, high-speed rollercoaster might.

However, this time, your risk-spurned euphoria will be at your own hand. The newfound agency—the ability to choose when, how, or if any risk is involved—has you darting up the stairs with a fire under your soles.

Before you round the corner and disappear down the hall, you make sure to call out, “Thank you for your service!” accompanied by a two-finger mock salute. You don’t stick around to catch their responses, though.

As you make your way down the dim corridor, you run smack into a very giggly Sarah Jones, just shy of your destination. Eyes distant and wide, she attempts to apologize for something—Something about sabotaging the Big-Little pairings your senior spring?—but it’s more bubbles than actual words. You nod along, still not quite sure what you’re accepting an apology for but too antsy to forge ahead to play detective. Your purposeful strides went unnoticed in her cloud of intoxication and nostalgia, but Erik Johnson, who’d been JT’s vice president, mercifully ushers his inebriated fiancé out of your path by the shoulders.

You offer him a faint smile of gratitude as they head in the opposite direction.

Over the music, you faintly hear Sarah begin chattering on about something unrelated, your reunion long forgotten already. You can’t help but chuckle a little on behalf of your younger self, who would’ve gawked at snobbish Sarah Jones drunk and voluntarily slumming it in a ramshackle house on Greek Row. And sporting a rock from a Degenerate on Ice (her nickname for your brother fraternity, not yours), too? That would’ve been the icing. But, the older, more mature, once-weekly-therapy iteration of yourself is happy she’s happy.

Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.

As you reach for the tarnished doorknob of the president’s suite, the rickety door flings open to reveal your boyfriend, all flushed cheeks and frenzied eyes.

JT pulls you inside, lips easily taking possession of yours, the heel of his lived-in/loved-on sneaker nudging the door shut. The hinges groan in protest to the rough treatment. Still fussy as ever. This house is a goddamn time capsule, you muse. Neither of you has the patience for benevolence. If it jams, it jams. That’s a future-self problem. Diligence now would only slow you down.

And would a prolonged stay on memory lane really be all that bad?

Your boyfriend cages you so close that when he manages more than panted praise between hot-and-heavy touches, the words barely fit in the gap between your mouths. “I was beginning to think you stood me up, sweetheart.”

The light-hearted accusation is semi-whispered, somewhat hoarse, in the way his voice always sounded when he came home from a long shift at the hospital downtown or post-game at the height of his collegiate career. JT isn’t a hard person to read—downright wolfish when he’s homing in on a target—but the low, raspy tone makes his intent glaring.

Your body thrums with anticipation.

“Never,” you croon back. A breathy moan sweetens your voice, courtesy of the calloused hand inching up the back of your bare thigh, bypassing the hem of your skirt with no effort or resistance. Arms looping around his neck, you make an inquiry: “Is there a reason we’re in your old bedroom instead of, I don’t know, the king-sized bed in the honeymoon suite you insisted we spring for?”

Tufts of faint copper tickle your cheek. Your boyfriend lands a kiss on your crowd-warmed forearm. Then, much to your displeasure, he steps out of the tight embrace.

“Y’know, I remembered something earlier when I was downstairs,” JT supplies in an apparent non-answer.

He guides you, as understanding rises in your mental periphery, through the barely-lit space toward the Jack-and-Jill bathroom between this room and the next. Then, he flicks on the secondary light, the dimmer of the two, before tugging you over yet another threshold. His fingers twitch at his sides, lascivious.

You stare back at him expectantly, vision tunneling as you wait, wait, wait.

The latch might as well have been a starting pistol; the subtle click ringing in your eardrums like the sonic crack of a live round; his breath a plume of smoke from a charged muzzle well beyond its flash point. Pent-up, needy tension burns hot and burns brighter. Residue from the night prior aflame; you, a moth seduced.

JT drives forward. Stalking, like a cat on a bird, until he’s pinned you to the door. His dash was easy, made short and hasty by the starting block eagerness in your dilated eyes.

Mouth descending on your sensitive neck, hips grinding his want into your squirming form, harsh belt buckle nudging just right with each sharp rut.

“There’s still one thing left on my college bucket list.”

He sinks the candor in with his incisors. Not hard enough to break the skin, but that was never his intention. The sting is a reminder. Of your shared past, of his unwavering desire—of who is in charge.

Message received. Loud and clear.

JT leans away to admire his handiwork. One big hand poised at your jaw, and the other braced beside your head, keeping your shyness from blocking the perfect view; you’ve never been able to hide from him and never will.

His curious thumb deviates from the original objective to caress the skin, now splotched violet and angry. Softly, at first, like he’s committing the damage to memory. Then, emboldened by a sudden piercing hiss forcing itself from your throat, JT pushes down on the tender spot. The cruel, unexpected pressure pulls pitiful bleating cries from your undulating chest.

This is no longer an expedition to gather intel; it’s a primal instinct.

For a few moments, he just holds you like this. A cloistered existence made worthwhile by him occasionally digging deeper into the column of your throat, the pressure taking on a raptorial quality. Your boyfriend wears his herald grin at a rakish angle. It unfurls with refined delicacy, an effective diversion for his next endeavor. Breathe like a precision instrument; the sharp phantom-edge fans across the sucked-raw skin with unhurried ease.

There isn’t enough alcohol in your system to dull the twinge — and you’re glad for it. It’d be a crime to dilute a burn this good, this all-consuming. You crumble between him and the door, your world only this big. His name tumbles out with a pulled-candy moan, completely devoid of dignity.

JT’s chest rumbles beneath your clammy palms. “You gonna be a good girl and help me tie up loose ends?”

His strawberry-blonde crown dips to nuzzle your cheek. Hot tongue tracing an experimental line, JT groaning as it does. The muscle trawls for tears you didn’t realize you shed, humming through the pursuit. The low-pitched moan sends a chill straight down your spine right to your toes.

The hand gripping your jaw lowers so his fingers are able to coil themselves around somewhere more advantageous — your neck. Your eyelids flutter, woozy. His firm squeeze, just enough to make everything spin and keep you still, has become blissfully familiar over time, but your breath still hitches like it’s the first.

“Hm, sweetheart? Don’t be rude. I asked you a question.”

Your lips part, a barbed retort to his condescension on your tongue, but all you can push out is the strangled yelp of a wounded animal.

The hand by your temple no longer rests against the door. In the fog, it snuck up under your skirt; JT never meant to get an answer out of you; he just likes to watch you squirm. Likes to have something to reprimand you for.

His nimble fingers dance over the thin, sodden material pulled taut over your heat. Less touching, more hovering. Small, lazy movements that betray how well he can play your body. They float above the tingling bundle of nerves, further movement pending, contingent upon your obedience.

“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.

“Focus for me, pretty baby. Tell me what I want to hear. Come on, let me make things easy for you. I can feel how badly you want to — and you aren’t in a position to be difficult, are you?”

You give in, and though the words you babble are largely unintelligible, JT’s ultimately satisfied.

“Such a good listener I’ve got myself. But you’re always to eager to please, aren’t you? You might throw stones from behind that tough girl act, but it’s just that: an act. I have a puddle in my hand to prove it.”

His frankness sears your face.

You’ve acquired a tolerance for his raunchy silver tongue through months of close proximity, but the mechanism is shoddy at best. Stalls and misfires galore. Against all odds (said “odds” being his fingertips toying with the edges of fabric between your thighs), you summon up a tawdry retort from the growing arsenal. “Don’t l-let it go to waste, Compher.”

It's not your best work, but much better than the slurred gurgle that preceded it.

He loves how you manage to be any sort of cheeky with him, even with your head swimming, stuttering and all.

“I don’t think it matters, sweetheart. I know there’s no shortage. Plenty more where it came from.”

With your knee, you nudge his hard-on and supply some honey-tongued snark of your own. “Is that your ego, or are you just excited to see me?”

Your boyfriend chokes out short-lived mirth. Then, with an accompanying smile, his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. Amused, but by the sting of the remark’s undeniable truth, not your cleverness. The protrusion moves just below his bottom lip as he swipes the muscle over his teeth, a half-second sardonic gesture. It calls attention to your impudence without dignifying it with a verbal reply.

His brow lifts to negate any confusion, feigned or otherwise. “Are you going to keep being a brat, or are you going to let me fuck you with my fingers?”

You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.

“Nothing to say now?” JT taunts. “Funny how that works.”

Fuckin’ wisenheimer. His voice is so haughty you have to bite your lip to keep your foot out of your mouth, unwilling to jeopardize your impending pleasure for short-term gratification.

Your boyfriend’s smugness—and your subsequent annoyance—becomes irrelevant when your panties are roughly pushed to the side, and his thick finger slips past your taut entrance. Tip to knuckle in one succinct trust; your startled gasp drowns out the noise rising up through the floorboards.

Hips bucking forward—you just can’t help yourself—you're in search of some friction to marry with the blinding stretch. He’s made the tensile opening accommodate far more in length and thickness, but not like this. Rarely does he create space where there is barely any, having forgone tenderness. Slowly widening a gap with gentle pressure, not demanding room like it’s already his to occupy.

Your surprise drips down his hand.

The bliss—the relief, is palpable. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, and the gravity of the situation felt for the first time.

Before, you didn’t see any substance in a tipsy frat bathroom hook-up. The older you got, the more pointless it seemed, especially with an established, long-term partner. The novelty wasn’t lost on you, of course, but that’s all you’d written it off as.

Countless collegiate nights were spent imagining one like this one. A moment where your inescapable feelings for him would be matched outright. When the pressure of his stifled emotions would build too fast to keep them from boiling over, too mighty in stature. Suddenly overcome by unrequited feelings of his own, unable to uphold all the ridiculous unspoken platonic conventions with the same authority he commands now.

This is important. For your past and present selves. The significance of this overdone, soapy teen drama scenario cannot be overlooked because it underscores the progress you’ve made together. Years of dancing around one another, the unconventional catalyst and nontraditional timeline, every hushed conversation in the wee hours before responsibilities wake, the sleepless nights and the snooze-filled afternoons—this ostensibly clichéd moment is an amalgamation of it all.

One thought rises above the frenzied rest: Was this here all along?

Is this what was waiting on the other side of the aimless pining and the confusion and the hurt?

The journey might’ve been fucking hell, but the view from here is pretty damn heavenly.

Overwhelmed by your epiphany and his dexterous motions, you moan into his skin far louder than your pride would’ve otherwise allowed outside your shared apartment.

His arrogant laughter grates before it really registers. Venom secretes from your salivary glands when it does, but the melted retribution never makes it past your lips. His second finger robs it of the opportunity, and the third sends all thoughts out your ears. The light circles over your clit cloud your vision, nails digging into his jersey-clad back—I’m feeling nostalgic, he’d said. In more ways than one, apparently.

“S’good—wanted this for so long, Compher—k-kept wishing it was you that night, not Miles.”

JT seethes at the admission, curling his fingers until your knees buckle and you’re entirely reliant on him to keep you off the floor. Even as your mind slips further and further away, your hips manage to move in time with his hand. Meeting each stroke with equal hustle and vigor, a clear end goal on the horizon.

Then his thumb drops away, his hand coming to a halt, and he steps back. 

Away.

Frustration pushes the amassed tears waiting in the wings down your cheeks. Emotion runs down your face; a heavy spill indeed.

“I don’t ever want to hear another man’s name outta your mouth when it’s my fingers buried in your pussy.” His jealousy is well-polished. Manicure-smooth, like he’s been maintaining its luster in preparation for this very occasion. "—'specially not the motherfucker that made sure I heard all your pretty sounds through the walls.”

You’d grin if you weren’t so miserable.

That’d been your intention. It wasn’t anything Miles had or did that made him different from the rest of the chapter (who all, at one point or another, tried their luck with JTC’s hot best friend), just simply when he decided to shoot his shot. The only reason you’d been out in the first place was because you reached your breaking point, no longer able to stomach what you felt for JT, and you made sure Miles knew this before you let him call an Uber.

Despite playing for the same team, the pair shared a touch-and-go rivalry. You never knew if the intensity would result in a sweeping victory or an in-house, all-out brawl. If they ever saw eye to eye, you’d of never known. Miles needed no convincing to push JT’s buttons.

There was some heavy petting, nothing more. The only time Miles saw you undress was to change into the pajamas he lent you before knocking out on his futon, leaving you to take the bed. But JT didn’t know that. If sitting in their chapter house’s kitchen at 5 o’clock the next morning didn’t raise suspicion, the non-Compher borrowed t-shirt and ruffled hair certainly did.

Back then, he refused to ask. Even though you could see how badly he wanted to pry. Miles didn’t have anything he worth sharing, so JT was left to fill in the blanks.

You’d tell him the truth later, but right now, you wanted to see what milking his assumptions could get you.

“Did you like what you heard?”

His jaw ticks. Your hips push against his with a knowing simper.

You lean forward, closing the space he forced, lips barely brushing his ear, “Did you get off on it? Fuck your hand picturing yourself in his place… wishing it was my pussy instead?”

You hear the thud before you feel your head against the door or his hand back around your throat, his fingers deep between your walls again. The everywhere-throb makes you laugh. Giggle, really.

He squeezes until you’re no longer capable of mockery. His pace hastens, leveling out only once your thighs have started shaking around his wrist, knees cutting off his circulation elbow-down. Somehow, he keeps going despite the icy tingle. His determination overrides physical discomfort, knowing how close you’re getting. Feeling it in the distinct fluttering around his digits, seeing it in your trembling, swollen bottom lip.

“You’re so full of shit.” His mouth twitches at your throaty moan. A defiant hint of levity circles his pupils; he never stays riled up for long when it’s you yanking his chain. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him then, messy and crude, love-drunk. He tastes like your chapstick and gin, with a biting citric aftertaste —Grapefruit, maybe?—and you suck it in like you haven’t had a drop of water in days. And, in turn, he drinks down every choked sob and nonsensical half-thought you babble, every drop shooting straight to his loins.

He drives into you with fervor, humming as his tongue slips against yours, iron bulge omnipresent. The hand around your neck loosens but never leaves its post, thumb stroking your pulse point. I know everything about you, his movements whisper. Over and over, in and out. He, just as much as you, gets lost in the repetition.

“Don’t want him, never wanted him. Jus’ you—Always you.” It comes out slurred, mushy like your head, like your heart.

JT’s cock isn’t immune to affirmation and twitches through his too-tight jeans. Groaning, “Go on, sweetheart. Scream my name. I want every single person in this house to know exactly who’s fucking you this good.”

You do just that, writhing on his hand, eventually burying your face into his warm neck when it gets to be too much. He continues fucking you, and you continue crying for him, the pathetic little whimpers muffled now by his body.

JT guides you through the rest of your orgasm, as he always does. He watches your face carefully on the comedown, searching for any sign of regret or discomfort. When he finds none, he cradles your shaking form against his solid chest, the hand that, only moments ago, tore you apart, soothing you back down to earth. Once you’ve settled, he walks you back and away from the door.

A startled yelp falls from your lips when you feel the chilly edge of the countertop. You pull away from your boyfriend, brows furrowing with confusion.

His hand taps the outside of your thigh. "Up."

You’re having a hard time keeping your eyes open, let alone stringing thoughts together, so the command is met with inaction. Impatient as ever, JT wordlessly hoists you where he wants you and sinks down to his knees, big hands cupping yours.

“What’re you doing?” Strained, barely above a whisper.

He stares up at you with dopey, lovestruck eyes. “Come on, Compher. You can gimmie another one, can’t you?”

You aren’t an idiot. Often sleep deprived beyond belief and, more often than not, fucked-out on JT’s… Well, anything—but definitely not an idiot. You knew exactly what that loaded gun of a pet name implied the moment he used it. It first slipped out during a frantic supply closet rendezvous midway through your company’s holiday party, then a few more times in the months after.

It hasn’t lost its sparkle. It does make you more and more impatient each time he flashes it, though.

Fuckin’ tease.

Your fingers burrow in his hair, tugging from the root until his eyelids flutter prettily. “As long as you let me return the favor after—need to taste you so bad.”

“Deal,” he mumbles into your skin a half-second later.

His hands push your already-short skirt up, bunching it atop your hips and out of the way. Your boyfriend takes the time to remove the fabric barrier this time, and you don’t miss the way he tries to slip them into his back pocket without you noticing. Likely because it’d normally be a tease-able offense.

But not tonight, not right now.

Instead, you let a shiver speak for itself. The risqué gesture reminds you of the pair he used as a pocket square when his parents took you two to a celebratory dinner following his white coat ceremony. The rumble of his chuckle tells you his mind went there, too.

JT leans in, big eyes never moving from yours, his warm exhale fanning over your swollen folds. The tooth-marked bruise forming on the side of your throat pricks in tandem response. The action, a repeat of your boyfriend’s earlier antics, naturally yields similar enough results. He catches on, inching forward to—

Something bangs against the door.

His face falls; your heart seizes.

“Occupied!” your boyfriend barks, hands paused but gripping you tightly. He looks like he’s on the verge of exploding.

A full, lilting sound barrels into the door—too-good-to-be-true laughter. His breathy timbre is an unsteady balance of cocksure and skittish; a preference for one side or the other is blurred by the wood in its way. “It’s me, dickhead.”

Then, the curtain is lifted. A pocket of silence ushers in a stillness that cracks like a bolt from the blue.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover how you feel right now. You most definitely suffered a concussion somewhere in all JT’s reprimanding; you’re hallucinating right now. That, or the singular seltzer in your system magically turned psychotropic after consumption.

Waiting in the threshold is Tyson Jost. A quarter-drunk fifth of Jack in one hand and that goofy, irrepressible smile plastered on his face. Almost frozen in time—good-humored, untouched. As if nothing’s happened, nothing’s changed. Suave, and standing there like he hasn’t ignored you for months on end, like your and JT’s absence in his life wasn’t felt the way the Tyson-sized void in yours was.

Idle and morose, his eyes are the only defectors to his blasé demeanor. Timid and downturned, akin to a kicked puppy, they beg you and your boyfriend to assuage his guilt. An olive branch, a white flag in the wind. Amid their vulnerability, they still manage to cut into you in a way that feels too intimate, too honest—too much.

The worst part of this charged maelstrom is knowing Tyson isn’t capable of being cruel on purpose, then or now. It's bittersweet.

Careless or callous, it hurts all the same. It’s difficult to sift through the muck and decide which feelings should guide your actions when there’s no easy place to lay blame.

A gnarly, muddy morass of emotion climbs out of your gut and fills your throat, threatening to make an appearance each time you dare to exhale. You’re nervous and confused, elated and optimistic, angry and reproachful. The burn of betrayal rushes up your neck and across the bridge of your nose, but all the words you’ve stockpiled for this rainy day stick to your tongue like tar. Dark, thick, and flammable—your silence is probably for the best.

Bronze eyes, somber beneath the fan of flaxen lashes, adopt a strange aloofness that doesn’t suit his face. Lacquered just so as to protect the gooey softness beneath, the finish does nothing to obstruct or disguise his desirous longing or a brand of blues you’ve never seen in him before.

The intensity of your braided gazes is sanguine at best, duplicitous at worst, but disorienting all the same.

Anxiously, you chew on time; you’re trying your best not to swallow minutes and hours in big gulps. Your attempts to savor their confounding guilty-pleasure flavor are as futile as hoping the animosity would dissipate on its own. Or wishing the distance was just a nightmare you were on the verge of waking up from.

JT’s pulse races against your skin. He’s just as affected, just better at hiding it.

“Took you long enough,” is what JT says in greeting from the floor, dry words flung over his shoulder to curb the growing tension. Blithesome and biting and far more hospitable than you imagined.

All you can do is blink, slack-jawed; there are pieces you’re missing.

JT chuckles at your expression. He pecks your inner thigh to regain your attention. “Fuck now, talk later. Sound good?”

His words crack any and all inhibitions. Like opening the door to a cage, his reassurance grants your mind and heart the permission to succumb to the wave of emotions—lust overtaking the pack with ease.

Eyes still stuck on the ghost in the doorway, you nod your head in agreement. It’s as if you’re afraid your voice might rupture the bubble.

“Figured you’d be a little parched, baby.” Tyson, voice becoming jocular as ever, wags the bottle as he shuts the door behind himself. His tone might be light-hearted, but his gaze is anything but. Starved is the only way you can think to aptly describe the shadow. “And we can’t have that, now can we?”

You barely register JT vacating the prime real estate to accommodate his best friend, and subconsciously, you scoot closer to the edge. You knew you missed him, but you underestimated how needy you’d become if he ever stood before you again.

Both men notice.

Grinning, Tyson takes hold of your jaw. His hand emits a small tremor of unease, hesitant where JT had been demanding. The accidental brush of his fingertips over your boyfriend’s trailed claim rattles free a melancholic whimper. Your eyes glaze over, watering as your neck cranes up at him. He gently tilts your face to the side to assess the damage. You can feel his eyes raking over the marred skin, a sensation akin to your boyfriend’s weaponized breath. Goosebumps rise in their wake.

In reference to the Neanderthal surveying you over his shoulder, Tyson sniggers. “Filthy bastard.”

Charming as ever.

“She deserved it.” JT’s nonchalant shrug is more dismissive than his verbal nod.

Wicked eyes twinkle. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

You pinch his side, offended. Nevertheless, you purr at the certitude dripping from his husky vibrato.

He yelps and bats your hand away. “Got you good, didn’t he?”

You nod.

The baby talk-adjacent voice is demeaning, but with your only shield burning a hole in your boyfriend’s back pocket, lying about the effect it's having would be pointless.

Propriety is becoming increasingly moot, as this conversation circling around you carves space for new possibilities.

“Poor thing,” Josty hums, his thumb coasting back and forth over your jaw. His breath is smokey-sweet, honeyed. “M'gonna make it all better. Open up, baby.”

It’s something straight out of an early aughts raunchy teen comedy, the way he holds your mouth open to pour whiskey straight down, doing so without the lip ever touching either one of yours. The thin stream drags slightly as it goes down, but you’d never know watching the pillowy spirit disappear into you. You’re too eager to impress them both to give in and react—to the burn in your throat or the circumstances of this affair. You guzzle the oaky vanilla-clove flavor, smiling dumbly at the toasted aftertaste, all too happy to take anything and everything you’re given.

Still, either by virtue of Tyson’s lingering tipsiness or your inattention, some of the amber liquid escapes over your bottom lip, dribbling over your chin and down in between your cleavage. There isn’t enough time to consider wiping it off; Josty’s mouth is sucking you clean before the bottle even hits the counter beside you.

“Would be a shame…” Tyson starts, briefly interrupting himself with a succession of wet, open-mouthed pecks he’s decided to spoil your décolletage with, “…to let it go to waste.”

JT’s begrudged scoff cuts through the trance. “Jesus, kid. Where’d you learn that? What the fuck have you been doing? Or should I be asking ‘who' you've been doing?"

Tyson flinches at the coarse overtone the questions carry. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of reaction only you’re close enough to feel. He just laughs into your neck rather than humoring JT or feeding into whatever he’s implying.

You’re too woozy to toss in your two cents in favor of either side.

Cold countertop lapping up your wetness, the burning palm cupping your face to aid the pursuit of sugary lips, the memory of his tongue gliding over your sticky skin—your boyfriend a few paces away, watching. That’s more potent than any liquor, mixed or straight. It doesn’t take long for you to pull away, in a there-but-not state of mind, to slouch against Tyson’s chest. Head heavy, warmed and spinning.

Happy.

“Somethin’ special, aren’t you?” Tyson muses as he kneads the tender spot where your hairline meets your neck. You peck his forearm.

“As sweet as this reunion’s been, you came up here for a reason. Get to it; we don’t have all night. I imagine La Tornade will be wanting his bathroom back eventually.”

You whimper at the sharp edge of his voice, even though you weren’t the intended target.

JT’s dark drawl was laden with protective affection for you, his devotion hardened by a hue of discontent reminiscent of a paternal chide. An outsider looking in might not see beyond the mediator-in-shining-armor ruse, mistakenly pruning away JT’s thorny pain and rotted grief, but you know better. The situation and him. While genuine, his defense of your bruised feelings is a trojan horse for his own. He’s conveying his rage how he can: under the guise of selflessness.

Tyson gulps, eyes downcasted, then nods. He understands as well as you do. When he finally looks up, the shadow’s fallen over his face once more, cloud drooped low overhead.

“You’re scaring me, Josty.”

This makes him laugh, his mood brightening a tad. “If anyone should be scared, it’s me.”

In your periphery, you catch JT urging him to continue with a stiff glare.

“I-I’ve been such an ass. I—I just care so damn much. About you. About Compher, and our friendship. When you graduated, m-my whole world changed. Like someone gutted my life, scooped out all the good, comfortable stuff and left me with the shell. I felt like I lost my people. Like I was left behind. And then I had to watch you two get closer than ever—without me. It fucking sucked, and I didn’t cope well. Didn’t cope at all, really. Kate’ll tell you, she took the brunt of my tailspin.”

You can’t help but snort despite the thick emotion welling up behind your eyes. The boys smile, too. Things look up.

Tyson takes your hand in a tight squeeze; his pulse jumps into your palm. “But that’s no excuse for what I did—didn’t do. How I treated you. You were trying so hard, and all I did was punish you for it. For constantly reminding me you guys are there and not here. For moving on with your life like you’re supposed to.”

He claims JT’s old spot knelt between your parted knees. “And I’m sorry. So deeply sorry, baby. Please let me make it up to you—let me apologize properly.”

Tears of his own shine up at you from his flushed cheeks. Gently, you take his face in your hands, rubbing away the spilled emotion with the soft pads of your thumbs.

A silent pardon.

The walls throw back the echo of his low, audible content—of relief.

“Is this okay?” His voice is barely a whisper, dwindling to a hush as the question tapers off.

Too determined to quiet his audible fear of rejection—and to have his mouth on you as fast as humanly possible—to bother with words, you nod immediately.

“With how much she’s been dripping onto the counter since you walked in, what do you think?” JT interjects, mood vastly improved.

Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.

The younger forward chuckles, hands massaging up and down your sensitive thighs, gripping them as if holding himself back from lunging too soon.

A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. Didn’t want to embarrass her.” He winks up at you, confidence rising to the surface once more. You have to fight to maintain eye contact; he’s that stupidly attractive. “ —was try t’be a gentleman.”

You’re a flurry of butterflies, a whimpering mess.

Tyson wants to tease your body; it’s in his nature. But he won’t. Namely, because he can’t. No matter how good some old-fashioned edging would eventually make you feel, he’s already on JT’s shit list as is.

Besides, he’s only been fiending for a taste since you introduced yourself to him. And there's no time like the present...

Your guttural scream—an appropriate, albeit mortifying reaction to his baby pink lips enveloping your swollen clit—pumps his chest full with pride. Tongue flat, he charts the length of your heat with a gentleness you hadn’t thought your collective excitement would allow for. His hands coast over your legs, syncing with his mouth, until he physically cannot wait any longer. One final pass, one so agonizingly slow your greedy hips thoughtlessly vie for more of anything, brings his wistful, fidgeting digits to rest at the apex of your thighs.

“Pause.”

JT’s clipped command is a bucket of ice water.

Your vocal annoyance is matched by Tyson’s, but you both know how delicate a game you’re playing.

With his thumb still lazily swirling to your clit, Tyson’s inquisitive head begins to turn around. Before he gets anywhere worthwhile, it’s swiftly spun back into place by your boyfriend’s firm hand.

You can’t even convey how hot you find JT’s fingers casually twisting in his friend’s curly mop—just the way you love; all you manage is a warbled, mostly airy cry. Your distressed state worsens watching the show unfold between your lax, parted knees: reluctant, fluttery lashes over neon cheeks; a rosy, glistening bottom lip sacrificed to cage mousy whimpers, his ragged breathing betraying all effort toward feigning indifference to JT’s self-assured manhandling.

Your boyfriend snickers at your expression, a fish lingering open-mouthed for a surface sip, an ill-attempt to supplement a natural mode gone inadequate. No matter how much oxygen your widened jaw draws in, it never feels sufficient. A bottomless pit, a balloon with a fatal puncture wound. Gone before your depleted brain could make use of it.

“Have to make sure he does it right, don’t I, sweetheart?” JT’s voice is smooth and low, charring by the second; he’s enjoying the view as much as you are.

Tyson rolls his tawny eyes. Half-hearted annoyance. “Controlling much?”

“I know what my woman needs.”

The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.

And the growl JT hurls back, a low-pitched rumble permeating the tight space with little effort on his part, is just plain mean.

His attitude could not be more arrogant. The cavalier persona makes you shiver, and Tyson’s breath hitch. Humming, your boyfriend tugs on his curls until the two’s eyes are locked. Inescapable. The brunette gasps as he tries desperately to hold his eyes open, waiting with bated breath.

JT licks his lips, triumphant. “Open her up for me, will ya?” Mischief catches in the light as quickly as it falls into your boyfriend’s lap. His grip tightens, and Tyson whimpers like a naughty puppy caught red-handed. “Don’t screw around, ‘kay? She needs all the help her tight pussy can get, and we don’t have all night.”

Panting, his nod is the only affirmative he can muster up. And the only one his limited range of motion will allow for. Smug and pleased enough, JT all but throws his friend into your fire, his nose bumping where you’re most sensitive. 

You actually yelp.

Holding your torrid gaze, Tyson dips his marriage and middle into you. You groan out what you meant to be his name—But who knows? And who fucking cares?—unable to control yourself while he’s finally touching you like this. Finally back.

Tyson finger-fucks you at an even pace, steadily pushing you up the hill. His satisfaction is tangible when he pulls out and away, so very delighted by your wonton hiss of annoyance. Even more so when the volume hikes up in response to the slippery pads of his fingers circling your clit. Your lewd whines harmonize with your audible arousal as he works it back into your fragile skin, playing with your wetness, utterly fascinated.

“What d’ya think, baby? Think you’re wet enough to take another finger?” JT’s tone is as cocky as his stupid rhetorical question. He, however, made no move to conceal his growing impatience.

“Mhmm,” you murmur, head like a rubber ball hitting the pavement. Still, you remember your manners. “Please—c-can I? Can I have another?”

His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.

JT’s reverent eyes stay with you, but his words pour down over the eager man on the floor as he coaxes you halfway to heaven. “You heard her, kid. Give the lady what she deserves.”

Kid—Tyson hates when people call him that, but he especially loathes JT's usage. There’s barely an age difference, but with the way everyone acts, it might as well be decades. It seems like no matter what he does to prove himself, he’s still the baby. Every additional candle is like an annual slap in the face, a mockery that won’t end.

He can feel anger and frustration curdling low in his stomach just thinking about all the attempts that fell flat, and he decides to put the grumbling to good use. The vibration is red-hot and deliberate against your responsive, slick center, irritation like lighter fluid.

He gives you more than just three fingers. He splays all three—wide. Even as they stroke your soft inner walls, Tyson keeps you stretched so as to leave no slack. Your boyfriend wants you open? Tyson will fucking tear you apart, happily. (Yes, spite is a factor.)

Highly sensitive and spread to the limit, you ascend far quicker than usual. Fisting a bushel of golden-brown curls, nails digging rapt half-moons, you guide his willing face to the necessary places to see yourself through. Every slight adjustment has your entire body jerking haphazardly as it struggles to process the rocketing shockwaves.

JT’s hand retreats—only slightly—to make way for yours, to give you more leverage to fuck yourself through it. Less than a foot away, your boyfriend’s chest heaves in time with yours, his eyes pits of lust you dive into with clumsy enthusiasm.

During one particular, delicious pass, the tip of Tyson’s tongue catches your strained entrance, and when you unexpectedly gush against his mouth in response, he begins lapping over and around your carnal connection.

“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “

The denouement of your climax is nothing short of glorious, as rude of a sentence interruptor as it was. Half-mewls and purred praise rain down from your loosened lips, eyes screwed shut.

Tyson melts over the way you take control of your orgasm, so unabashed and authoritative. You go after what you want; he respects that majorly. And getting to feel and taste what makes you tick doesn’t hurt either.

Neither do you and your pretty, throbbing walls cutting off blood flow while your boyfriend tugs his hair from behind.

“Just like that, keep fucking her through it. Did so good—doin’ so good for us.”

JT’s praise sends the brunette’s unoccupied hand right to his bulge.

This is the best he’s felt in months.

There’s the mythical balance of bliss-to-tension to key up his senses, shooting white-hot tingles of want from his head to his feet and flaming between his ribs, affection for you. You forgive him, JT forgives him, and, most importantly, he forgives himself.

He feels buoyant with his face coated in your climax, so much so that it runs down from his chin to his neck, staining the collar of his beer-soaked tee; he hopes you might return his favor later.

Josty’s guilty hand is knocked away by a firm toe.

“Y’haven’t earned it, bud,” his mentor chides.

The delinquent appendage flops lamely at his side for a split second, then lifts beside his nose to join its partner at your slick core. As if remembering there’s work to be done, a goal to attain. Beneath this new asset, your achy, spent clit pulses, egging him on with every thump, thump, thump.

Tempting him to do something, to take it further…

He thinks about it. Fuck, does he think about it—you can see the tape winding in his eyes.

JT can read Tyson’s mind through his skull, apparently. “Don’t even think about it, kid. Her last one’s mine, but you’re more than welcome to watch from right here.” —Your boyfriend points to the remaining space between the sinks, knowing it’ll be close quarters for you both— “Just remember: I only said watch. This is groveling, not a treat.”

And Tyson does. Without question or complaint, he’s just fine sitting next to you, sitting pretty.

He’s always been the perfect teammate. Always willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the role. The only difference is he no longer wants his anxiety to be the sole motivator behind said selflessness.

Finally ready to play fearless.

JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.

Immediately, your attention fractures. Split between messy brown curls and lust-blown pupils and your own disheveled appearance: smudged makeup, knotted hair, mauled neck, and spit-stained, bruised lips. Thank fuck you’re graduated and gone. Otherwise, you’d never live this down—Kate might treat you to a taste of would-be campus humiliation later if she’s feeling particularly charitable, though.

Your boyfriend’s grip is heavy on your hips. Happy to have you back. You feel one hand coast over your lower back and down to grope your ass as if trying to keep you in the palm of his hand. White-knuckle hold withstanding, JT presses his chest flush to your backside and uses his free hand to yank every remaining hindrance to your navel.

He wants you on display.

Your gasp is rivaled only by Tyson’s pitiful whimper and twitching, touch-happy fingers.

The ginger’s chuckle is molten and deep, mouth barely a breath from your ear, his eyes pinning Tyson still.

Your mind rewound back to when he made this proposition, wondering how the hell you got from there to here.

“Bend over, sweetheart. Arch that back nice and pretty so we can show Josty what a good girl he’s been missing out on—what a filthy thing you’ve turned into.”

As soon as you’ve done just that, your boyfriend drives home. It’s fast and dirty; primal. He knows there’s no need, but JT marks his territory anyway.

You watch Josty’s mouth part like he’s about to ask you something. Staring through his eyes as if ducking into his pesky daydreams and up-too-late musings, all specifics watery and indistinct.

Ultimately, you wind up disappointed by silence. But, with the slow return of your boyfriend’s bare cock between your soft inner walls, it dawns on you; JT had used a condom last time. Even made Tyson retrieve it for him. The depth of your relationship is sinking in; that’s what you’re now watching. He’s mulling over the information, caught somewhere between wanting to swallow his guilt one go and choking on his own assumptions.

JT follows your charged concern, performs a similar triage, and then gives you a concise nod through the fogged-up mirror.

I’ll handle it.

At that, your walls noticeably ease, and he shudders, groaning as even more of him sinks deeper to occupy the newfound space. He gets a few strokes out before Josty slots his body between your palms to lean in. Here, he does something that collapses the simple but effective status quo. 

“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”

Keep rubbing your clit.

Keep playing with you.

Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.

Be present.

Be here.

“Such a fucking mess, baby. Don’t know how Compher gets anything done with you there, sweet and ripe for the taking.”

The two halves of Tyson’s demeanor are antithetical, and infuriatingly so, a saccharine smile split open by filth. It paints a sordid picture that must stand for itself, as you find it impossible to pluck out of thin air any coherent thoughts.

Be that as it may, your friend did not set out for a reply. At least not one other than the befuddled stuttering you’re doing.

A familiar palm shoots to your raw neck—tender, inside and out—lightning quick. You're yanked up before you can blink. JT mercilessly nips at the gaps in between his tight grip, hips pushed just as firm against the swell of your backside.

Still, he furthers their madcap banter. “I dunno either, Josty. And, believe me, the little vixen sure as hell doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes I think she’s tryna milk me dry for good.”

If Tyson Jost were ever going to cream his pants—post-pubescence, it would be now.

Like, right fucking now.

The proclamation of your third orgasm is wondrous. Proud. Grateful. One of your hands flies back to catch the nape of JT’s neck to steady yourself as he continues pistoning in and out of you. Tyson's generous touch stays, too.

Your back arches this go around, head rolling against your boyfriend's shoulder before slipping back down towards the counter, free palm absorbing the impact of the abrupt sway. Too much, too much—it’s all too much for your tender muscles and soupy brain to handle. You surrender to the plethora of sensations, each more overwhelming than the last—half-collapsed back against into your boyfriend, half-crumbled forward into his best friend’s damp, tented lap.

“Not gonna last, sweetheart—y’feel too damn good, s’tight and warm, always strangling my cock—know you’re close, too. Gonna give me what you promised, Compher? Please, pretty girl—need to feel your perfect pussy squeezin’ me dry.”

It's refractory; your world goes from washed-out to vivid and back, over and over, as though impatiently flipping between channels.

You’re a tangle of sticky limbs and physical reverie, blanketed by a warm afterglow and cleared air. Body scaffolded by muscular forms on either side, your mind gives your body permission to slacken at last. JT’s arm winds around your midsection when it becomes clear the all-consuming exhaustion is giving way to the relaxation that eluded you for so many months. Tyson massages your arms, your hands still cemented to his knees. Your head drops to his shoulder, too heavy for your bruised neck.

For a long while, no one says a thing. Not intentionally or for fear of disturbing the peace; there’s simply no need. No words exist to shoulder that much weight, none able to capture precisely what emotions swirl between you. Silence says enough—silence says it all.

Banging cuts through your sex-drunk stupor. Again. The abrupt sounds function like metaphorical smelling salts, restoring consciousness and rousing decorum laid dormant. Your mutual, unadulterated bliss circles the drain in the absence of a psychological plug, ripped free, half-baked.

JT reluctantly leaves you empty and dripping, tucks himself away, and cracks open the door—only as wide as is necessary. Behind his imposing physique, you remain hunched over Tyson, waiting for your boyfriend to make the problem go away; you’re too tired to take any initiative.

Golden hair and familiar grey-blue eyes fill the gap, shining in your periphery. Barely a sliver, that’s how much of this your boyfriend’s willing to share with the world. You like that, and judging by his lopsided grin, so does Tyson.

“Paging Mrs. Compher!” Gabe hollers over JT’s head. “Clean up on aisle ‘Kate.’”

Just hearing her name puts you back in action. Damn you, maternal instincts.

You scramble to right twisted fabric and smeared makeup to a soundtrack of expletives. It’s pointless, though, because nothing settles how it should. No amount of smoothing, brushing, or tucking seems to help. Hazy vision and the legs of a newborn fawn don’t exactly lend themselves to effective primping.

And it’s not like you’ve got a hickey-remover magic wand stashed in your purse, either. 

Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.

Tyson does a piss-poor job muffling his laughter, which lands him a crisp swat to the chest.

As you stumble over, you catch the end of your boyfriend’s irritation. “—and you’re sure there isn’t anyone else to hold her hair back? Why can’t you do it?”

The gears in Gabe’s skull clank so loud you can hear them over the audible chaos seeping into your haven—he’s intoxicated, not stupid.

“CupKate wants her mommy.” The blonde winks at you over JT’s shoulder. His tongue gives a knowing click of approval at Tyson’s equally disheveled state. “And what do you care, Compher? Smells like you three already made your express trip to Pound-town, USA. How was it? I hear the weather’s hot and steamy this time of year.”

“Real mature, Landy, real mature,” JT scoffs.

The sound just revs him up. “Says the fucker who’s locked in a frat house bathroom with his girlfriend and his best friend. One of whom, might I add, looks like they got mauled by a hormonal freshman after a high school dance.”

“Can you two go measure your dicks, I don’t know, anywhere but in the way? I have a child to tend to.” 

You almost have to laugh. At the situation and at the words coming out of your mouth. At Kate, sick to her stomach like a kid who ate too many sweets on a holiday. 

Years have passed, but you’re all still the same.

“Me-yeoh!” Gabe sing-songs while miming what you assume are claws scratching at nothing.

Again, his drink is the sole casualty of his jubilation. A golden wave sloshes over the rim and onto the floor. The spray makes JT’s jaw tick.

The former winger offers a sheepish grin in repentance. “Whoops?”

Your boyfriend steals a glance to check that you’re decent, then side-steps out of your way with an exasperated sigh. His dilated gaze flits over your ruffled appearance, shamelessly drinking in the state of your throat but tripping over the questions dancing in your eyes.

He juts his head in Landy’s direction with a sardonic eye-roll. “Go on. Save your damsel, Mother Hen. I’ll fill you in on in the Uber back to the hotel.”

“Meet you out front?” You ask, and he nods.

You dart back to Tyson, plant a chaste peck on his flushed cheek, and then repeat the gesture with JT and his peeved lips. It’s faint, but they instantly soften for you.

Before they know it, you’re slipping out the door. Gabe gets an affectionate pat on the shoulder as you squeeze by him before you disappear in the direction of the Girls Only bathroom; no significant differences, only marginally cleaner and occasionally stocked with helpful accouterment—chivalry isn’t dead!

Lingering in the wake of your departure, Gabe sways like an inflatable man on the curb of a car dealership. A smirk twists his lips. “Nicely done, boys. Nicely done. Can’t say I thought we’d see the day—or that either of you had it in ya—but I feel like a proud father.” He wipes a phantom tear, the final straw. “Makes you wish you listened to Daddy Landy sooner, huh? Think of all the lost ti—”

JT slams the door in his face. Through the wood, Gabe cackles.

The two men slip back into sync as they wordlessly scrape themselves back together with the time and privacy you were not afforded. 

As JT yanks his jeans back into place, his belt clanking around like a bell’s hourly chime, a black velvet box tumbles to the floor, and Tyson’s stomach along with it.

The air shouldn’t, but it turns on a dime. Their progress is seemingly more fragile than expected.

“If—uh, wow.” A crunchy, anxious bark of a laugh cuts his thought in half.

JT doesn’t interrupt; he holds space for the blossoming discomfort.

Tyson rubs the tense knots along the back of his neck as his eyes drill into the floor. “If I’d known this would be our swan song, I would’ve tried to enjoy it more. I don’t know—savored it, I guess?”

“This,” JT says, scooping up the dud he hopes isn’t hanging fire. “— is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”

Before they got into it in the garage, before they’d been forcibly separated by Erik and Nate. Before they, punch-drunk and drunk-drunk, teetered between tears and anger in the shadowy, too-quiet backyard.

They spun in circles until they had nowhere to move but on. To make amends, to stumble through chary half-apologies that mean more than they say.

JT’s alleviation was short-lived; his calm trepidation squashed before it could fly. Tyson now understands why.

Tyson balks. “Me?”

Your boyfriend sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge. He’s bidding time. Digging for the right words but knowing there are none.

“I love her—and I know you do, too. I’m not upset; she makes it hard not to fall for her.”

Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.

JT continues, “I’m going to ask her to marry me, but I didn’t want to do it without talking to you. Without making sure you’d be okay. Eventually. The last thing I wanted was for you to be blindsided or to feel even more left out.”

Tyson can’t help but snort at the sheer absurdity. “Left out… God, how pathetic am I? Getting all butt-hurt over a relationship that isn’t even mine.”

“Pathetic was going AWOL.”

Josty winces. He doesn’t argue because he has zero ground to stand on.

“But feeling something? Far from it.”

“I didn't—don’t want to take her from you. You have to know that, Compher.” The hurt’s been hammered from his voice. Left behind is softened sincerity.

JT’s smile is just as downy. “I do, and you’d be wasting time by trying.”

Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.

You love JT Compher so openly and ardently it might as well be a neon sign plastered to your forehead. He’s always been it for you. There’s never been any competition, Tyson Jost included.

“Thank god we got this ironed out before the wedding,” the older forward chuckles as he leans back against the counter.

They’re side-by-side, as they should be.

“Why’s that?”

JT digs into his other pocket and pushes something into the palm of his best friend, whose cheeks flame tout de suite in response. With a bump of his shoulder, your boyfriend tacks on, “Something to remember tonight by.”

Tyson shoves the memento into his own pocket, then raises a quizzical brow.

Your boyfriend grins.

“The best man pining over the bride while giving the groom the cold shoulder would make for an awkward wedding, don’t you think?”

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[comphy-and-cozy]

can't let this moment go - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Word Count: 8k

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Fingering, oral sex (m + f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, praise. Brief but resolved angst.

series masterlist | nhl masterlist | part 2

August 2023

Dreams are a funny thing. Living a dream come true is even funnier. You typically don’t realize you’re living it until it’s over, and even if you do, there’s no way to make yourself live fully in the moment. There’s always the flickering thought that you’re never going to be able to remember the breeze in your hair, the low timbre of someone’s voice, the specific sound of their chuckle in their throat. And then before you know it, the dream is over, and you’re eternally left looking back and trying to remember the scent of a cologne or the warmth of a hand in yours.

So when JT Compher steps into your apartment, you take a moment as he’s looking around to take a mental photograph: of him, here, now, like this, to live in a corner of your mind forever. And somehow you just know that you’ll never forget it.

A smile forms on his face, like maybe he’s pleased with himself that he made it here. You are, too, still in disbelief that he’s really standing there, toeing off his shoes at your entry rug and making his way to your couch at your invitation.

He declines your offer for a drink, and you contemplate standing in your kitchen if you want another layer of insulation. Ultimately, you decide against it, joining him on the couch. Feeling a little sheepish, you turn on a mood playlist to give yourself something to do. JT smirks a little, asking in a teasing voice, “You nervous?”

“I’ve got a really hot professional hockey player sitting on my couch. Of course I’m nervous.”

He accepts the compliment wordlessly, humming. “That why you left that night?”

You know what he’s referring to, sure he’s remembering the way you disappeared without a word. There’s not much else to say, so you nod. “I was intimidated.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he says, and the sincerity in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “I won’t lie; I really, really want you, but you can say ‘stop’ at any time. Send me home if you want to. Probably fuck my hand raw tonight if you did, though.”

You’re unable to prevent your laugh at the way he simultaneously makes you feel un-judged and comfortable while also turning you on like you’ve never been before, a low and steady pulse ever-present in your belly. Still, his words send warm butterflies fluttering through your chest, hot at his shameless admission of his attraction to you. Part of you is still waiting for a camera crew to hop out, exposing you, because this can’t possibly be real; JT Compher can’t really be in your living room, expressing his burgeoning desire to take you to bed, looking at you with eyes of rich, melted chocolate.

But then his thigh is pressed against yours, his arm slipped over your shoulder as it rests on the back of your couch. He’s warm, and he tilts your head up to look him in the eyes. His soft, gorgeous eyes. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, without an ounce of expectation. “I thought so from the first second I saw you at that event. It’s why I came up to you after, at the bar.”

Your cheeks grow warm, and you mumble a shy ‘thank you’ as you cast your eyes down. He tilts his head, amused, maybe, at how you grow shy under his compliments. “It’s also why I was so glad to see you across the bar tonight. I had to try again, to see if you’d have me.”

A sarcastic chuckle leaves your throat, almost self-deprecating. “If I’ll have you? You’re the one who’s way out of my league.”

“Not as much as you think.”

You’re afraid to ask, afraid to hear his answer; you’re already in way too fucking deep with a guy that you’ll never see again after tonight. You can’t afford to hear whatever saccharine praise that comes out of his mouth, to let yourself fall deeper into the hole that will surely crush you come tomorrow. But you ask anyway.

“What does that mean?” 

“It means that I’m just a normal guy, a human who messes up just like everyone else, and I got chirped to hell when the guys found out I couldn’t… secure the bag,” he chooses his words carefully with an embarrassed chuckle. “That I fumbled a rocket like you.”

You’re processing the idea of JT Compher calling you a rocket—that his teammates called you a rocket, too—sure that your brain has exploded like an alien invasion movie. The sound of your pulse is loud in your ears, barely comprehending all of it when you see his eyes sliding down to your lips, and then your mind really short circuits. 

“A rocket, huh?”

“NASA certified.”

It’s almost unfair—no, it’s definitely unfair—at how smooth he is, how gentle he is, how effortless it all seems to be for him. Like he’s done this a thousand times. Maybe he has. 

“You know that song, ‘You’re So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings’? That’s pretty much how I feel about you.”

He hums, then nuzzles your jaw with his nose, and all remaining coherent thought evaporates in an instant. The roughness of his beard scratches at your skin, and you yearn for more, for burns all over your body from the auburn hair. His cologne invades your senses and enhances the touch of his hands on your waist. 

“If that’s the case, then you’re breaking my heart, baby.”

His lips are even more plush than you imagined, warm and soft when they press against yours. He tastes faintly of pineapple seltzer, the rest something that’s uniquely his own, and suddenly it’s your favorite. Your first kiss is just that—a kiss, maybe two or three, before he’s pulling away to look at you. 

Another mental photo. Click.

Cheeks flushed and eyes aglow, he looks like something you could only ever have dreamed of, even more unreal when he smiles at you, his eyes darting back down to your lips. This time, when he leans in, his hands thread into your hair, loose, before he’s leaning back in to kiss you again.

His beard tickles your chin, but you welcome it, accepting the flirt of his tongue against your lips. As much as you want him, biblically, you’d be perfectly content just making out with him on your couch, too. He’s warm, steady, patient in the way he kisses you, like he’s got all the time in the world. When his thumb begins to run along your jaw, you shiver, and you can feel the way he smiles into your kiss. A top tier moment of your life, for certain, feeling JT Compher’s smile on your lips.

It feels like an eternity before you feel his hand grazing its way down your side, resting on your waist. You yearn for him to touch you, more, and you lean your body into his under the guise of deepening your kiss. His lips devour yours, breath hot against your mouth as you feel a slight nudge of his hand, urging you to scoot closer. You do, eventually sliding a leg over his, then shifting again until you’re straddling his lap. The sigh that escapes your throat is involuntary, content at feeling him between your legs and transferring warmth through your body.

And then he starts to travel, blazing a trail of fire with his pillowy lips over the curve of your jaw, down your neck. He mouths at the sensitive flesh, every so often nipping and caressing with his tongue. He is intoxicating.

Your hands itch to explore, the way he’s taken the liberty to explore, and you allow them to card through his hair at the base of his skull, scratching your nails lightly against his scalp. The action earns a low groan from him, vibrating against your throat, and you repeat it, relishing the softness of his hair in your hands. You make a mental note to ask him what products he uses because his hair is definitely in better condition than yours, but then his mouth is trailing down toward your chest and suddenly you can barely remember your own name.

His lips pause at your collarbone, pressing heated kisses into your already heated skin. His hands are resting respectfully on your waist, but you’re silently begging them to roam, freely.

As if on cue, they do, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist in a sort-of-hug that pulls you closer to his body, his lips still lingering along your sternum. His hands ghost up and down your back, along your spine, touching as much of you as he can before they finally land on your ass. His movements are slow, timid almost, as if gauging your reaction, pausing to make sure he can continue; you let out a sigh in response to let him know to please, keep going. 

And he does, gentle at first, squeezing lightly. It’s only a few moments later that he seems to realize the moans that are falling from your mouth are in direct response to his hands and he begins to knead a little harder. It’s the catalyst to turn a pleasant makeout session from steamy to scorching, and soon your hips are rolling in his lap, his hands guiding your movements.

JT’s grunts are muffled by your skin, trailing back up your neck until he reaches your mouth. This time, your kiss is more desperate, swallowing the sighs you offer when your clit bumps just the right spot. 

“D’you…” you begin, distracted temporarily by the way his tongue flirts with yours. You can’t even bother to get the words out, loving the feeling of kissing him too much to tear yourself away. But then you feel a distinct and heavy throb between your legs, and you know you’ll be better off if you can just sacrifice a few moments to speak. The effort is lazy, your lips barely leaving his, enough to ask, “D’you want to go to my room?”

It’s comforting to know he, too, can barely get the words out, nodding eagerly with a muffled, “Fuck yeah, yes, please.”

Before you can speak, his strong arms are wrapping around you and out of instinct your legs hug his waist. The feeling of his hands on your ass are nearly enough to send your eyes rolling in the back of your head. He presses another kiss to your lips before he murmurs, “Which way?”

“Kinda want to see if you can find it on your own,” you muse, and he laughs. 

“Normally, I’d be all for exploring, but I’m dying to get you horizontal,” he says, taking the opportunity to seize your lips one more time.

You can’t argue with that, and you jerk your head down the hallway. “Last door on the right.”

His nod is short, allowing you to kiss him once more as he makes his way down to your room, walking almost blindly in favor of keeping his lips on you. Nudging the door open with his foot, he parts with you only for a moment to locate your bed before he’s laying you down in the center, not wasting any time before crawling on top of you.

“Much better,” he murmurs, reattaching his lips to your neck while his hands explore new territory: your chest. His fingers glide along the silk fabric of your shirt, raising goosebumps beneath it when he drags his hand up your ribs before massaging your breast.

Out of instinct, your back arches into him and he smiles against your neck. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

“Me too.” 

“Sorry I can’t recreate it exactly for you. I don’t have a suit. Or a locker room.”

The reference makes you shiver, flattered that he remembers the details, is bringing them up now, in the heat of the moment, like he’s acknowledging what a dream this is for you. Like he wants to make your dream come true. A wave of courage passes through you, finally overcoming the imposter syndrome that he really is here, now, in your bedroom, ready to ravage you. Plus, there’s his erection that’s pressed against your pelvis, something you desperately want to see, and it’s way too hard to be fake. So you let your hand trail between you, palming him through his chinos, and relish the low groan he releases. 

“This will do just fine.”

If this was a video game, your words would’ve been the key to unlocking the next level. All at once, his hands are at the waist of your jeans, tugging the hem of your shirt out before shimmying it over your head. After he tosses the fabric behind him, he pauses to look at you, his eyes roving over your body, growing darker when you reach behind your back to unhook your bra.

At the sight of your bare breasts, it’s like he’s lost all coherent thought—which is just as well, because those left your mind a long time ago. He swoops down, hands returning to massage them, freely this time, while his mouth descends on one of your nipples. His tongue is warm and his lips are soft against the sensitive skin, and you can feel every single nerve ending on fire with his hands on you.

He worships you, kissing every inch of exposed skin, though he allows you to tug his collared shirt off so you can feel his skin pressed against yours. It’s everything you wanted and more, feeling the defined muscle and the strength of his body underneath your fingertips that coast along his ivory skin. 

Eventually, JT’s lips make their way to the waist of your jeans, kissing the button gently before he’s glancing up at you through feathery lashes. Without a single ounce of will to resist him, you’re murmuring a soft please, and who is he to deny you?

The air on your thighs makes you shiver as he wrestles the denim down your legs, eyeing the expanse of skin hungrily. You watch the way his deep brown irises zone in on the scrap of fabric between your thighs, a deep warmth radiating at the exact spot. His tempting tongue licks his lips, and for a moment you’re jealous that it’s not your tongue tracing the outline of them.

“These are…” he trails off, then curses. “I’m kind of glad I didn’t know you had this tiny little thing on or else I’m not sure I would’ve made it out of the bar alive.”

You’re keening under his praise, his compliments silky and stoking the blue flame in your belly. Though you want him desperately, the feeling of being desirable, irresistible even, is what sends a surge of arousal coursing through your body.

“Close your eyes,” he purrs, hands grazing the skin of your calf gently. “I’m going to correct your story.”

You wonder if you misheard him, and all at once your brain short circuits when you understand his implication. I would use my fingers and then my mouth to make my girl come.

There’s no time to react before his lips are pressing softly to the skin of your leg. The whiskers of his beard tickle as he works his way upward, inching closer and closer to his true target. He spends a few moments mouthing at the inside of your thighs, satisfied at the sound of your whimpers and the way your legs perch on either side of his shoulders. 

“If I recall correctly, you weren’t wearing any panties,” he says in between kisses pressed directly against your core, lips warm on the damp fabric. “But I think I like being the one to take them off myself.”

To prove it, JT hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear, covering each inch of skin that he reveals with kisses, along your hips and over your pelvis, slipping the material down your legs and off of your feet. You’re completely naked, and you’ve never felt more comfortable being bare around a man for the first time. You can’t help it, not with the way his eyes rove over you like he’s watching a magnificent Santorini sunset or maybe even the Stanley Cup being lifted in his Captain’s hands for the first time.

“So fuckin’… gorgeous.”

And then his fingertip is dragging along your slit, through your slick, and you gasp when he dips inside you. His lips attach themselves to your inner thigh, kissing the tender skin while he works his finger into you. There’s no barrier, not with how fucking wet you are, and he groans at the feeling of your tight heat squeezing just his pointer finger. You’re thinking it, and surely he is, too—the way it will feel when he’s pressing his length into you. You wait desperately in anticipation for that feeling.

JT is patient, eventually adding two fingers to your dripping heat. A cry leaves your throat when he curls upward, pressing against that delicious spot that has your hand clutching the comforter beneath you. Feeling his smile against your leg, you whisper his name, a plea to keep going, don’t stop. This has been an orgasm nearly two years in the making—longer, if you consider the length of your crush—and there is absolutely nothing you can do to stave it off, even if it comes embarrassingly fast. Pun intended.

He doesn’t seem to mind one bit, if the low hum and eager eyes are any indicator. Greedily, he watches your face as the wave of pleasure washes over you, like he’s memorizing the sight of it. Once you’ve come down, breath coming out of your mouth in heavy puffs, he pulls his fingers out to inspect, then presses them into his mouth to taste. A moan escapes his lips that sends a fresh flood of moisture to your core.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. 

Your legs are jelly, your mind complete mush, but something in you itches to touch him, and your hand reaches for him. He stops you, and for a brief moment you’re afraid you did something wrong, that your dream is finally going to come crashing to an end, but he’s smiling as he shakes his head at you.

“What did I say? Fingers first, and then…”

Your voice is hoarse, swallowing thickly before you manage to choke out, “M-mouth?”

“Good memory,” he says with a wink that nearly sends you tumbling off the bed.

Large hands gently take your legs and spread them wider, granting him the space to settle onto his belly. JT presses kisses along your inner thighs, tracing the same place he’d run his lips along before, murmuring, “You good?”

Great. Excellent. Incredible. The words can’t come out, so instead you’re nodding. Finally, you manage to get out, “Yes. More than good.”

He’s pleased, smiling when he takes the opportunity to finally delve into your folds. If you thought he was a good kisser—he is—his mouth is just as talented elsewhere, his tongue tracing along your entrance in teasing circles. It flicks, laves, licks, drinking in everything your sopping cunt has to offer, eager to taste more of your sweetness. 

The feeling of his groan against you makes you clench around his tongue, and he uses his hands to pin your hips down and repeat the action, humming against you to send vibrations coursing through your body. His beard scratches your thighs, and you hope that the burn lingers for days so you can remember the feeling long after his scent has faded from your sheets. 

When his tongue finds your clit, you let out a loud mewl, hands flying into the now-mussed fringes of his hair. It’s nothing short of an assault, lips and tongue working in tandem to flick the bud, shooting waves of pleasure all the way to the tips of your fingers and your toes. He’s good, seeking out the nuances that make you croon, yearning to feel your fingertips scratching against his scalp.

Your eyes flutter shut, unable to focus on anything other than the sinful way his tongue glides along your center, drinking your nectar like a man quenching his desperate thirst, hardly believing that JT Compher’s tongue is in your pussy. He sighs out, the sound far more lewd than it should be, catching his breath before diving back in. You’re close, you can feel it approaching, revved up by the fact that he’s literally recreating a long-time fantasy you’ve had in your head about him for years. 

The sound he exhales is nothing short of magical, indulgent in itself as he groans at the taste of you. No man has ever been this good at it, let alone thoroughly enjoyed it. With just the deliciously wicked practiced motion of his tongue, he’s transporting you to the eighth wonder of the world, transcending the highest levels of pleasure; your heart already aches at the thought that he’ll have to stop, eventually. As if he can hear your thoughts in your head, his hands grip at your hips tightly, unwilling to part from you now that his face is buried in your cunt.

“JT,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Please, don’t stop.”

He hums, your plea igniting a fiery determination in him. You can hear how sodden your folds are, the sound of his tongue lapping you up audible even despite the moans that tumble out of your mouth along with soft sighs of his name. JT doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, you think he’s enjoying it almost as much as you are, if his wanton groans are any indication.

“Sound so pretty when you say my name,” he murmurs against you. “Sound even prettier when you come.”

This time, your orgasm hits you like a freight train, an explosion of euphoria before you even have a change to realize it’s happening. Your hips buck wildly against his face, uncontrollable as the pleasure shoots through your system; his strong arms fight to hold you in place, keeping his mouth attached to you to soak up every last drop of your essence.

You feel the way your pussy throbs on his tongue, hear the way he moans at the sensation. He stays still, ensuring he drags out your high for as long as he can, only pulling away once your legs fall open and your body relaxes, spent. When he does, he grins at you, and you feel a pull when you notice that the whiskers of his beard are damp with your arousal.

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he blurts out.

“I was thinking the same about you,” you reply with a weak smile, coated in a layer of bliss. You mean it; the thought has been repeating in your mind ever since you saw the flash of red hair across the bar.

His hand finds yours, tugging your body close to his as both of you pause to catch your breath. It’s intimate, almost more than when he had his tongue buried in your cunt, basking in the afterglow together. If he wants to keep going, he makes no indication, content to lay with you for the rest of the night with no expectation of moving further.

You want to, though, when the haze finally clears a bit and you remember the way his cock felt between your legs, rigid and tempting and wicked in its promise.

JT’s eyes glitter when he sees the way you’re looking at him, crawling over him to connect your lips with his again, far too long since they touched you last. Your hands are quick with his belt, and you feel the heat of his gaze on you, watching you, waiting for your reaction while he helps you shuck his shorts down his legs. His arousal, thick and firm, is tucked into the navy boxer briefs that do little to hide his decency, and your mouth waters at seeing its outline straining against the fabric. Your heart flutters at the sight of it, hardly believing that you’re here and this is real; that he’s hard just for you. The NASA certified rocket.

As much as you want to remove the cotton barrier between you and his dick, you can’t resist the urge to press your lips against him through the material. He groans, savoring the feeling of your mouth on him, twitching when you lick a wet stripe down his length.

When your fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers and free him from the confines, you let out an audible whimper when his erection springs against his belly. It’s divine, flawless in every sense of the word, a bead of sticky, delicious precum pooling at the tip. 

“Is it like what you expected?” he asks, mostly joking but, admittedly, a little curious. 

You resist the urge to laugh, though a smile plays at your lips. If only you could put into words how beautiful, how surreal, how exquisite he is. But nothing comes. Instead, you run your palm along his length, familiarizing your touch with the velvety skin, memorizing the weight of him in your hand.

Then, with a light squeeze that chokes a groan out of him, you purr, “It’s perfect.”

JT’s chest puffs up at your admission, perhaps with confidence and a little bit of an ego. Not that he shouldn’t have one; he’s a Stanley Cup champion bedding a woman who has desired to have him for years. It’s what every athlete dreams of, deep down, buried beneath layers of modesty and humility.

He pushes his hips forward and you pull away, smiling at him as if to say, Not yet. With weak limbs, you slink off the edge of the bed, kneeling on the soft, plush rug and looking up at him expectantly. It takes a millisecond for it to click, but then he’s scrambling off the bed, too, rising to his full height as he kicks his shorts the remainder of the way off his legs. Finally, he’s fully naked, and you take a moment to admire the expanse of pale skin, tinged with sprinkles of dark hair, smattered across his chest, along his toned arms, down the muscular surface of his thighs. 

“My God, you’re gorgeous,” you mutter, barely even realizing the words slipped out.

The smirk on his face returns, preening, and he reaches down to stroke his length with a large hand—the same one that brought you to your first climax of the night; his fingers still have the slight sheen from your arousal, catching just so in the light that shines through the bedroom window. Your eyes are glued to him, watching the way he pulls, slowly, leisurely; it’s insanely erotic, and you feel a pool of wetness between your legs, wondering if you’re going to ruin your rug. Not that you care, not with the way the world’s most beautiful cock is staring you straight in the face.

“Is this what you did when you read my story?”

His smirk grows, and you see a flash in his eyes. “You want to know what I thought about?”

“Fucking me in your locker room?” you ask cheekily. 

JT laughs, nodding, “Yes, that was certainly a hot detail. And not opposed to making that a reality, too.”

For a moment, your heart flutters at the idea; not just at the thought of fucking him in the Detroit Red Wings locker room, but at the idea that he would do this again. This, when you haven’t even done it yet.

“What else?”

Eyes blazing, his free hand reaches forward to caress your cheek. His thumb catches on your lip, and you take it between your teeth, running your tongue along the digit. 

“I thought about this,” he murmurs, and the velvety hum of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “About getting these gorgeous lips on my cock. Fucking this smart mouth of yours, before I fuck your delicious, heavenly pussy.”

You whimper at his filthy words, and if you weren’t already on your knees, they would’ve given in. His thumb presses against your tongue, briefly, and you keep your eyes on his as you feel the pad of it gliding against you. Time has completely stopped, orbiting around you while JT Compher strokes his erection in your bedroom.

“Well,” you purr, “you made my fantasy come true; what do you say I return the favor?”

JT groans, nodding, not even bothering to come up with a clever quip back. You smile, pleased that for once you’ve rendered him speechless. And when he guides the head of his dick toward you, your mouth opens earnestly to welcome him.

He tastes like heaven, because of course he does. No dick tastes good—tolerable, sure, but never good— and yet, you find yourself craving more. Kitten licking his tip, you lap up the precum that’s blooming before dragging your tongue down his length. You press your lips in open-mouthed kisses along his base, flicking your tongue at the vein that throbs on the underside of his shaft, before you end up back at his head.

When you take him into your mouth, he lets out a sound that’s halfway between a moan and a whimper, and it fuels you to continue. You experiment, testing the swirl of your tongue paired with the bob of your head, seeing what will elicit the most delicious noises from his pretty throat. By no means are you a blowjob expert, but you’re determined to make sure this is the best one you’ll ever give; it has to be, since this is your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to blow his mind and make sure he never forgets you. 

With a glance up at him, the sight is beautiful: his lips parted, cheeks flushed, a strand of hair falling over his face as he gazes down at you, drinking in the sight of you taking his cock between your lips.

“Fuck,” he curses, threading a hand through your hair. Your eyes lock with his, molten and dark, hinging your jaw to take more of him. Slowly, you do, pressing forward until you feel him bump the back of your throat.

With a hum, you repeat the action, gradually picking up the pace until the sounds that fill the room are nothing short of filthy; wet, sloppy, downright pornographic. Above it all, his delicious grunts of pleasure puncture through the noise, each one of them encouraging you to don’t stop, even despite the tears welling in your eyes.

“So pretty like this,” he rasps. Your heart soars, both at his praise and at the fact that he’s even more perfect than you dreamed, sprinkling in the perfect amount of chatter, filthy promises that have your pussy melting with lust. “You gonna let me fuck you now?”

His words have you imagining the feeling of his thick length pressing into you, spreading you open with steady, solid thrusts. There’s something insanely erotic about feeling the weight of him on your tongue, knowing that he’ll soon be stretching you out like you’ve been dreaming of for years. 

“You want to ride me, baby? Like in the story?”

If your cunt wasn’t throbbing with need, you’d probably be melting at how erotically sweet it is that he’s paid such attention to detail in an attempt to make your dream come true. But your desire is more powerful, and the thought of bouncing yourself in his lap is too tempting to pass up, so you’re nodding eagerly, accepting his hand to pull you up to your feet.

JT tugs back the comforter on your bed, fluffing the pillows up to give him a soft back rest so he can sit up and watch you more closely. 

“D’you—” he starts, then stutters when you perch yourself in his lap, capturing his lips in a heated kiss. His erection, still slick from your saliva, bobs between your bodies, pressed against your core and the mere friction has both of you groaning. Your hips roll against him, dragging your sopping wet folds over his length, and the feeling is enough to distract you both from whatever he was going to say.

Then, as if he’s fighting for his life, he chokes out, “D’you want me—want me to wear a—fuck—condom? I’m—m’clean.”

You hum, and you honestly, truly believe that you wouldn’t be able to part from him even if you did, not now that you know how his cock feels pressed against your clit. It’s electric, enough to send shockwaves through your entire system.

“No,” you say. “Want to know what it feels like when you come inside me.” You may never get the chance again.

JT moans, and the sound is so delicious, you pause for a brief second to commit it to memory. His hands fly to grip your hips, sucking in a breath when you grip his length and tease him against your slit. The feeling of his warm flesh against your most sensitive area is enough to drive you insane, eyes fluttering shut when just the tip brushes your waiting, eager entrance. 

If you liked the sound of his moan, the sound he makes when you finally sink down on him is nothing short of divine. He fits inside you perfectly, and you think Michaelangelo himself couldn’t have sculpted his cock any better. The stretch of him is euphoric, fucking sublime, even more so when you start to move experimentally, feeling each ridge and vein sliding against your snug, warm walls.

Your hands fit into the dip of his shoulders, clutching onto him for dear life as your hips begin to move. A string of mumbled curses fall from his beautiful mouth, his eyes glued to where your bodies connect.

“JT,” you whisper, searching for the strength to finish your sentence, already weak for the pleasure shooting through each nerve ending in your body. “You’re so… feel so—fuck.”

He hums, pushing his hips up as if he knows exactly what you’re trying to say, agreeing wholeheartedly with the sentiment. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven, baby.”

It’s all you can manage to say, not that you could find the words even if you wanted to, so you opt to keep creating that divine, blooming feeling from his cock splitting open your cunt. Each pass is better than the last, and a fleeting thought in your head says that this is what porn actors act like they’re feeling, except it’s infinitely better because this time, the feeling is real. A symphony of moans, sighs of his name, low, grunted curses into the darkness fill the four walls of your room, the rest of the world oblivious to the transcendental experience happening. And what a shame.

Your thighs burn, a delicious heat that almost rivals the one that’s between your thighs. Almost. Yet again, you have the feeling that he’s read your mind when his hands grip the globes of your ass to aid your movements. His skin is hot, scorching against yours, and you wish that he’d leave burn marks, angry red handprints on your ass so you can see them in the morning to prove this isn’t all a delicious dream.

Another cry leaves your mouth when you feel his lips press against your breast, unable to resist the temptation of them heaving and swaying in front of his face. He groans, too, savoring the feeling of it in his mouth, the weight of it on his tongue. 

With his strong arms helping the way you bounce in his lap, your hand is free to trail down your stomach, fingers itching to touch your aching, singing clit. JT feels the press of your knuckles against his pelvis, tearing himself away from your breast for just a moment to glance down at the way you press the pad of your finger against yourself; the sight makes him groan and thrust his hips upward to drive even deeper into your pussy. 

“Oh my God,” you cry, unsure if the coil inside you can wind any tighter. Of course, it does, with every push into your insatiable, greedy walls. 

At hearing your moans lilt higher, he mouths around your nipple, “Fuck yeah, baby, that’s it.”

His encouragement is enough to give you the strength to ride him to high heaven, chasing that feeling of euphoria. The sounds that slip out of his throat are delicious, low murmurs of praise ticking you closer and closer to the cliff that you’re hurtling towards with no helmet, no seatbelt, no nothing, prepared to fly across the edge and free fall into oblivion.

“J—” your warning cry is cut off by the force of your climax, an explosion of color dancing inside of your eyes that are squeezed shut. Everything nearly fades to black, all sound, sight, touch going dim save for the ecstasy that fills each and every one of your cells, heightening the bliss that floods your mind. 

Five seconds, minutes, or maybe even hours later, your senses return and you realize you’re panting, fingers clutching the meat of his shoulders while your hips stutter atop him. As your high subsides, you feel the way your walls clench around him, and you slowly relax your grip on him, feeling the harsh indentations from your fingernails in his skin.

“Holy shit, that was fuckin’... insane,” JT says breathlessly, looking up at you hotly. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, swear to God.”

You laugh—or try to, anyways, but the sound doesn’t quite make it out—and you realize your body is still tingling as he rubs gentle circles into your hip with his thumbs. Wordlessly, JT soothes you, bringing you back to earth slowly with gentle kisses dotted across your chest like an intricate constellation.

“You good?”

You nod blissfully and he pauses, pulling back to lock eyes with you. “Can you say it, please?”

“M’good, JT,” you say, sounding less confident than you feel. “Promise. Want you… t’come. Please.”

Heat flares back up in his eyes and you feel him twitch deep inside of you. Your muscles instinctively contract around him and he groans before he’s wrapping his arms around you to tenderly turn you around and lay you on your back. The softness of the mattress is welcome beneath your muscles, your body aching with the most delicious exhaustion.

His body looms over you, large and indulgently intimidating. Quick to slip back into you, JT’s hips roll with a new intensity now that he’s made you come, now that he’s completely transported you to another galaxy—another universe entirely. Dark eyes gaze into yours, like he can’t get enough of you; the feeling is mutual, you think, and you attempt to tell him so by wrapping your legs around his waist, sliding your hands up the muscles in his back. In another life, you hope you get to spend more time exploring each dip and ridge and curve of the body he’s spent so much time working on, a slight tinge of sadness that you won’t get to appreciate him in all his glory for much longer.

“Fuck,” his voice is barely intelligible with his mouth now buried in the curve of your neck. His breath is hot against your skin, every nerve already alight from your orgasm. “Y’r gonna fuckin’ milk me dry, baby. God damn. Squeezin’ me so tight.”

He’s close, you can tell, by the choked curses and short groans that spill from his throat, lips openly mouthing along your jaw. And just as his hips begin to stutter, he kisses you deeply, moaning his release into your mouth just as you feel hot spurts spilling inside of you. It’s far more intimate than you expect, so connected to him everywhere as he touches his own euphoria; you can’t help but moan again at the communion.

With a last twitch of his hips, JT slumps over, hot and heavy breath panting as he rests his head on your collarbone. He’s still completely sheathed within you, and you can feel the way he twitches as he comes down from his high, the way liquid seeps out of your cavern. Your walls hug him snugly, content to stay wrapped around him forever. 

It’s your turn to return the favor, running a soft hand along his back as he catches his breath, and after awhile he slips out of you with a regretful whimper; you instantly miss him, even though he slumps beside you on the bed, hand blindly finding yours in the darkness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life,” he confesses with a wry chuckle. The admission makes you preen with pride, an achievement you’re sure you’ll never top.

“I thought the same,” you reply slowly. “But then you did it again. And again.”

JT, too, is ruffled with a smug pride. “Once I get the feeling back in my legs, I’ll do it again.”

Your brain short circuits at the promise, barely able to comprehend getting to feel that euphoria again. “JT, you don’t have to—”

“You think I don’t wanna do that again?”

His question makes you shy, as if he wasn’t just buried inside you, like his cum isn’t seeping out of your cunt at this exact moment. You tug the sheet over your chest, toying with the edge of it. “I just… I meant that you don’t have to keep up the act. And you don’t—you don’t have to stay, either, if you don’t want to.”

JT’s warm hand lays over yours, stopping you from picking at the material between your fingers. He waits until you glance over at him, even more beautiful under his post-coital glow. “I like morning sex too much to leave.”

He rolls off your bed with a grunt, and you sneak a long look at his perfect, perky ass as he strides freely through your room to your closet door that he confidently opens thinking it’s your bathroom. You giggle, then point him toward the other door, and he sends you a sheepish grin before he disappears into your bathroom. The ghost of his touch lingers over your skin, feeling the delicious ache between your thighs as you listen to the sound of the sink running, of him opening and closing your cabinet drawers, undoubtedly searching for something.

A few moments later he’s back, and this time you have a full frontal view of his nudity, appreciating the god-like figure walking back toward you. The moonlight illuminates his pale skin, his hair looking so dark it almost looks brown as he gently tugs back the sheet covering your modesty. With the warm, damp washcloth in his hand, he is careful as he wipes down your thighs, biting his lip when he sees his essence dripping out of you.

After tossing the cloth in your sink, he slips back into bed beside you and you have to resist the urge to stare at him. He pulls you into his arms, and you deeply inhale his scent, memorizing the way it feels to ensure you’ll never forget it.

“By the way, there is no act. This is the real deal.”

The light peeking through the blinds is what wakes you, a few moments spent blinking away the sleep before the memory of last night floods back into your psyche. Warmth spreads through your body as the scene unfolds in your mind, remembering the whispers of your name, the way plush lips felt on your skin, the delicious stretch between your legs. 

Stretching your sore muscles, it’s only then that you realize the space beside you on the mattress is empty. Your hand presses against the sheets to find them cold. With a frown, your heart sinks.

That’s it, you think, the dream is over.

You allow the disappointment and defeat to wash over you, tightness welling in your throat—of course it was too good to be true; a guy like that would never stay to the morning, not with someone like you. Still, you can’t deny that it stings; he’d seemed so genuine. There is no act. This is the real deal. But, you remind yourself, he was trying to get in your pants.

And he had. And it had been… marvelous. Ethereal. Celestial, even. But he’d gotten what he wanted and bolted out as soon as you fell asleep, which is deep down what you had expected.

You wallow in self-pity for a few moments, letting the smarting tears sting your eyes before you heave yourself out of bed with a glance in the mirror to make sure you hadn’t entirely dreamt it. But the fevered marks on your neck and swollen lips confirm that you hadn’t, which ultimately makes your heart sink a little further.

Digging into your dresser drawer with a heavy sigh, you pull out your favorite vintage Red Wings sweatshirt, something you’ve had since childhood. It’s oversized, which is why it’s become a staple in your wardrobe all these years later; you don’t bother slipping on underwear.

When you open the door from your bedroom, you yelp involuntarily at seeing the figure standing in your kitchen. Your eyes are drawn to the messy, russet hair and the pale skin, and all at once the identity of the stranger in your home registers.

“JT?”

Whipping around, you’re met with his sleepy eyes and a warm smile. “Hey, good morning. I hope you don’t mind I dug around your kitchen to make some breakfast.”

You gape at him, staring at him even as he slides a mug of coffee across the counter toward you. Then, seeing your shock, he laughs, shifting the frying pan off the burner before he steps toward you. It’s not until his warm hands wrap around your waist that you register he is, in fact, really still here, and now he’s leaning in to kiss you. His lips are plush, familiar now, and you barely have the chance to savor the feeling before he’s pulling away.

“You thought I left?”

“Well… yeah.” The question makes you shy, like you’re airing out your insecurities with a guy you just met. A guy you’ve never spoken to when the sun is up. A guy you’ve barely spoken to while sober.

A slow smile curls onto his face, eyes crinkling in that sweet way that makes your heart melt. “I told you, I’m not the hot shot player you seem to think I am. And I think you’re really, really…” 

Your eyebrows raise when he lets out a sigh, gazing off like he’s searching for the right word. 

“Well, let’s just say I really want to see you again. If you want to.”

“Are you sure this isn’t a prank?”

JT smiles, amused at your refusal to believe his interest in you is real. Instead of speaking, though, he opts to cup your jaw between his hands, pulling you toward him to press his lips against yours in a slow, sensual kiss. It brings back a flood of memories and feelings and sensations from the night before, almost like he’s reminding you of the spark that’s undeniable between you.

When he pulls away, you’re thankful that his hands return to your waist, for your knees are a little wobbly and your vision is a little cloudy. But then, he pushes his hips forward against your front so you can feel the unmistakable sign of his interest pressed against your abdomen. “Does this feel like a prank?”

Your reply is a strangled sound, unintelligible, and he smiles. “I was very serious when I said I want to do that over and over again. But I’m also serious about wanting to see you again. Maybe you’ll come to dinner with me, sometime? I believe you still owe me the rest of my tour of Detroit.”

It takes a moment for you to speak again, but something in the sincerity of his voice finally has you shifting to reality, and after a third mental photograph, you quip, “Depending on your omelet skills, I may need to show you Detroit’s best breakfast first.”

“To be honest with you, after seeing you in this t-shirt, I’m way more interested in having you for breakfast.”

With a cheeky smile, you say, “I never said it wasn’t me.”

Tag list: @somuchf4rstardust @tpwkstiles @smileysvech @senditcolton @robindrake13 @laurenairay

#jt compher fic #jt compher imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #jt compher smut #a dream come true

[eightmakar]

nsfweekend!!!

hello hockey tumblr it’s been a hot minute so let’s have a smut weekend! starting today, March 17th and going until Sunday, March 19th!

the Rules:

18+ only, please!

reblog this post if you’d like to help get the word out :)

send me a prompt + a Man

or send me your latest smutty thoughts

or your headcanons

anything let’s be Sluts

i write smut for:

cale makar

nathan mackinnon

mikko rantanen

erik johnson

artturi lehkonen

jt compher

tyson jost

ryan graves

andre burakovsky

prompt lists:

smut prompts

inexperienced smut prompts

sexy situations

sexy chirps

happy slutting!

tagging people:

@taking-shots @hockeylvr59 @harlowhockeystick @flashyfucker @jostystyles @jostyriggslover96 @burkymakar @fallinallincurls @cale8makar @jamiedryssdale @equallyshaw @capsvsducks @hockstuff @matbaerzal @mikkorantanev @holy-pucks @graves-makar @corneliaskates

#cale makar #Cale makar smut #Nathan mackinnon #Nathan mackinnon smut #mikko rantanen #mikko rantanen smut #Erik Johnson #Erik Johnson smut #artturi lehkonen #artturi Lehkonen smut #Tyson jost #Tyson jost smut #Ryan graves #Ryan graves smut #nhl #nhl smut #hockey #hockey smut #jt compher #jt compher smut #andre burakovsky #Andre burakovsky smut #nsfweekend

[powermakar]

Take a Picture - Jt. Compher

Merry Christmas ya filthy (slut ) animal!

well, this happened... 472 words of filthy smut with no plot

I have a soft and extremely horny spot for Jt okay

warning: cum play, unprotected sex (be careful please!), lots of swearing, pictures being taken during it too, and I think that's it

Jt Compher x fem reader

Jt wasn’t the most experimental person in the bedroom but when you two did do something new, 9 times out of 10 it would become his favorite thing. 

Now that is how you ended up laying on your bed with his head between your thighs. The scratchiness of his beard and the way he works his tongue over your clit sends you over the edge within minutes every time. “Fuck Jt how are you so good at this?” you ask, catching your breath. 

“Lots of practice. And I love watching you cum,” he smirks. You just hum in response as Jt flips you over onto your stomach and lifts your ass up. “I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight,” he says unbuttoning his pants. 

“Fuck me so hard Jt, I can take it,” you say reaching down to play with your clit. Jt smacks your ass and you can feel his spit slide down your folds. Before you know it, you are screaming his name as he is ramming his cock into your pussy. “Harder please, please,” you beg.

“I don’t want to hurt you, love,” Jt says but speeds up his pace anyways. The only thing that could be heard was breathy moans and skin slapping together. 

“Baby ‘m gonna cum soon,” he moans.  He spills into you embarrassingly fast, but at that moment he didn’t care. He wanted to try something new. Pulling his cock out of your tight hole, he gathered some of his cum on his fingers. Jt begins to rub the cum over your pussy. He sticks two fingers into your hole to gather more and rubs it on your clit, teasing you. This makes you clench your pussy and cause more to slip out. “Fuck, you should see yourself y/n you are so fucking beautiful like this,” he praises. 

“Take a picture, I want to see it,” you say, arching your back a little more. You thought that Jt was just going to grab his phone, but no, he grabbed his old polaroid camera. He took multiple pictures with and without his hands all over you. 

“So fucking un-believable,” Jt whispers in awe. He puts his favorite polaroid on top of his phone to put in the back of his phone at a later time. Jt fingers you roughly seeing all of his cum being pushed and pulled out of your sweet pussy making you both chase your next orgasm. 

“I’m close baby,” you say, squeezing your erect nipples. 

“Me too,”

“What?” you laugh

“Playing with my cum in your pussy is enough to send me over the edge babe,” he says gently slapping your pussy. That right there caused your third orgasm to rip through your body. In return, you sucked off Jt until he is spilling into the back of your throat.

#jt compher #colorado avalanche #go avs go #hockey fic #ice hockey #nhl smut #nhl imagine #jt compher imagine #jt compher smut #nhl players #national hockey league #jt compher fanfic

[matthewtkachuk]

bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last. 

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you. 

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado. 

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’. 

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count. 

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way. 

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house. 

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid. 

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely. 

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you. 

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours. 

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes. 

-

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy. 

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level. 

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law. 

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it. 

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit. 

It warms your heart. 

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate. 

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway. 

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander. 

-

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena. 

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell. 

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility. 

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier. 

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass. 

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp. 

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs. 

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy. 

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff. 

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.” 

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot. 

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces. 

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you. 

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16. 

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer. 

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move. 

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners. 

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy. 

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed. 

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire. 

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more. 

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper. 

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate. 

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently. 

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth. 

“It’ll be worth the wait.” 

And worth the wait it is. 

-

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices. 

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too. 

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you. 

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure. 

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other. 

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign. 

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan. 

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up. 

-

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed. 

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life. 

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie. 

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants. 

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is. 

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you. 

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed. 

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush. 

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss. 

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again. 

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth. 

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing. 

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body. 

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast. 

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs. 

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone. 

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises. 

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too. 

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths. 

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch. 

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him. 

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better. 

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips. 

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him. 

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm. 

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too. 

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up. 

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs. 

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery. 

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall. 

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake. 

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with. 

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying. 

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap. 

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless. 

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.” 

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing. 

The reality of the situation hits you. 

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life. 

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply. 

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

-

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time. 

“He loves you,” she says. 

You’re not so sure. 

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here. 

It’s not all bad though. 

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities. 

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school. 

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat. 

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be. 

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.” 

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.” 

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away. 

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same. 

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red. 

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist. 

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded. 

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head. 

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit. 

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up. 

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled. 

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan. 

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone. 

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts. 

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked. 

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass. 

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours. 

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back. 

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again. 

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact. 

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head. 

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.” 

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist. 

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door. 

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again. 

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.” 

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial. 

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug. 

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone,  it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother. 

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl x reader #jt compher fic #shelb writes

[wyattjohnston]

and all 34 fics have been posted! thank you so, so much to everybody who signed up, and to everybody who posted a fic. these don't go anywhere without the people who participate, so i'm eternally grateful.

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Frederik Andersen

Little Do You Know by @knifeshoeboys for @ mp0625

Teuvo Teräväinen

Jouluiloa by @mp0625 for @ callsign-denmark

Chicago Hawks

Anthony Beauvillier

tell me who i run to (if not you) by @offside-the-lines for @ bqstqnbruin

Dallas Stars

Tyler Seguin

champagne buzz down to my toes by @thewintersoldier for @ senditcolton

Detroit Red Wings

Alex Lyon

in love love by @jackhues by @ 2manytabsopen

JT Compher

bad at love by @matthewtkachuk for @ comphy-and-cozy

Florida Panthers

Matthew Tkachuk

Back to You by @tkwrites for @ luvsherleafs

My Sweet Girl by @selfindulgentpoorlywritten for @ matthewtkachuk

Montreal Canadiens

Cole Caufield

All This Time by @lifeofpriya for @ prettytoxicrevolver

New Jersey Devils

Jack Hughes

and all at once, you're all i want (i'll never let you go) by @writingonleaves for @ wildrangers

And he feels like home by @gravestrain for @ one-night-story

I Don't Know You, But I Would Love to Meet You by @one-night-story for @ writingonleaves

I Found by @teokka for @ sydnikov

John Marino

Odds were against us by @ladylooch for @ pcttymcrlecu

Nico Hischier

big, big plans by @tonyspep for @ kurlyteuvo

I'm Still Glad I Met You by @senditcolton for @ offside-the-lines

the ink on your skin by @sydnikov for @ selfindulgentpoorlywritten

Timo Meier

What My World Spins Around by @cellythefloshie for @ ladylooch

New York Islanders

Mat Barzal

dreams of someone by @pcttymcrlecu for @ fallinallincurls

love it if we made it by @comphy-and-cozy for @ thewintersoldier

Work Husband by @2manytabsopen for @ twopeoplecanchange

Ottawa Senators

Jakob Chychrun

bet all i have on that furrowed brow by @thomasschabot for @ wyattjohnston

Thomas Chabot

Head & Heart by @kurlyteuvo for @ thomasschabot

Seattle Kraken

Philipp Grubauer

I never thought by @laurenairay for @ knifeshoesboys

Toronto Maple Leafs

Auston Matthews

4 + 1 by @prettytoxicrevolver for @ tonyspep

William Nylander

Guilty by @typical-simplelove for @ lifeofpriya

The Planets and the Fates and All the Stars Aligned by @wildrangers for @ jackhues

Vancouver Canucks

Brock Boeser

Hotel Room by @lam-ila for @ gravestrain

in picture frames, in all my dreams, you’re the one i want by @fallinallincurls for @ laurenairay

Elias Pettersson

Lately you’ve been on my mind by @laurenairay for @ typical-simplelove

Quinn Hughes

Anything to Make it Right by @kurlyteuvo for @ lam-ila

Mistletoe Confession by @sc0tters for @ tkwrites

The Party's Over, Go Home by @bqstqnbruin for @ sc0tters

Winnipeg Jets

Adam Lowry

breaking all my rules by @wyattjohnston for @ cellythefloshie

if the person you wrote for hasn’t read and reblogged your fic, please tell me.

#the winter fic exchange 2k24 #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #hockey fic #exchange masterlist

[ladylooch]

do you have any blog recommendations for nhl/sport writers i love your blog so much

Oh gosh... I have many, and I am so worried about leaving someone out! I focus mostly on hockey, so that's the theme of the blogs below:

@senditcolton - The Matt Martin agenda worked. So quickly on me. In love with we're a bad idea.

@cellythefloshie - Road Wife. That is all. Holy shit. A creative mastermind.

@bitchinbarzal - The queen of AUs 🤌🏻💋

@sc0tters - Hot, HOT smut. Whew. Need a shower if I'm going into her stories 😘

@comphy-and-cozy - Love her style! Her JT Compher X reader fic in the locker room... was all the things: dreamy, sexy, intimate, exciting. One of my fav fics I've ever read on here.

@nicohersheys - My Timo bby. Foaming at the mouth for whatever is gonna come from your brain with our man.

@leafs-lover - Not an Auston Matthews girl... and yet, I am deeply invested in Auston and Tia. Incredible character development!

@mikkomacko - The Nico- bookworm story lives rent free in my head. Was absolutely speechless and breathless at the end.

@mendeshoney - I am still on my knees for their Barzal story. Holy shit. (No pressure but I need the next part. not want, need. I check every day, okay love you write when you feel like it and not because of external sources 😂)

& many, many more! I admittedly don't read a ton on Tumblr anymore. I am too caught up in my own stuff. But am always taking recs.

#b answers #fic recs #hockey writers

[smileysvech]

What are some of your favorite hockey boy fics? 🥰

this is not an exhaustive list by any means, so you can check my fic rec tags here and here, but these are some of my favorites (most of these include smut so please respect authors’ warnings if you’re not 18+)

andrei svechnikov

fake numbers and date numbers by @matsbarzal

glittery by @comphy-and-cozy

I love you I love you I love you like never before and basically any blurb/headcanon by @thewintersoldierdisaster

the love countdown series by @behoright

meet me at midnight by @senditcolton

the mystery of love by @comphy-and-cozy

playing pretend by @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69

sundress season (and the sequel) by @comphy-and-cozy

when it gets crisp in the fall (and these follow up fics in the same universe: x x) by @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69

andrei svechnikov/brady skjei

the after party by @comphy-and-cozy

andrei svechnikov/dylan coghlan

919 temptations by @hoesforthecanes

brady skjei

adore you by @comphy-and-cozy

do I really have to tell you? by @senditcolton

midnight rain by @comphy-and-cozy

mat barzal

more than a vancouver sunset by @zuucc

praising you by @eberles

we've come so far baby by @mendeshoney

mat barzal/tyson jost

summer nights by @hookingminor

jt compher

our love was made for the movies by @jostystyles

slow mornings by @comphy-and-cozy

something to dream about by @comphy-and-cozy

mikko rantanen

bad for business by @comphy-and-cozy

you’re the reason I come home by @senditcolton

tyson jost

baby, you make me crazy series by @hookingminor

how I look on you by @hookingminor

like this series by @matbaerzal

longshot by @flashyfucker

open your eyes by @matbaerzal

matt martin

matt martin x sugar baby!reader blurb by @comphy-and-cozy

we're a bad idea by @senditcolton

#asks #anon #tiff’s fic recs

[offside-the-lines]

masterlist - imagines

Legend: 🌶️ Sexual content (mature rating, not explicit). 🔞 Smut (18+). MY SAFE SEX RESOURCE. 🗳️ Requested. | 📁 Archived. 🎨 Original character. ❤️‍🔥 Favorite piece.

⚠️ Always check content warnings before reading. ⚠️

Mat Barzal You're All I Need (4.4k) 📁🎄🌶️ Underneath the Tree (2k) 📁🎄

Anthony Beauvillier ❤️‍🔥 tell me who i run to (if not you) (44.5k) 🌶️ 🎨

JT Compher Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow (2.9k) 📁🎄

Ryan Graves Is it Love, Actually? (1.5k) 🗳️🎨

Nico Hischier Right Where We Left Off (2.6k) 🎨

Tyson Jost Last Christmas (6.2k) 📁🎄

Nathan Mackinnon Am I Ready? (To Be Loved) (8k) 🗳️🎨

Cale Makar Only You Can Decide (3.4k) 🗳️🎨

Matthew Tkachuk Tie me down, your hands like butter (3k) 🔞

Matt Martin Give Us Another Shot (3.6k) 📁❤️‍

requests: open but please refer to this first

#housekeeping #rox writes

[rymurrsneckbeard]

I posted 2,557 times in 2022

110 posts created (4%)

2,447 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@captain-peen

@magicallarynx

@andiefreddersen

@m00nlightdelights

@caixxa

I tagged 2,002 of my posts in 2022

Only 22% of my posts had no tags

#apparently i now have a crush on morgan rielly - 249 posts

#tyson jost - 98 posts

#mikko rantanen - 84 posts

#i need a mitchell tag - 79 posts

#trevor zegras - 72 posts

#matty tkachuk - 66 posts

#cale makar - 58 posts

#jt compher - 57 posts

#oh gabe - 53 posts

#elias pettersson - 53 posts

Longest Tag: 132 characters

#(edit okay maybe not a ton of canadian guys but marner and sheahan definitely did and i swear i saw others but it's been a long day)

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

god damn i love cale makar

11 notes - Posted June 18, 2022

#4

Why hello my Tumblr friends! It's that time again! All-Star weekend inspired me to crank out 6500 words, approximately 4500 of them being just unabashed smut. We're having a good time around here.

Gratitude

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Jack Hughes/Trevor Zegras/Tom Wilson (implied established Jack/Trevor)

Words: 6500+

Summary:

Tom Wilson isn't entirely sure what to expect from his first All-Star experience. He didn't think it would involve Jack Hughes saying Tom is the player he most wants to play with, and he really didn't plan on being asked to get alcohol for Jack and his other under-21 counterpart, Trevor Zegras.

But Jack and Trevor are determined to make it worth his while.

12 notes - Posted February 28, 2022

#3

The fuck actually are Marcus Foligno and Brad Marchand doing tonight??

15 notes - Posted February 8, 2022

#2

Okay so we've all seen the hilarious Ovechkin/Backstrom ad with Ovi's wife.

But I have Questions.

Why does Ovi's kid look like a tiny Sidney?

See the full post

15 notes - Posted January 6, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Siri, play One Direction, "Night Changes"

134 notes - Posted February 18, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #haahahah HOW did I use my Morgan tag THAT MANY TIMES??? #Jesus Christ what am I doing with my life

[holy-puckslibrary]

here's everything i published in the month of OCTOBER.

˗ˏˋ main masterlist ˎˊ˗

★ THE ONE (18+) 

pairing — fwb!ANDREI SVECHNIKOV x reader wc — 8k synopsis — the reader is andrei's favorite girl, but she isn't his only. for awhile, the arrangement was comfortable. he'd show up whenever he was in town, they'd fuck, and then he'd leave. rinse and repeat. so how will andrei react when their routine comes to a screeching halt?

★ CLANDESTINE (18+) 

pairing — dbf!SIDNEY CROSBY x reader wc — 4.5k synopsis — when sidney catches the owner’s daughter hooking up with a rookie during a swanky event, he feels compelled to save an old friend some embarrassment. reminding showing her what a real man can do is just a bonus.

— INAUGURAL SLUMBER PARTY  tags: #oct 23 // #lights camera action

★ sharing is caring deets series masterlist

★ thoughts/feelings re: kinktober

★ lucky charm hidden object teaser game

★ re-visiting cameo and the remaster series masterlist

— 1989 (GRACE'S VERSION) tags: #1989 (grace's version) // #1989 (GV)

★ TRACK ONE — OUT OF THE WOODS (quinn hughes) the crush verse masterlist

★ TRACK TWO — THIS LOVE (erik johnson) the nanny verse masterlist

★ TRACK THREE — I KNOW PLACES (sidney crosby) the sugar sugar verse masterlist

→ next month’s round-up 

⤑ to my inbox💌

⬸ back to the catalog

⬸ back to the main blog 

All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2023 holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted, or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

#*ೃ༄ by holy-pucks #andrei svechnikov x reader #andrei svechnikov #andrei svechnikov angst #andrei svechnikov fic #andrei svechnikov imagine #andrei svechnikov x you #sidney crosby x reader #sidney crosby smut #sidney crosby fic #sidney crosby #sidney crosby x y/n #sidney crosby x you #oct 23 #lights camera action #sharing is caring verse #tyson jost x reader #jt compher x reader #jt compher x reader x tyson jost #college au #kinktober 2023 #the lucky charm verse #lucky charm #lucky charm!jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x oc #jack hughes #cameo verse

[comphy-and-cozy]

unforgettable - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Word Count: 3.1K

Author's Note: This is fully the most self-indulgent and personal fic I have ever and will ever write, so if no one likes it I'm still not gonna be sorry. This is wildly contrived and barely passable as realistic. It is quite literally Y/N's Story (C's Version). You'll know what I mean when you read it. Thanks to @smileysvech for listening to me be unhinged about this for like two months straight - you a real one. And in case you are wondering, this is the fic in question.

Warnings: Suggestive/adult content (18+ recommended), discussions about sex/sexual implications, alcohol use/consumption, full insanity. Like a medium burn/banter that's basically foreplay but no actual sexy times.

series masterlist | nhl masterlist | part 2

November 2021

Meeting a personal idol is always a special experience, full of excitement, nerves, anticipation; hopefully making a connection to tell them how much you admire them or what they mean to you. Even if it’s the intention, it feels a little embarrassing to be at a fan event put on by the team, like you’re too old to be at a function for the sole purpose of meeting professional hockey players, and the concept of being perceived is, frankly, almost overwhelming.

But then they turn out to be kind, funny, and courteous; not at all what you expected. They smile at you, ask you your name, thank you for coming, engage with you like you’re a regular human being. Like they’re a regular human being. (They are, of course, but it’s difficult to comprehend that when you’re used to them being little men on your television screen with ice knives strapped to their feet.)

When you get to your favorite TV Ice Man, he’s beautiful, and it takes you a moment to get rid of the shakiness in your voice when you hear him say your name for the first time. The warmth of his hand on your back when you pose for a photo together lingers long after he pulls away, smiling at you as he says, “Tag me in that on Instagram.”

It’s exhilarating, enough to have you bouncing from cloud to cloud as you leave, heart soaring. Still, after walking out on shaky legs with the most precious memories and photos tucked safely into your phone, you’re in need of a drink to settle the nerves that have been floating in your belly since the night began. 

As soon as it touches your tongue, the drink helps to calm you down, and you’re in a dreamland as you reflect on the evening behind you. A real conversation with JT Compher, the man you’ve had a crush on for years—and he talked to you! He is aware you exist! And though you’re sure it’s a figment of your imagination, you’ll remember the warmth in his eyes when they connected with yours for the rest of your life.

Luck is on your side, it seems, when you catch a group of tall, muscular men walking in out of the corner of your eye; the aura of the room instantly changes in their presence, like the room automatically got ten degrees hotter. In the middle of the pack is the unmistakable red hair, styled meticulously, only now he’s lost his tie in favor of unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. He looks good, dressed down in a way that makes him look even more delicious than before.

His aura is different now that the event is over, like he’s able to remove the mask he put on for the public at a work event; now, he’s just a normal guy out on a Friday night with his friends. Other than the Gucci belt and Tom Ford suit, one would have no idea that he’s got an extra digit at the end of his paycheck, and he loves that.

Until he sees you. You, who knows exactly who he is, who is fully aware he’s unwinding from a long and tiring fan event with his friends. He’d have to be an idiot to forget your face, the one that made him pause when you told him your name, his breath hitching in his throat just for a moment.

When he sidles up next to you at the bar, the last thing you expect is for him to greet you, let alone remember your name. You look at him in surprise when he offers to buy your drink, gaping for a little too long until you’re nodding shyly. 

“Have fun at the event?” he asks after sliding his card across the bar to open a tab, leaning up against the ornate marble as he faces you. 

“It was incredible,” you reply with a blissful smile. “They—you guys—are always so nice.”

The corners of his lips curl upward, just slightly, pleased at your positive review. “I’m glad to hear that. The fans are so important to us, so I—we—like to be able to give back when we can.”

“It doesn’t get exhausting? Talking to all those people?”

Something shifts in his eyes, and briefly you wonder if he’s toying with the line of talking to a fan versus just a stranger, contemplating if he should drop a layer of his public persona. Eyeing the extra sliver of creamy skin peeking out from his unbuttoned collar, you’d say he’s already halfway there.

“It can be a lot,” he admits. “But it really is fun. And very humbling.”

Your drink is placed on the bar in front of you, and the bartender nods at JT when he asks to keep the tab open. Your heart does a flip, but you remind yourself he’s here with friends.

“How long have you been a fan?”

“I’ve been watching hockey since I was a kid,” you say, and he nods in understanding. You tell him of the photos of you as a toddler, standing in your neon windbreaker next to the Stanley Cup; you note the way his eyes glitter when you mention it, like he’s wistfully envisioning the day he’ll lift the trophy himself. You note the way you like it.

“Let me guess. Your favorite player was Joe Sakic.”

“Actually, you might hate this, but my favorite player was Steve Yzerman.”

JT’s eyebrows raise as he shrugs. “Hard to argue with that, even if he did beat the Avs. Are you a Wings fan?”

“I went to U of M, so I went to a lot of games when I lived in Ann Arbor. So I think I am by default.”

You can see his eyes shift at the mention of his alma mater, like something’s permanently altered in the dynamic between you. He doesn’t need to tell you that he went there, too, but he does anyway. “Go Blue.”

With a smirk, you raise your glass and clink the base against his as you say it back. Your eyes flick to the group he arrived with, upstairs in the VIP area, surrounded by pretty girls in tight skirts.

“Do you need to get back to them?”

JT takes a sip of his own drink, an Old Fashioned, then licks his lips again like he knows it’ll catch your attention. Then he shrugs, nonchalant. “Would rather stay here with you. Have to make sure the drink I paid for doesn’t go to waste.”

He’s too smooth, you think, warning yourself to keep an eye on him or you’d be swooning at his feet. Not that you aren’t already ready to, your own willpower barely holding up under his gaze and your Amaretto Sour weaving its way into your senses. 

“What’s a Wings fan doing in Denver?”

It’s a simple question, the logical one, but you’re still surprised that he asks, that he wants to know more about the one of many fans he met tonight. Still, you answer, explain that you’re visiting friends who are big Avs fans. You don’t have it in you to tell him that you’ve had a crush on him for years, that you timed your visit to coincide with the event. That you’re having an internal meltdown just existing in his presence and trying desperately hard to remain cool and composed. 

And you can’t tell if he’s flirting with you, or if he’s just being nice, which makes you panic even more, gulping down the remainder of your drink in an attempt to calm your nerves. Do his eyes keep shifting down to your cleavage, or is that your imagination? Is he letting his cheek brush against yours when he speaks into your ear, or is it just an accident? 

Another round of drinks later, and he’s still here, and now you’re sure he’s at least some kind of interested. His friends are upstairs, loud, rambunctious, and he hasn’t even given them so much as a glance, instead focused on you and making you shiver under his attention.

The conversation has been steady, making its way through hockey, past childhood, and college, and jobs, and now you’re onto hobbies. And you may have accidentally let it slip that you like to write. 

It’s against your own will that your mouth announces, out loud, to a professional athlete, that you write hockey fanfiction. Or, wrote. Have written. Either way, it’s the alcohol’s fault, and you’re tempted to dump the remaining contents of your glass on the ground to avoid saying anything else.

His eyebrows raise in amusement, a grin breaking out onto his face. “Oh, now you have to tell me more.”

You’re shaking your head no, face sweltering hot when you realize what you’ve just admitted. “Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I just said that. I think this conversation is done.”

“Aww, come on, tell me,” he prods, nudging your knee with his. “Was it about someone I know?”

You draw your lips tight, shaking your head to tell him your lips are sealed. 

“It was!” he exclaims, his eyes lighting up. “I bet it was about Gabe. Wasn’t it? All the girls love Gabe. He’s a dreamboat.”

Covering your mouth with your hand, you shake your head at him again. This cannot be fucking happening right now.

“No Gabe? Hm…” he looks around, as if he’s searching for the subject in front of him. “Oh! Josty. He’s got a whole following of fangirls.”

Part of you wants to laugh, and the other part of you wants to die immediately on the spot, buried beneath the ground without another word. He isn’t wrong, but he is dangerously close to discovering the truth.

He sees your reaction, inferring that no, it wasn’t Josty, and he takes another sip of his drink as he racks his brain. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, mulling over the options like he’s mentally running through an encyclopedia of NHL players. Then, his eyes shift, a glitter returning to them before they’re landing back on you, and suddenly you feel hot all over, sensing the end of your life hurtling rapidly towards you.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

Face scorching hot, you can’t help the defeated smile on your face as you cast your eyes away, mortified beyond belief. Why did you have to say anything? Things were going so well, and now you’re preparing for him to make a quick exit and dash upstairs to laugh at you with his teammates, a story that would surely make the rounds through the league. You’re contemplating which path to the door is quickest, which will get you out of there fast enough to avoid dying of embarrassment on the spot.

But instead of making a run for it, he just laughs, a surprised expression on his face. “Oh, my God.”

“I’m just gonna go now—”

“No, no,” he’s quick to say, waving his hand to show he isn’t bothered, and maybe an air of, please, stay. “I’m flattered, honestly. I didn’t think anyone liked me like that.”

Oh, they do, you think, but your semblance of self-control has taken over again, covering your mouth before the thought can verbalize; at least you can shut the fuck up sometimes. Instead, you shrug playfully, then take another sip, thinking that at the very least, you can drown out your humiliation with more alcohol.

“You gonna tell me what it was about, or you playing hard to get?”

His question is subtle but clearly twofold in meaning, and you nearly choke on your drink again. Is this real? This has to be a dream. 

Forcing yourself to get your wits together, you say, “I’m gonna need another drink if you want to even remotely convince me to share that.”

“I can do that,” he grins. “Say no more.”

It’s only after he returns with another drink in hand that you notice the flush in his cheeks, the way the warm mahogany of his eyes have turned a little more molten. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe—unlikely—it’s you. Probably the former. Surely the former.

He keeps the conversation light, allowing you to ask about life as an NHL star, about his favorite part about Denver, about who his funniest teammate is. He’s surprised, though, when you ask what he misses the most about life before the NHL; what he wishes he could have amidst the fanfare of being a professional athlete.

Mulling over your question, he takes another sip of his cocktail, and you seize the opportunity to admire his face, up close. The neat landscaping of his beard, the perfectly styled coiff of his hair, the deep mauvey-pink shade of his lips. God, he’s handsome.

His laugh pulls you out of your daydream, and he raises his glass toward you. “Thank you.”

You’re confused for a moment, until you realize that your thought wasn’t an internal commentary at all, but something that slipped out of your mouth by accident. You have quite literally turned into a stuttering, bumbling fool in his presence. He doesn’t seem bothered, though, swiftly moving past the moment to answer: “Honestly, I think what I miss most are conversations like this. Where I don’t have to be ‘on,’ where I can just be a normal guy with a pretty girl at a bar.”

“A girl telling you she wrote smutty fanfiction about you is ‘normal’?”

JT’s face shifts, and all at once you realize the additional descriptor you used, immediately groaning at the accidental admission. Why do you keep doing this? Why does it have to be him?

“Smutty? Like, it’s spicy?”

“No,” you lie, but the speed of your reply is a dead giveaway, and suddenly he’s grinning.

“You wrote—” he drops his voice to a whisper, “—sexy times about me?”

Your non-answer is an answer in itself, and the smile on his face is so wide, he might as well have won the Stanley Cup. Your face burns, could probably fry an egg on your cheeks, ready to slink into a hole and never come out.

“Oh, come on, now you have to tell me!” he says. “I won’t judge. I swear.”

“I’m sorry, that information is classified. It’s firmly secured under lock, key, and shark-infested waters with lasers attached to their heads.”

“Okay, fine, I can play this game,” he grins, pretending to crack his knuckles. “Was there… a blowjob?”

“Jesus, JT. Coming in hot, are you?” Then, “No.”

“That hurts, but I understand,” he places his hand over his heart. “What about… cunnlingus?”

“I am shocked that you know what that word means.”

“I have an elite education. You should know.”

“The leaders and best,” you say with a raised glass.

“Stop deflecting. Did I eat you out or not?”

The intimacy and bluntness of the phrasing makes your heart flutter, along with the area in question. The devil on your shoulder is whispering, fuck around and find out. So, with an internal shrug, you do. “You may have.”

JT beams. “Excellent.”

He rapid fires off more categories—spanking, handcuffs, edging, foot fetish?—all of which make your cheeks burn the more he inquires, as casual as asking you about what you do for a living.

“Threesome?”

“No.”

He hums. “Good. I didn’t want to share.”

The admission catches you off-guard, and judging by the way he eyes you for your reaction, he said it intentionally to rile you up. You hope he can’t see the rapid way your heart beats in your throat, the idea that this professional athlete would ever be possessive over a fan with a crush.

His last question pulls you from your thoughts and also makes you nearly snort your drink out of your nose. “Anal?”

“Jim Tim, I’m really gonna need you to cool it with topics I’m wildly unprepared to discuss.”

“That sounds like you’ll be ready at some point, though.”

“Maybe if you call me in about 100 years, I will be.”

He hums, then swirls the ice left in his glass. “What about the time it takes me to cash out and Uber back to mine?”

Your brain completely shuts down at the invitation, the proposition striking you in the face. He couldn’t have seriously been flirting with you this entire time, could he? Surely, he was just being silly with a girl—a fan—who he’ll never see again?

But he’s looking at you, and it feels like the time has long since passed if he was going to announce that it’s all been a joke. He’s waiting for your reply, for a confirmation that all of his hard work and perfect banter has not gone to waste.

So you nod, letting out a loud sigh as soon as his red hair disappears back into the crowd to pay his tab. Your hands are shaking, your heart threatening to leap out of your throat, and you glance around like everyone is going to start laughing at you for believing that JT Compher would want to take you home.

-

JT’s skin tingles as he signs his check, nodding a ‘thank you’ at the bartender before pocketing his wallet. This wasn’t what he expected when he prepped himself for the event tonight; he anticipated photos, nervous fans, hand aching from signing so many hats and jerseys—and afterward, decompressing at the bar with the guys, having a few drinks, guffawing along as Bo surely makes a fool of himself. Instead, he feels like he’s been smacked in the face, in awe of the girl he met and promptly learned he can’t get enough of. It’s only been a few hours, but he’s hooked on her smile, on her quick wit, on the way she makes his cock twitch in his pants when she laughs. 

He yearns to be with her, now, to try his chances at feeling her pretty lips on his, to get a better glimpse at the jeans she painted on over the tempting curve of her hips. Though he’s confident—she wrote fanfiction about him for Christ’s sake—it’s far from a slam-dunk, but he’s eager to embrace the challenge ahead, and equally content to just spend more time basking in her presence. 

But when he returns to the spot he left her at, she’s nowhere to be found. He scans the crowd, searching for the eyes that have captivated him so deeply. A tinge of nerves blaze through him, the thought of being ghosted flitting through his brain, but then he remembers the way she looked at him, the way her breath hitched when he leaned in close to her. 

So, he searches for her, sure she’s just stepped away for a moment. He checks the bar, the restroom, the front door, the back door—nothing. And then he finally accepts the truth: She’s gone, disappeared without a word, far too good to be true.

JT Ubers home alone, left to quell the burning in his gut in the somber solidarity of his bedroom, wistfully wondering if your paths will cross again someday.

SIMILAR CONTENT: Already Ready to Go* A Night in Paris* Adore You

Tagging: @somuchf4rstardust @laurenairay @senditcolton @fallinallincurls

#jt compher fic #jt compher imagine #jt compher x reader #hockey fic #nhl imagine #jt compher fanfiction #jt compher smut #nhl fic #hockey imagine #a dream come true

[eightmakar]

coming home | j.t.c. | 18+

Pairing: J.T. Compher x Original Character

Word Count: 12.2k

Warnings: cursing, drinking, smut (dry humping, dirty talk, making out) MINORS DNI

A/N: idk where this came from but enjoy the yearning i tried

tagging: @taking-shots @harlowhockeystick  @flashyfucker  @fallinallincurls  @jostystyles  @jostyriggslover96 @burkymakar @cuttergauth @matbaerzal @hockeylvr59  @hockstuff @tkachukslut  @mikkorantanev  @gabelandeskog @cale8makar @xsyntheticsensation

Connor Maddox’s grandfather always used to tell her, “Whenever Joseph Compher wants to practice on our ice, you let him. That kid is going to bring home the Cup one day.” She idolized her grandfather, respected every word he ever spoke, and so she spent her adolescence opening the rink for the soft-spoken yet snarky older boy with the big, brown eyes who always brought her a hot chocolate with Irish Cream, no matter what time of day it was. 

And there he was on her television screen, hoisting the Stanley Cup over his head. Her grandfather would be proud. 

“Hey Connor?” her employee, Robin, asked. 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Connor looked up at her from her desk. 

“There’s, um, there’s someone on the phone who wants to talk to the manager. He wants to have an event here or something.”

“Okay, thanks!” Connor picked up the phone as Robin left her office. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this the manager?”

Connor’s stomach dropped. She would recognize Joseph Compher’s voice anywhere. 

J.T., Connor reminded herself. He goes by J.T..

“Yes, this is Connor, how can I help you?”

“Hey Connor, my name is J.T. Compher and I play for the Colorado Avalanche. I, uh, I grew up in Northbrook and basically learned everything I know at your rink, so I’d like to bring the Stanley Cup over and have a big celebration on my cup day,” J.T. explained. 

“Yeah, we can do that for you, J.T.,” Connor said, smiling but wondering if he recognized her voice. He might recognize her last name, and he’d definitely remember her if she reminded him what her nickname was when they played hockey together.

“Thank you so much!” J.T. sighed. “We want to do a fundraiser as well, raise some money for the community, you know, give back a little.”

“We’d appreciate that a lot, truly. Let me give you my cell number and we can work this out together, sound good?” Connor suggested. 

“That’s perfect, Connor, thank you.”

Connor gave him her number, wondering if he still had it in his phone from all those times he’d call her late at night or early in the morning, begging her to open the rink so he could skate. She bid him goodbye, then immediately called her dad.

“Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” Connor’s dad, Tom, answered. 

“Remember Joseph Compher?” Connor questioned. 

“You mean Stanley Cup Champion Joseph Compher? Yeah, of course.”

“He wants to have part of his Cup day celebrations at the rink.”

Tom gasped, incredulous. “He wants to bring the Stanley Cup to our rink? Did you tell him yes?”

“Of course I did. Pops would’ve rolled over in his grave if I didn’t. He wants to do a fundraiser and I think I could get him to make a donation to the rink, too.”

“Did he remember you?”

Connor gnawed on her lip, and muttered, “I don’t think so, but I didn’t tell him my last name. I wanna see how long it takes him to realize it’s me.”

“Ah, a test to see if he’s still worthy after all these years?” Tom chuckled. 

Connor laughed back, “I hate you!”

“He’s still a good-looking guy, Con,” her dad insisted. “With a hell of a salary.”

“Goodbye, Father.” Connor rolled her eyes and hung up on her dad to get back to work. She checked her cell phone to see a text from J.T.. She realized he hadn’t changed his number, and she hadn’t changed his contact number since high school. 

July 1st

Joseph The Idiot (12:43 PM)

Hey Connor, this is J.T. Compher. Wanted to say thanks again for helping us set this up. Your rink means the world to me and it’s going to be so special to share the Cup with Northbrook!

Connor (12:45 PM)

No problem! Excited to work this out!

July 2nd

Joseph The Idiot (11:21 AM)

I’ve confirmed my cup day is the 15th, is that okay?

Connor (11:24 AM)

Yes, that’s perfect! What are you wanting to do at the rink specifically?

Joseph The Idiot (11:30 AM)

I would love to be able to talk a bit to the people that come to the event

Also a photo op of some sort, definitely

I’m working with the Bluehawks too, cause I played for them, and there will be a lot of kids there.

Connor (11:35 AM)

Okay, so we could put carpet down on the ice? And chairs and such for the kids, for any of your family members, other important people?

If you wanted, too, we could have the photo op on the ice

Joseph The Idiot (11:37 AM)

That would be amazing!

I think we’d probably be there about a couple hours or so based on the tentative schedule.

Late morning to early afternoon, probably 11:30 to 1:30 or something like that

Does that work?

Connor (11:40 AM)

Yeah, we can make that work. We have a couple parties that night, but that should be fine.

Joseph The Idiot (11:41 AM)

We’ll help you guys clean up and get ready for those parties.

Connor (11:42 AM)

You don’t have to!

But we would appreciate it anyway :)

Joseph The Idiot (11:43 AM)

It’s the least we can do!

I’ll also be making a donation. I know you guys have some repairs you want to make, and I would love to contribute to that

Plus the youth hockey programs

Connor (11:47 AM)

We’d appreciate both of those donations!

I’m one of the youth hockey coaches

Joseph The Idiot (11:49 AM)

Really? That’s incredible! What team?

Connor (11:50 AM)

The U12 and U19 girls teams! I help out with the U14s and the U16s too.

Joseph The Idiot (11:51 AM)

My sisters both used to play for the girls’ teams. I’m so glad to hear they’re still going strong!

Connor (11:52 AM)

I’m glad to report it :)

July 4th

Joseph The Idiot (2:28 PM)

Happy Fourth!

Connor (2:38 PM)

Happy Fourth back atcha!

Joseph The Idiot (3:00 PM)

Think we could get some epic fireworks for the 15th?

Connor (3:07 PM)

Ha, in the middle of the day?

Joseph The Idiot (3:09 PM)

Damn, you’ve got me there

July 6th

Joseph The Idiot (6:58 PM)

How’s the planning going? Anything you need from me?

Connor (7:00 PM)

Nope, not as far as I know! We’re just making sure we have the staff to be able to host.

Joseph The Idiot (7:03 PM)

Great! Let me know how I can help!

Connor (7:04 PM)

Will do! :)

July 8th

Connor (4:43 PM)

Do you have decorations you want put up?

Joseph The Idiot (4:44 PM)

Oh shit, yes

I’m in Colorado right now, but can I have one of my family members bring them over?

Connor (4:46 PM)

Sure! Have them drop it at the front desk

Joseph The Idiot (4:47 PM)

God, you’re a lifesaver!

July 11th

Joseph The Idiot (5:41 PM)

Everything still good?

Connor (5:43 PM)

Yep, all good! 

July 14th

Joseph The Idiot (9:07 PM)

See you tomorrow!

Connor (9:08 PM)

See you tomorrow! The rink is all ready to go!

July 15th

Joseph The Idiot (8:11 AM)

[image]

Pancakes taste even better from the Stanley Cup.

Connor (8:12 AM)

I bet they do, save some for me?

Joseph The Idiot (8:13 AM)

One to go box, got it.

[image]

I’m pretty sure this violates the “don’t take a date to bed on the first date” rule, but when else could I take Lord Stanley to my childhood bedroom?

Connor  (8:15 AM)

At least you took him to breakfast beforehand. 

“Does this shirt look okay?” Connor smoothed down her burgundy blouse nervously. She’d picked it out specifically for today, because it was one of the Avalanche’s colors.

“Why? Nervous to see your boyfriend?” Connor’s younger sister, Corissa, teased. 

Connor stuck her tongue out at Corissa. “I’m ninety percent sure he has a girlfriend. Plus, he doesn’t remember me, so that would be awkward.”

“So? What if he shows up today and confesses his love for you?”

“I—,” Connor blushed at the thought. High school memories of him flashed through her head; watching him zip by her on the ice, scoring his games, looking up to see him watching her games she played with his sisters, Jesse and Morgan. She remembered how much she wanted to kiss him when his face was flushed and sweaty after a game. 

“I’m just saying, if you suddenly have to sneak away to your office with him, I’ll cover for you guys,” Corissa said seriously.

“Jesus Christ, Cori,” Connor laughed. “I’m not going to fuck him at the rink!”

Corissa wiggled her eyebrows. “But maybe after?”

Connor shoved her sister and cackled, “Fuck off! I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you over there?”

“Yes ma’am,” Corissa saluted. “See you at the rink.”

Connor left her and her sister’s house and made the short drive to the Northbrook Sports Center. Her hands shook as she drove, pulling into her designated space and barely staying between the lines. She saw a gaggle of people in front of the building, several of them with the telltale Compher-red hair, and unmistakable number thirty-seven white Avalanche jersey. 

Oh fuck, Connor thought. She wasn’t ready to see him yet, hadn’t mentally prepared to see J.T. after so many years, but there he was, standing at the front door of the rink like he was fifteen and waiting for her bike over to let him in. He looked good, much taller and much broader than she remembered him being. 

Connor took a deep breath and clambered out of her car. She nearly tripped, cursing the heels she’d chosen to wear. She popped her trunk, grabbed her backpack, and walked over to meet the Compher family. 

“Hey guys,” Connor greeted them as she came to a stop in front of the family she was once so familiar with. “I’m Connor.”

“Holy fuck,” J.T. breathed, sounding shocked. Connor saw Jesse elbow Morgan behind their brother, but her focus remained on J.T. as he said, “Duck?”

Connor pressed her lips together, but couldn’t hold her smile back. “I didn’t know if you’d remember,” she said quietly. “Hey, Seph. It’s good to see you.”

“Holy shit!” J.T. opened his arms and pulled Connor into a strong hug, allowing her to wrap her arms around his waist. God, he’d gotten so ripped. “I thought you were the Connor I was talking to, but I didn’t know your family still owned the rink after your grandpa.” He let her go but they stayed close together. 

“Yeah, he, uh, he wanted to make sure we kept it, so he left us a lot of money to keep it going,” Connor explained. “I didn’t know if you’d remember me, either, and I didn’t want it to seem like suddenly you came back with the Cup and now we’re friends again.”

“I’d never think that,” J.T. said, barely audible, but was interrupted by Jesse loudly clearing her throat. 

“Quit flirting and let us all say hi, J,” she said, pushing past him to hug Connor. 

“There’s the Jesse I remember,” Connor laughed. “It’s even better to see you than it is to see Joseph. And Morgan, of course!” Connor released Jesse to hug Morgan, then Valerie and Bob.

“Um,” J.T. said, reaching for a plastic bag behind him with a coffee cup next to it. Connor’s heart pounded as he handed them both to her sheepishly. “I said I’d bring you some of Mom’s pancakes, so here. And just in case it was you,” he glanced over at Jesse, who smirked, “I got a hot chocolate with Irish Cream.”

Connor was stunned. He really remembered. Holy shit. 

“Who had to remind you?” Connor teased, taking the cup and bag. “Jesse or Morgan?”

J.T. chuckled. “I remembered myself, thank you very much.”

“Wow, I’m impressed you had the brain cells to remember after all the partying you’ve done since you won the Cup!” Connor grinned and unlocked the door. She yanked it open and J.T. caught it for her. 

“You know what,” he said, “you’ve got me there. For a while there my blood was just straight alcohol.”

 Connor laughed as she walked into the rink, her second home. She flicked on the lights, then went around unlocking everything as the Comphers looked around nostalgically. They had their heads together, speaking softly, when she returned to them. 

“So all your decorations are up,” Connor said. “And there’s a bunch of chairs on the ice, plus the backdrop for photos and a table for the cup and everything.”

“This is perfect, honestly,” J.T. told her. “Thank you so much.”

“Yeah, of course! My grandpa always said that you’d bring a Cup home,” said Connor sadly. 

“I was really sorry to hear that he’d passed. He was a great person.”

Connor noticed that the rest of the Comphers had suspiciously left them alone, but she didn’t mind. She always loved the time they spent alone at the rink, and standing next to J.T. reminded her how much she’d enjoyed it. 

“It sucked, I’m not gonna lie,” Connor agreed sadly and took a drink of her hot chocolate.

“What, uh, what happened, if you don’t mind?”

“Cancer.”

“Fuck, Connor, I’m so sorry.”

Connor shrugged, “We knew it was coming. He’d been struggling for a while, and we were just glad he wasn’t in pain.”

J.T. shifted nervously on his feet, looking like he wanted to do something to comfort her, but ultimately opting not to. Instead, he said, “I’m glad he’s not suffering anymore.”

“Me too. He left Dad the rink, plus some money to keep it going, and then when I graduated from college, I took over running it. Dad is technically the owner still, but I keep everything going since Dad has his own job.” Connor gnawed on her lip, wondering if she was telling him too much too quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Where did you end up going?” J.T. questioned. 

“Northwestern,” Connor said with a sly grin.

J.T. grinned back at her. “You always wanted to go to Northwestern.”

“And I did it. My degree is in my office,” Connor laughed, “also known as my most expensive piece of paper.”

“You’re doing better than I did,” J.T. laughed, too. “I don’t even have a degree.”

“Okay Mr. Three Million Dollar Contract.”

“Actually,” J.T. corrected, “Three and a half million. For four years.”

Connor shoved her old friend, laughing, “Show off.”

“You could’ve played pro, too, Duck.”

“What?” Connor looked incredulously at him.

“Yeah, you could’ve easily gone to play in the PHF. Jesse’s playing at Wisconsin in the fall, and I’m pretty sure she’s going pro after. I bet you could still keep up with her.”

“Seph,” Connor said quietly. “I can’t. I have to keep the rink going.”

“I mean, you could,” he insisted. 

“Con,” Jesse interrupted loudly as she, Morgan, and their parents rejoined them, “thanks for setting this all up. Everything looks great!”

“Thanks, Jess,” Connor said with a smile. “We have a place for your medal, too, if you want.”

“I won’t leave it out, but I brought it if you want to see it,” Jesse said, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a sock, reached into it, and removed her shining Olympic silver medal. Jesse offered it to a gaping Connor. 

“Jesus, you trust me to hold it?” Connor laughed. 

“It’s Jesse, not Jesus, and yes.” Jesse nearly shoved her medal into Connor’s hands as Connor laughed at her joke. 

“Oh my god, it’s heavy!” Connor yelped, admiring the medal. “But look at her.”

“Wait til you see the Cup,” J.T. added. 

“Damn, you really saw your sister win a silver medal in the Olympics, said ‘Hold my beer,’ and won the fucking Stanley Cup. You couldn’t let her outshine you, huh, Seph?” Connor chirped with a grin.

J.T. shrugged. “Nope, couldn’t let her have all the attention.”

Valerie walked over and joined them to say, “I think the Cup just got here, J.”

J.T., his family, and Connor all went outside to get the Cup. J.T. grinned when he pulled it out of its case, and Connor was struck by how shiny it was. 

“Wow,” she breathed.

“You wanna hold it?” J.T. offered.

“I’m allowed to?”

“Absolutely.”

J.T. handed her the Stanley Cup and she gasped a little at how heavy it was. She’d always had the arm strength of a Tyrannosaurus rex, so J.T. helped her hold it over her head while Morgan took their picture. J.T. stood so close to Connor, she could feel his heart pounding. Why was he nervous?

“I think folks are gonna start showing up soon,” Connor said. “So I should get inside. Let me know if you need anything, any of you, okay?” Connor looked at J.T.’s whole family.

“We will.” J.T. wrapped his arms around Connor again, and she returned the sentiment, looking up at him in his arms while he mumbled to her, “I’m damn glad to see you, Duck.”

“I’m damn glad you remember me, Seph. You didn’t get too big for your britches and forget one of your childhood friends.” She thought for a moment, then added, “But you don’t go by Joseph anymore, so I should probably stop calling you ‘Seph,’ huh?”

“Please don’t stop calling me Seph,” he nearly whispered.

“Okay,” Connor whispered back. She stared at his lips and wondered how his beard would feel against her face. He’d shaved it recently, and she was glad; his playoff beard was looking ratty.

“Okay,” J.T. repeated. He was looking down at her, some glint of something in his dark eyes that Connor couldn’t identify. Joy? Guilt? Admiration? She couldn’t figure it out. 

“I’ve gotta go,” she said quickly, but didn’t want to let go.

“I do too,” J.T. sadly agreed. “But I’ll see you later.” He gave her one final squeeze, then released her and disappeared into the rink, leaving Connor alone.

“What the fuck is happening?” Connor muttered to herself, covering her face with her hands. Her heart was pounding, her hands shaking, all for Joseph Compher. All because Joseph Compher remembered her, remembered her nickname and her hot chocolate and her. He remembered her.

“Yo, why are you out here?”

Connor removed her face from her hands to see Corissa walking up to her. She relaxed her body, and sighed, “Corissa.”

Corissa raised an eyebrow at her. “Connor. What is it?”

“He remembered,” Connor whispered. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Corissa said loudly with a big grin.

“He remembered,” she whispered again, almost trying to convince herself that it was still real. “I walked up, and he called me ‘Duck,’ Cori. He brought me hot chocolate with Irish Cream.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Corissa repeated, her grin growing. 

“And Jesse and Morgan kept, like, elbowing each other and smirking at him and stuff. Like I said, ‘Hey Seph,’ and Jesse elbowed Morgan. Like they’d talked about it too,” Connor added.

“Bro,” Corissa said excitedly, “he’s into you! He so is!” 

Connor shrugged. “He's just being nice. We have history.”

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it, then call it history.”

“C’mon, we’ve gotta get inside. People are coming soon,” Connor tried to divert her sister. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” Corissa said as they walked into the rink. 

People began showing up shortly after that, and then Connor began running around like a chicken with her head cut off trying to keep things going smoothly. She hardly saw any of the Comphers, let alone J.T., during the ceremony, during the photo ops, during the whole event. She didn’t even get to see J.T. raise the Cup for the youth teams, including her girls, which made her sad, but she knew there would be video. She ended up back in her office as the event finished, and emerged when everyone had left. 

“Duck,” J.T. said happily when they finally saw each other. “We missed you.”

We? Or I? Connor thought.

“I missed you guys too,” she replied, “but I had about a million little fires to put out. How’d it go?”

“Really good. It was awesome,” J.T. said with a soft smile. “I think the kids loved it.”

“I’m sure, my girls have been talking nonstop about it, and I know I haven’t heard the end of it.” 

“I, uh, I would be happy to come to practice and hang out with them,” J.T. offered. “I’ve gotta go back to Denver for a bit, but I’ll be back. I could probably drag Jesse, too.”

“You’d do that?” asked Connor incredulously. An NHL Player making time to come work with her girls would make them so excited, especially J.T..

“For you, Duck? Anything.” J.T. reached out and put a hand on her arm.

Connor swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her throat, her stomach in knots. God, he’d grown up so well, had such broad shoulders, such nice lips. “Seph,” she mumbled. “Thank you.”

“I owe you an apology, too,” J.T. said, looking at the floor but keeping his hand on her. “For not texting or calling once I left. College got in the way, but that isn’t an excuse.”

“It’s okay, Seph, really—.”

“It’s not, Connor, I ghosted you. You were one of my best friends, you let me on the ice whenever I asked, and then I dipped. And I’m sorry for that.” He licked his lips and looked her in the eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Connor whispered. “I could’ve called, too.”

“It’s not your fault, Duck. Let me make it up to you. Come out with us tonight.” J.T. pushed a strand of curly hair behind Connor’s ear. 

“Seph—.”

“Please?” His eyes were wide and hopeful. 

“I have to run parties tonight.”

“We’ll be out most of the night. Come join us when you’re done.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Connor blurted out suddenly.

J.T. was stunned, blinking at her. “I did,” he said slowly, “but it didn’t work out.”

“Oh.”

“And you don’t have a boyfriend, right?”

Connor’s cheeks burned. “No,” she simply answered, instead of the complicated answer that she usually gave, which was that she’d never dated anyone before. None of them were J.T., none of them came close to him, and even years after they’d stopped talking, she couldn’t help but compare every man to him. 

“Perfect. I’m gonna be honest with you, I’m gonna be smashed, but I’ll have Morg or Jess make sure you get the address of the bar we’re at. Or you can call drunk J.T., but I don’t think you’ll get very much out of him,” J.T. grinned. 

Connor half-smiled back at him. “We’ll see.”

“J!” Valerie Compher called from the door. “We’ve gotta get going!”

“Okay!” J.T. shouted back at his mom, then turned back to Connor. “Please come out with us. You don’t have to drink, I just want to spend time with you. Please.”

“I’ll have to go home and change, but I will.”

“Pinky promise?” J.T. held out his pinky, like he used to when they were kids. 

“Pinky promise,” Connor said, taking his pinky in hers and pressing their thumbs together.

J.T.’s grin returned. “I’ll see you tonight.”

July 15th

Joseph The Idiot (9:43 PM)

whereeeeearrreeeee youuuuuuuuu

you pinky promised you’d come out and you aren’t here yet :(

I’m the saddest ginger boy ever

Joseph The Idiot (9:55 PM)

Duckyyyyyyyyyyyy

I want to see your face

I went too long without your face

And I need it now

Joseph The Idiot (10:01 PM)

Birthday parties are sooooo lameeesee

Come party with me instead

I’m hotter

I’m cooler than birthday kids anyway

And I have the cup

Joseph The Idiot (10:15 PM)

I miss you

Pease come dancr wth me

Joseph The Idiot (10:24 PM)

do u temembre th pRty o took yoh ti

whwre wd olayes 7 munutes in haeven 

Qnd yiu kixxed Alrx Smuth 

I qas sooooiiiiiioooo jeslius 

Connor (10:38 PM)

Oh boy, you’re having fun

It was later than she’d expected she’d be when Connor texted Jesse and Morgan asking what bar they were at. Morgan answered quickly, and Connor hopped in an Uber to meet them at a local rooftop bar.

She walked out onto the roof to see J.T. and several friends chugging beers. He got about halfway through the beer, then poured the rest of it over his head and cheered. The crowd around him cheered, too.

“Ducky!” he hollered, stumbling over to Connor. She caught him as he nearly tripped, and somehow ended up with his hands on her face. 

“Hi,” she greeted him, stifling a laugh.

“‘M sooooo glad you showed up,” J.T. slurred heavily, his wide, blown-out eyes struggling to focus on her, his cheeks tinged with pink. 

“Oh yeah? Have you had any water?”

“Noooo,” J.T. shook his head and shouted. “I don’ need water!”

“Okay, big guy,” Connor chuckled. “Can I come in and get a drink?”

J.T.’s brow furrowed. “Bu’ you don’ drink.”

“It’s your Cup party, Seph, I’m gonna have a drink.”

A big, drunken grin came over his face and he turned over his shoulder and shouted, “DUCKY NEEDS A DRINK!” He wrapped a long, strong arm around Connor’s shoulder and escorted her over to the bar. 

“Con!” Jesse squealed. Connor didn’t think she’d ever hear Jesse’s voice in that octave, but had there been any dogs around, they may have started howling. “You made it!”

“I did!” 

“Ducky needs a drink!” J.T. repeated, more to the bartender than anyone else.

“What can I get you?” the bartender intentionally asked Connor. J.T. wandered off somewhere, and Connor knew she’d catch him in a second.

“Smart woman,” Connor laughed. 

The bartender shrugged and said, “I like to get paid.”

Connor laughed again. “Understandable. I’d like two shots of vodka with Coke, please. And whatever they’ve been pouring into the Cup to drink.”

“Got it.” The bartender began making her drink and asked, “So you’re Ducky?”

“Oh, God,” Connor rolled her eyes and muttered. “What’s he been saying?”

“Every time he’s gotten a drink, he’s told me you’re coming,” the bartender laughed. “Seems like someone’s got a little crush.”

Connor’s face flushed bright red. “We’re just friends,” she insisted. 

“Does he know that? You know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts.” The bartender slid her a bottle of Bud Light and her spiked Coke.

“Thanks,” Connor said sheepishly. “We haven’t seen each other in years, by the way. We were close as kids and in high school, then he went to college and we lost touch.”

“I’m guessing your name isn’t Ducky, right? Where’d that come from?”

“My last name is Maddox, and when he was a kid, he misspelled it M-a-d-d-u-c-k-s. It just stuck.” Connor pulled out a twenty dollar bill and slid it over to her.

“Oh, it’s covered already,” the bartender said, trying to push it back.

“I know,” Connor replied. “That’s for you. I don’t know if any of these dumbasses have tipped you or not.”

The bartender smiled, shoved the twenty in her apron, and said, “I appreciate it very much. You let me know if you need anything else.”

“And you let me know who doesn’t tip. I’ll make sure he tips you enough to make up for it.” Connor picked up her drinks and walked over to J.T., who was hugging the Cup with Morgan. 

“Ducky!” he said in surprise, like he’d forgotten she was there. “I’m soooooo glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Seph,” Connor replied, bemused. “I got this beer just so I could drink it out of the Cup, by the way. Can you help me?”

“Fuck yes!” J.T. yelled. “Morg, help me out.”

J.T. took the beer from Connor, cracked it open, and poured it into the Stanley Cup. He and Morgan carefully picked up the Cup as Connor bent down to one knee. Connor quickly handed Jesse her drink and her phone to take a video, and once Jesse was set and recording, Morgan and J.T. began to pour the beer from the Cup into Connor’s mouth. Connor grabbed the edge of the Cup to steady it, gulping down the frothy, amber liquid. It quickly splashed over her face and down her chest, and Connor was silently thankful she’d worn a romper with a black top. 

The crowd around her cheered as the last drops of beer flew out of the Cup and onto Connor’s face. J.T. and Morgan lifted the Cup up, and placed it back on its pedestal. Connor turned to Jesse, arms up in the air, and cheered as she continued to record. Jesse laughed and handed Connor’s phone and drink back to her. 

Connor suddenly felt herself being lifted into the air. She looked down to see J.T.’s grinning face as he spun her around 

“That was sick!” he exclaimed, putting her back down and wobbling on his own feet. “Oh good, you got a drink.”

Connor gulped down her spiked Coke. “Yeah, something to get the beer taste out of my mouth,” she laughed. 

“Let’s dance, Ducky!” J.T. grabbed her hand and tugged her over to the dance floor. He held both of her hands in his as they began to dance, just swaying and bouncing their bodies to the beat of the rap song playing over the speakers that Connor didn’t know and J.T. pretended to know.

Connor noticed J.T. kept licking his lips and looking at her. She swore he was looking at her lips, but he was so drunk she had no idea. J.T. pulled her in close to his body and Connor turned around to grind her ass on him instead. Why not tease him a bit?

“Oh shit,” J.T. groaned softly.

Connor brought his hands to her hips. He gripped her hard, but it felt nice. Connor had daydreamed about grinding on him at school dances every year in high school, and she wondered how mortified High School Connor would be to see Adult Connor living her dream. 

J.T. nuzzled his nose into Connor’s shoulder and neck. She froze when she felt his lips brush her skin.

“Why’d you stop?” J.T. whined, pulling at her hips.

“Did you kiss my shoulder?” Connor asked, glancing behind her. 

“Yeah,” J.T. shrugged. “I wanna kiss more of you but I can’t.”

Connor’s body went cold and she turned around in his arms, which he wrapped around the small of her back. “What?”

J.T.’s eyes fell to her lips again as he slurred, “I wanna kiss all of you. You look like you wanna leave, please don’ leave. I haven’ seen you in years and now you’re here and I wanna kiss you.”

“Joseph, you’re really drunk, and you’re definitely not gonna remember this in the morning,” Connor said. She put her hands on his chest, but she knew if he tried to kiss her, she would let him. 

“I can’ stop thinkin’ about you,” he said slowly. “I want you all the time. You know I dreamed about you las’ night? I dreamed I saw you and I kissed you and I fucked you in my childhood bedroom with the Cup next to us.”

Connor blushed hard. “Joseph,” she whispered. “We can’t. You’re drunk.”

“Yes, we can,” he said, much too loud. “Do you know how much I liked you as a kid? How when I asked you if I could skate it was just an excuse to be with you? You’re the reason I’m here to begin with!”

“My grandpa is the reason you’re here,” Connor corrected. 

“So? That doesn’ change how long I’ve been in love with you, Duck.” J.T.’s face was soft, eyes wide. 

But it didn’t matter, he was drunk. 

“J.T.,” Connor finally said, taking him aback. “We can’t do this right now.”

“I won’t remember any of this in the morning,” J.T. said somberly. “So just tell me yes or no. Did you like me too?”

“Seph…”

“Yes or no.”

Connor hesitated before she said, “Yes.”

A huge grin spread over J.T.’s face. “Fuck,” he laughed, “I wish I was gonna remember this.”

Connor looked at him, pained, and muttered, “Me too, Seph.”

July 16th

Joseph The Idiot (9:03 AM)

Holy fuck

I’m unbelievably hungover 

You didn’t come out last night :(

Connor (10:12 AM)

Yes I did!

[video]

You were already blacked out by the time I got there?

Joseph The Idiot (10:21 AM)

Shit

My bad

And I’m sorry for anything I said or did

Connor (10:25 AM)

Damn, so you don’t remember we got married last night?

Joseph The Idiot (10:27 AM)

Don’t even joke about that

That’s legally binding

If we got married, I’m fucked

Connor (10:28 AM)

Yeah you are, cause when we get divorced I’ll get half of your money

Joseph The Idiot (10:30 AM)

When? :(

Connor (10:34 AM)

You didn’t take me out to dinner first :/

Joseph The Idiot (10:35 AM)

You got me there

Connor (10:58 AM)

Do you have lunch plans? Wanna grab a bite?

Joseph The Idiot (11:05 AM)

Fuck, I wish I could

I’m about to board a plane back to Denver

I’ll be back in two weeks

Connor (11:12 AM)

Damn, that sucks. Safe travels!

When you come back, how about dropping in on my girls’ practices? Make up for ditching me?

Joseph The Idiot (11:22 AM)

You bet.

Taking off, see you on the flip!

Jesse Compher (12:04 PM)

Hey, can I call you?

Connor’s heart banged in her chest as she read Jesse’s message. Shit, did she remember what happened last night? She cautiously shut her office door and dialed Jesse’s number. 

“Hey!” Jesse answered cheerily.

“Hey,” Connor replied with a small chuckle. “You sound like you feel better than Seph did this morning.”

Jesse laughed back, “Definitely. The miracles of hydrating after drinking.”

“So what’s up?”

“Okay,” Jesse began, “hear me out before you tell me no.”

“Oh, boy.”

“You’ve played hockey your whole life. I’m pretty sure you could still keep up with me if not be quicker than me, and J.T. said he mentioned pro hockey to you. Are you interested?”

Connor was shocked. She sat silently on the other end of the phone for so long that Jesse started calling her name.

“Sorry, I’m here,” Connor finally managed. “You think I’m good enough? I played club hockey in college, but I played with a lot of boys.”

“What time does the rink close tonight? Maybe I could come over and we could skate. I’ll bring you a Red Bull.” Jesse sounded bemused; like her brother, she’d spent most of her childhood at the rink, and though she was two years younger than Connor, they’d still been pretty close. Jesse always brought Connor a Red Bull instead of a hot chocolate, because that was ‘J’s thing.’

“We close at nine. I’d make the excuse that I don’t have my skates, but we both know that’s not true. I’ll see you at nine?” Connor couldn't believe what she was saying. 

“See you at nine,” Jesse replied. As Connor was about to hand up, Jesse added, “Oh, Con? J.T. doesn’t remember last night, but I do.”

Connor’s mouth went dry and she squealed out, “Oh?”

“Tell him. Tell him what he said.”

“I can’t, Jess. It’ll seem like I’m just a gold-digger or something.”

“Sure you can. It doesn’t matter what other people think.”

“I …” Connor trailed off. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll keep reminding you.” Connor could hear the smirk on Jesse’s face.

“I know you will. I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight. Bye!”

“Bye!”

Connor buried her face in her hands. What the fuck had she just agreed to? If she still skated better than Jesse, an Olympian, could she really make it as a pro? Could she leave her girls?

Questions plagued her mind as the day dragged on, until Jesse’s grinning face appeared in her office at exactly 8:30, clutching two Red Bulls and her stick, a backpack on her shoulders. 

“On time is late,” she joked, tossing one Red Bull to Connor. 

Connor tapped the sides and cracked it open. “That’s probably why I haven’t played pro yet. I’m habitually late.”

“Keep telling yourself that. I’m gonna go warm up. I paid the entrance fee for free skate at the front.”

“Jesse!” Connor laughed. “Why?”

“Cause I wanted to,” shrugged Jesse. “It’s the least I can do.”

Connor’s heart warmed. “Thanks, Jess. You mind if I zamb after we skate?”

“Nah, I don’t care. I’ll see you out there.”

Jesse left Connor’s office, and a few moments later, Connor watched her zoom around the free skate stragglers. She watched two little girls—she recognized them as sisters of a couple of her players—stare at Jesse in awe. 

Connor joined Jesse after a bit, clutching her stick and wearing her helmet and gloves in addition to her skates, before Robin made the announcement that they’d be closing in five minutes. She skated out to the center of the ice, waved at the girls who were staring at Jesse, and pushed off on her skates. Skating clockwise, Connor slowly crossed over when she turned, and took big, powerful strides to warm her muscles up. The ice under her was bumpy and rough from the hours of free skate, and she noticed her skates needed sharpening.

Jesse skated up to her, blowing snow when she stopped, to the girls’ amazement. As Robin made the “We’re closed, please leave” announcement, Jesse grabbed a puck and began skating around with it, dangling past imaginary defensemen. Connor took a sip of her water bottle she’d brought with her, then grabbed another puck and passed it to herself off the boards. 

“Okay,” Jesse said once the ice had cleared and everyone had gone home. “First thing’s first. You were always faster than me, so let’s race. Start at the red, go around clockwise, first one back to the red wins.”

“Just like the All-Star fastest skater race?” Connor asked with a grin.

“Exactly.” Jesse grinned back. 

They skated over to the refs’ circle by the score box, but Connor stopped them before they could start. 

“Wait, we should have Robin time us and tell us when to go,” Connor suggested. “I don’t want you cheating to make me feel good about myself.” Jesse nodded, so Connor called Robin over, explained what they needed, and got ready to race. 

“Ready…” Robin said, “set … go!”

Connor leapt forward on her skates. She leaned down as far as she could, her knees bent, flying around the faceoff circles. She quickly crossed her left foot over her right, still gaining speed as she straightened out and skated parallel to the boards. Her lungs burned from the cold and her legs burned, but she continued to push, gaining even more speed on her second turn. She flew past the red line, turned, and stopped at center ice before she flopped down on her back. 

“Holy shit,” Connor gasped and looked at Jesse, who was hunched over and panting herself. 

“You beat me,” Jesse said with a grin. “And I was going faster than full speed. Robin, what was the time?”

“Connor’s was 14.2 seconds,” Robin said. 

“Connor!” Jesse gasped in surprise. “Dude!”

“That means nothing,” retorted Connor. “Speed and skill are two different things.”

“Okay, so challenge me then. Keep me from scoring.”

Connor laughed, “I need like, two more minutes of laying on the ice.”

“But you still beat me,” Jesse said. “Like, I was probably a full second behind you.”

“Like I said, speed doesn’t equal skill.”

“We’ll see.” 

After a few more minutes of laying on the ice, Connor got up, squirted some water into her mouth, and set up in front of Jesse, who had collected several pucks at center ice. 

“Defend me,” she challenged. “I’m gonna try to shoot at the crease basically.”

Connor nodded, then placed her stick on the ice and leaned on it, feeling the flex push back against her. Jesse pushed the puck around with her stick a few times before settling like Connor did, leaning on her stick. Connor nodded at her, and with a grin, Jesse pushed the puck forward. 

Connor skated backwards to keep her eyes on Jesse. She easily kept pace with her friend, driving her to the boards with her stick before she poke checked the puck off Jesse’s stick and off the boards. Jesse whirled around to try and regain control, but Connor had already snatched the puck away from her and skated down to the opposite blue line with it.

Jesse grinned under her cage. “How the fuck did you poke check like that? You’ve gotta teach me.”

“Let’s go again,” Connor insisted, not convinced that Jesse wasn’t taking it easy on her. 

“Whatever you say, Con,” said Jesse. She skated back to center ice, grabbed a new puck, and attempted to take it straight down the middle. Connor raced to meet her between the circles, so Jesse dangled the puck towards Connor to throw her off. Connor wasn’t phased by her attempt, however, and kicked the puck off Jesse’s stick, then took control of it and brought it back to center ice. 

“It’s because there’s not a goal to shoot on,” Connor said. She clambered over the edge of the ice to the area where they kept their goals, grabbed one, and lowered it down onto the ice. Jesse took it and skated it over to the crease while Connor carefully climbed back onto the ice. 

“Now there’s a goal,” Jesse said, skating to center ice, “so let’s go again?”

Again and again, Connor defended Jesse, stealing the puck in every way imaginable, until Jesse’s grin melted into a touch of frustration. Jesse finally fired off a slapshot that Connor couldn’t stop, so it went sailing into the net and Jesse yelped out a strangled cheer. 

“Fucking finally,” she muttered. “You wanna switch? You shoot and I’ll defend?”

“Yeah, sure! You’re gonna crush me though, I’m not a great offensive defenseman,” Connor shrugged. 

“Connor, I’m telling you this because we’ve been friends a long time, and even though we haven’t chatted in a while, I still consider you a close friend so listen to me: Shut the fuck up.”

Connor blushed. 

“You’re doing incredible,” Jesse continued. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to keep your edges so well, but I firmly believe you could sign a pro contract right now.”

Connor’s blush deepened. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll try. Register as a free agent with the PHF, and they’ll contact you. If you wanna wait til you show up J.T. too, that’s fine, but just tell me you’ll give it a shot,” pleaded Jesse. 

“I don’t think I can leave the rink,” Connor said softly. “They need me here.”

“Cross that bridge when you come to it. Just see if a team will give you a try out.”

Connor chewed on her lip, thinking. Finally, she said, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Jesse asked excitedly. “You’re not fucking with me?”

“No,” Connor responded as a grin spread across her face. “I’m not. I’ll give it a shot.”

“Fuck yes!” Jesse cheered, skating towards Connor and throwing her arms around her. “You’re gonna be great, I promise. Now, you just have to tell J.T. what he said last night.”

“Ha, absolutely not,” Connor chuckled. “He can confess his love to me sober.”

July 17th

Joseph The Idiot (10:48 AM)

Jesse told me about your practice session

Connor (10:49 AM)

Of course she did 😂

Joseph The Idiot (10:53 AM)

Are you gonna do it? 

Connor (10:55 AM)

I’m going to try. I’m filling out the free agent registration right now

[image of Connor’s computer]

Joseph The Idiot (10:59 AM)

Fuck yeah

Jesse would know more people than I do, but I’m gonna ask around about the process, too

Connor (11:00 AM)

Thank you Seph 🥹

Joseph The Idiot (11:04 AM)

Anything for you!

July 19th

Joseph The Idiot (1:31 PM)

I’m coming back to NB on the 27th!

How about that lunch? 

Connor (1:36 PM)

What day?

Joseph The Idiot (1:39 PM)

The 28th at Max & Benny’s?

Connor (1:41 PM)

Perfect!

Joseph The Idiot (1:44 PM)

When do you have practice with your kids?

Connor (2:03 PM)

Every day. M/W is U12s and U16s, T/Th is U14s/U19s, Friday is everyone, Saturday is class for the babies. Weekday training starts at 10 am, Saturday starts at 9

Joseph The Idiot (2:05 PM)

Damn

You’ve got them practicing a lot, huh?

Connor (2:06 PM)

Well it’s summer so they don’t have school, and they love it honestly

Joseph The Idiot (2:07 PM)

I’d love it too if I was their age

Which practices do you want me to come to?

Connor (2:10 PM) 

All of them? They would all benefit from it

Joseph The Idiot (2:17 PM)

I’ll only deal with the young kids for you

Just for you

Connor (2:20 PM)

If you kill one of my kids I’ll kill you and replace you with Jesse

Joseph The Idiot (2:26 PM)

She did always want to be J.T. Jr

July 22nd

Joseph The Idiot (11:27 PM)

Di yoh thjnk pigs ciuls gly if rhey tries hqrd enougt 

Connor (11:29 PM)

Drinking again are we?

Joseph The Idiot (11:35 PM)

Nooooooiiiiioooooo

I muss yiu

Connor (11:36 PM)

You’ll see me next week seph 

Joseph The Idiot (11:38 PM)

Nor sooon enoygh 

Inwanna kisss tou ao basd 

Connor (11:43 PM)

They really should take your phone when you’re drunk

Joseph The Idiot (11:47 PM)

Noooiooi thry csnt I’m a chsmpiun!

Connor (11:50 PM)

You are a champion

Drink some water seph 

July 23rd

Joseph The Idiot (12:00 AM)

Hsppu nrw yaer!!!!!

Connor (12:04 AM)

Seph 😂 It’s July

Joseph The Idiot (12:06 AM)

NI ITWS NOIT

Connor (12:10 AM)

Goodnight Seph, I’m going to bed 

Joseph The Idiot (12:17 AM) 

NNOOOOOOOIP

Cime bafk 

I lovr yiu 

NI i donr i hqte yiu

Ik kudt kuddinh 

I lpre yoh 

Joseph The Idiot (1:14 AM)

Qusck qusfk 

Her ut 

Cahse gour nwme is duck

hehehewhee

Joseph The Idiot (2:16 AM)

Ih nu my ecx id here

Noooooiiioooooo gp awsy 

Stipid wx 

Joseph The Idiot (3:43 AM)

Hehe i ficked my ex

Bur i qas thijkimg sbout yoh 

Joseph The Idiot (8:59 AM)

Jesus Christ

I’m so sorry, Connor

Connor was fuming. What was J.T.’s deal? He’d led her on as a kid, then waltzed back into her life like it was nothing. She angrily called Jesse later in the day.

“Jesse, I’m going to murder him,” Connor growled. 

“Okay, totally valid,” Jesse agreed. “He’s being an ass about this whole thing, but what he told me was that now that he won the Cup, he realized that he was only missing one thing, and that was you.”

“He did not say that.”

“He did. I have proof.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hang on.”

Connor heard rustling, then felt her phone buzz. “What did you send me?” She questioned Jesse. 

“Evidence.”

Connor pulled her phone away from her ear, put it on speaker, then looked at the screenshots Jesse sent her. 

July 17th

Jesse (5:01 PM)

What’s up?

J.T. (5:17 PM)

I think I’m in love with Connor

Like i have been since we were kids

And seeing her the other day just made everything come rushing back

Jesse (5:29 PM)

Why now?

J.T. (5:32 PM)

When we won the cup I realized that all I wanted to do was share it with her

Even though I hadn’t seen her in years

And I fucked it up when I ghosted her

But when I saw her and she looked at me like that? 

I knew she was the only thing I was missing

I had the cup

And I needed to work to get her back

It’s her, Jess

It’s always been Connor

Connor’s face burned as she read the messages. If he felt this strongly, why hadn’t he said something yet? She supposed he had, but she’d written it off as drunken ramblings. She was terrified of the idea of him actually reciprocating her feelings; being rejected was one thing, but being liked back was almost scarier. 

“Con? You there?”

Connor was startled, having forgotten she was on the phone, and replied, “What?”

“I asked what you thought of his messages.”

“Oh. They terrify me.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ve never had a boyfriend, Jess. So the idea of him liking me back is so scary, because I’ve felt the same way about him since I can remember. I legitimately remember meeting him on the ice and asking him to be my friend. I realized I liked him when I was like, seven. My grandpa—,” Connor’s voice caught. She cleared it, then continued, “My grandpa used to tell me J.T. was going to win a Stanley Cup. And I used to tell him that he was going to marry me first.”

“I remember when I realized you liked him. You came over for a sleepover when you were like, twelve probably. My parents made him watch a movie with us and he was so mad, but you kept looking at him the whole time,” Jesse laughed. “I was so confused, because I was sitting there like, ‘Out of all the guys we know, you picked my brother?’ I idolized him, but you liked him. It was so weird to me.”

“Is it weird now?”

“Nah. You’re soulmates. Just remember we had this conversation and share it at your wedding, okay? That I set you guys up.” Connor could hear the grin in Jesse’s voice. 

“Whatever,” Connor said back, a grin plastered on her own face. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay, Love Bird,” teased Jesse. “Bye.”

Connor shifted on her skates as she waited for J.T. and the rest of her girls to join her. Jesse was already on the ice, skating around with some of the girls. J.T. came out finally, his helmet and visor shoved messily on his finger hair, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy blue Avs pullover.

“Hi,” he said with a grin, bumping her with his hip. 

“Hi,” Connor replied. “How was Denver?”

“It was great, but I’m glad to be back. I missed you.”

Connor smiled softly. “I missed you too. Are you ready?”

J.T. replied, “Let’s do it.”

Connor blew her whistle to have the girls and the other coaches gather around. The girls knelt on the ice in front of them, the coaches gathering next to Connor, J.T., and Jesse. 

“Good morning, ladies,” Connor greeted. “I want to take a quick second and introduce some special guests who will be helping us during practice today. They were both just like you guys, skating here, and now they’ve done some pretty cool things. This is Jesse Compher—,” Connor motioned to Jesse—“and she was a member of the US Women’s Hockey team that just played in the Olympics in China. She got a silver medal, which is pretty dope, right?”

“Right!” the girls cheered. 

“And believe it or not, this is Jesse’s brother, J.T.. J.T. plays in the NHL and just won the Stanley Cup for the Colorado Avalanche. So they both know hockey pretty well. If they ask you a question, or tell you to do something a certain way, they know what they’re doing. Any questions?”

The girls looked around at each other before another coach said, “Alright, let’s split up like normal!” 

The coaches and players split off, the older girls on one side of the red line, the younger girls on the other, and Connor skated over to be with the older girls, her U19s. Another coach started them off in a skating drill while J.T., Jesse, and Connor watched the girls, giving them pointers on how to improve their strides. Connor made sure to point out the girls she thought had college or pro potential to Jesse.

J.T. then began skating the drills with the girls. Connor gazed at him talking to the girls in line, pointing things out to them as their teammates skated, laughing with them and hanging out with them. Connor had always thought he’d make a good coach, but seeing the way he interacted with her kids confirmed that.

They moved onto a couple more drills, which J.T. participated in with the team. Jesse joined him, going out of her way to talk to some of the girls Connor had mentioned as she skated with them. 

Eventually, they started a scrimmage, J.T. on one team, Jesse on the other. Seeing them reminded Connor of when they were kids, when nothing mattered except playing hockey, when she wasn’t aware she was in love with J.T. and that he was in love with her. J.T. skated like he was having the time of his life, too; he had a huge grin every time he took the ice, every time one of the girls stopped his attempts.

Practice ended at noon, but J.T. and Jesse hung around on the ice to take pictures, answer questions, and just spend time with the girls. Connor had to physically kick them off the ice so Robin could run the Zamboni, but the Comphers continued to talk to Connor’s kids. When the last girl left to go get undressed, J.T. finally plopped down next to Connor on the bench in front of her office window, with a wide grin on his face. 

“Hi,” he said happily. 

“Hiya. You’re happy,” she teased. 

“That was way more fun than I expected, to be honest. Those kids had great questions, they’re funny, and God, some of them can skate.”

“That’s why I wanted you to come,” Connor said, laying her head on J.T.’s arm. “They work so hard, too. I’m just so proud of them.”

“You should be. Cassie over there? That I was talking to? She’s gonna be a Jesse. Her hockey sense is just off the charts. And Lucy too? I was so impressed.” J.T. took off his helmet and began untying his skates. 

“Yeah,” Connor agreed, smiling at the ground. “Yeah, they’re gonna be stars. I’ve trained them since they were little. Cassie’s going to Minnesota, Lucy’s still deciding, but her top choice right now is Michigan.”

“And you didn’t tell me before?” J.T. asked incredulously. 

Connor smirked. “I didn’t want you influencing her. She needs to decide on her own, Seph.”

“I would never try to influence her to go to the greatest school in the world,” J.T. said proudly. 

Rolling her eyes, Connor said, “Whatever. Some of us actually finished college.”

J.T. shoved Connor playfully. “I was gonna buy lunch, but with that blow maybe we’ll split the check.”

“You’d make me pay for my own food?” Connor asked, giving J.T. puppy eyes. “Is chivalry dead?”

“You’re incorrigible,” laughed J.T.. “Hurry up, I’m starving.”

“Me too.” Connor quickly tugged her skates off and padded into her office to slip on her sneakers and drop off her skates. She rejoined J.T. in front of her office, and the two of them walked out of the rink together. 

“Jesse drove me,” J.T. said, “so can I catch a ride with you?”

“No. You can walk.”

J.T. made a face and reached for Connor’s passenger side door anyway. “Funny.”

Connor smirked and climbed in the car with J.T.. They quietly drove to Max & Benny’s, then got a table in the corner. J.T. sat with his back to the door, his attention fully on Connor. He gazed at her, some glint in his deep brown eyes. 

“I’m getting a milkshake before lunch,” Connor said to break his gaze. 

“Life’s too short to not have dessert first,” J.T. chuckled, quoting Connor’s signature phrase from high school. 

The waiter came over to take their drink orders, but J.T. and Connor had been there so often that they knew what they wanted. J.T. ordered a water and a double cheeseburger with everything on it, fries and broccoli on the side. Connor ordered a chocolate milkshake and a BLT with fries. The waiter left, returned after a moment with two waters, and left them alone again.

“So,” J.T. said, “how was everything while I was in Denver?”

“I’m in love with you, Joseph,” Connor blurted out. 

J.T. blinked. “Pardon?”

Connor took a deep breath, then said, “I’m in love with you. I have been since we were kids, before I even knew what it meant to be in love with someone. You kept drunk texting me and I didn’t want to believe that you felt the same way, but now I just—I just can’t convince myself anymore. I love you.”

J.T. sat quietly. He swallowed hard, he licked his lips anxiously. He looked around, his leg shaking. He was trying to think of what to say, and the longer the silence loomed, the more Connor wanted to run away. 

“Every morning,” J.T. finally said, his voice cracking a bit. “Every morning, I wake up and think of you. Every night when I go to sleep, I think of you. When I lifted the Cup, all I wanted in the world was for you to be there with me. It’s like I finally allowed myself to feel it, you know? I’m so in love with you, Connor Maddox, and I don’t want to go another day without you.”

Connor stared at him until they both cracked and grinned at each other. “Why the fuck did we wait this long to tell each other?” she laughed.

“Great fucking question,” J.T. laughed back. “I want to kiss you so bad but I think we’d get kicked out.”

“Why?”

J.T. smirked. “Because I don’t just want to kiss you.”

“Oh.” Connor didn’t have a witty comeback; the thoughts and wonders of what J.T. wanted to do to her consumed her brain.

“Our food better get here fast,” J.T. said, turning to look at the kitchen impatiently. Under the table, he moved his foot so it was against Connor’s, lightly rubbing against it. 

“Wow, playing footsie, Seph? What are we, fourteen?” Connor chirped.

“Listen,” J.T. said loudly, then looked around before he continued in a hushed voice, barely audible. “The second I get you alone, I’m gonna wreck you.”

“How do you know I wanna be wrecked?” Connor’s voice wavered as she tried to tease him.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you want me to wreck you?”

Connor’s face went bright red at the thought. She licked her lips and answered, “Maybe.”

“You’re blushing,” J.T. observed.

“And?”

“When you say maybe, it means yes, you just don’t want to say yes. You’ve done that forever, Duck. But I need to hear you say ‘yes.’” 

“I’m…” Connor trailed off and looked down.

“What?” J.T. asked, reaching for her hands comfortingly. “You can say no, that’s perfectly fine. We’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer.”

“No, it’s not that, I just, um, have never had a boyfriend before so I don’t know how this all works. And technically, I’ve never had sex with another person, but like, I take care of myself.” Connor’s face flushed even more.

“There’s not a certain way that it works, really, it’s up to us,” J.T. said softly. He rubbed his thumb over Connor’s knuckles. “Do … Do you want me to be your boyfriend? I’d say we’re moving quickly, but considering the fact that we’ve been pining over each other our whole lives, I think we’re fine.”

“Seph, I want that more than anything,” Connor breathed. 

“Excellent,” J.T. said with a huge grin. “I’ll get you flowers and romantic shit later, girlfriend.”

“Please don’t call me ‘girlfriend’ like that,” laughed Connor. 

J.T. agreed, “Yeah, I didn’t like that either.”

Their waiter reappeared with their meals and Connor’s shake. The two of them ate quickly, not talking, just wanting to get out of the restaurant and go somewhere alone. J.T. paid for their food, then, tightly clutching Connor’s hand, led her out to her car. 

They quickly clambered into Connor’s car. J.T. kept a firm hand on her thigh and Connor began to drive, with no idea where she was going, thoughts racing. She didn’t know if her sister was home, since she was a teacher and it was summer vacation, and she eventually found an empty parking lot. She threw the car into park, turned it off, and nearly threw herself across the center console into J.T.’s lap, straddling him. 

J.T. grabbed her hips to help her over, then let his hands drift down slightly to grip her ass. Connor stared at him for a moment, not moving, not kissing him, just staring into his dark brown eyes. She brought her hands to his face and dragged her fingertips delicately across his stubble. 

“You shaved,” Connor commented.

“You told me my playoff beard looked terrible,” J.T. laughed. “You told me it was too long and that you liked stubble like this.”

Connor furrowed her brow. “Did I? When did I say that?” 

“When we were drunk on the roof on my Cup day.”

“I thought you didn’t remember that I showed up.”

“I lied,” J.T. shrugged. “I remember everything. The way you danced on me, everything I told you, all of it. You were freaked out, so I pretended I didn’t remember.”

“You could’ve just told me it was the truth,” Connor teased. 

“And be vulnerable? Nah.”

Connor laughed, then gasped slightly when she felt J.T. shift under her, sending a small bump of pleasure through her. She put her hands on his chest to try and halt him, but he grinned and rolled his hips into hers, slowly and intentionally.

“Asshole,” Connor groaned. “You haven’t even kissed me yet and you’re sitting there teasing me like that?”

J.T. didn’t answer; instead, he gripped her ass, pulling her down while he rolled his hips again, increasing the friction and pressure against her core. She closed her eyes as the pleasure washed over her. 

“Joseph,” said Connor desperately. “Joseph, I’m so close already, you have to stop.”

“You’re about to come already?” he mocked. “I’ve barely touched you.”

“Shut up and fucking kiss me, you dick,” Connor commanded. She leaned in and fiercely pressed her lips against hers, pressing into his body eagerly. J.T. chuckled against her mouth before giving into her and softly parting his lips. His tongue darted out to brush against Connor’s lips. 

Connor pulled back, gasping for air. She’d forgotten how to breathe, how to speak, how to function.

“Are you okay?” J.T. asked. “We can stop if this is too much.”

“Please don’t stop,” Connor whispered. “I just forgot to breathe.”

“Breathing is pretty important,” J.T. laughed, licking his lips and grinning slyly.

Connor knew what he was about to do and warned, “Joseph, don’t you d—.”

J.T. held tightly to Connor’s ass as he rolled his hips up into Connor’s core. Connor clenched around nothing, once again dangerously close to coming. 

“Fuck!” Connor yelped.

“I wanna make you come,” J.T. whined, bucking his hips up again. 

“This is how you wanna make me come for the first time? Dry humping like teenagers?” Connor asked incredulously. 

“Mmm-hmm,” he responded. “Please?”

“If you promise to do better later.”

J.T. cocked his eyebrow. “Later?”

“Yeah, later, when I kick my sister out so we can properly fuck,” Connor said. 

“So,” J.T. tugged her in close, nipping at her lips. “How do you want me to make you come later?”

Connor breathed out a moan when J.T. began kissing down her neck. “Um…”

“I’m listening,” J.T. mumbled against her. He softly bit her neck and sucked the skin between his teeth.

“No hickies,” she said quickly. “We aren’t teenagers.”

“Mmm, but here we are, dry humping in my car like we’re sixteen,” teased J.T.. He bucked his hips up into hers again and she jumped as he said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Um,” Connor gasped, “I want you to make me come with your mouth.”

“Keep going.”

Connor rolled her hips, her mouth falling open a tiny bit as she dragged herself across J.T.’s hardening cock. His breath caught as she did, and her thoughts went fuzzy at the sound. He was moaning like that because of her. 

“I,” Connor breathed and continued rolling her hips, establishing a slow rhythm that ground into him as much as she could. “I wanna feel your stubble between my thighs.”

“My tongue on your clit,” he whispered. His grip tightened on her ass and she felt dizzy. 

“Fuck,” squeaked Connor. She could feel her orgasm building again quickly. 

J.T. lazily mouthed at her neck, driving the pace of her grinding with his hands and matching it with the rolling of his hips. “Bet you taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbled.

Connor clenched her thighs tightly over him and moaned, “Oh fuck, J.T., I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah? I wanna feel you clench your thighs like that around my face,” J.T. continued, dragging his mouth across her neck, searching for her lips. “Wanna slide my tongue all around your pussy while you—”

“Shit, I’m coming,” Connor groaned as a soft orgasm washed through her, leaving her feeling cold. She clenched around nothing, but kept grinding against J.T. until she was too sensitive to continue and twitched to a stop with a small gasp. 

“No, fuck, don’t stop,” J.T. grunted desperately. “I’m so close too, holy shit.”

Connor carefully re-established her previous pace, grinding on J.T.. His hands froze when Connor captured his lips in hers and placed open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

“Come for me, J.T.,” Connor muttered into his skin. 

“Oh my god,” yelped J.T.. Connor felt his dick twitch, then a small wet spot slowly appeared through his gray sweatpants. 

“Oops,” Connor giggled. She softly pressed the wet spot and J.T. jumped. 

“Fuck!” he gasped in surprise, then laughed. “Oh, God, I do feel like a teenager.”

“You came in your pants dry humping in a car.”

“So did you!” J.T. protested.

“Yeah, but no one will know that I did.” Connor smirked. 

J.T. rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Drive somewhere soon, please, because if I don’t get my mouth on you in the next twenty minutes, I’m gonna put you on the trunk of your car and fuck you with my tongue in front of anyone and everyone who’s around.”

 The call came a few weeks after Connor registered as a free agent with the PHF. 

“Hello?” Connor answered the unknown number. 

“Hi, is this Connor Maddox?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“Hi, Connor, this is Ronda Engelhardt. I’m the head coach of the Minnesota Whitecaps. How are you today?”

Holy fuck. 

“Hi, uh, I’m, uh, I’m great.”

“That’s good to hear. I saw that you registered as a free agent with the league, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in coming to a tryout day with us,” Ronda explained. “Your history is different than what we’re used to, but I’ve heard some really good things about you.”

“From who?” Connor smiled, knowing the answer already.

“Jesse Compher from the US National Team. She gave me a call and recommended you.”

Connor’s smile widened. “I figured. I’ve known Jesse our whole lives.”

“She credited you with being the reason she made the Olympics and the reason her brother just won a Stanley Cup. That’s high praise, and I don’t take that lightly, which is why we’d love to fly you up to St. Paul. How does that sound to you?”

“I would love that,” Connor said, “I just have a couple questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course! Ask away!”

“I currently manage a rink myself, and I understand that most of the ladies have to have extra jobs to supplement their income. Is that something that I would be able to continue doing?”

“I think we could make that work for you, Connor.”

The next day, Connor found herself on a flight to St. Paul. As she waited in the airport, she nervously texted J.T.. 

Connor (8:32 AM)

Seph I’m terrified

Joseph The Idiot (8:33 AM)

You’re gonna be fine

You just go and be yourself

They already like you

Connor (8:35 AM)

They like what they saw on paper and what Jesse told them, not me

Joseph The Idiot (8:38 AM)

Which is why you’re going to meet them

And play for them

Chemistry is more important than skill

Connor (8:40 AM)

But what if all the girls hate me?

Joseph The Idiot (8:42 AM)

That’s impossible 

Since I personally know at least one of them, I can guarantee at least one of them won’t hate you

Taylor Turnquist

Connor (8:45 AM)

So that’s one

Joseph The Idiot (8:46 AM)

Which means it’s impossible for all the girls to hate you

Connor (8:47 AM)

Asshole

Joseph The Idiot (8:48 AM)

A correct asshole

Connor (8:50 AM)

I’m boarding, love you seph

Joseph The Idiot (8:51 AM)

Love you too duck

Safe travels

Connor (10:23 AM)

Landed!

Joseph The Idiot (10:26 AM)

Good!

Did they get a car for you?

Connor (10:28 AM)

Supposedly

Joseph The Idiot (10:31 AM)

Let me know if they didn’t okay?

Connor (10:33 AM)

If they did, do you not wanna know? 

Joseph The Idiot (10:34 AM)

I walked into that one didn’t I

Let me know when you’re safe

Connor (10:46 AM)

I have a car! The driver had a sign! I’m on my way to the arena

Joseph The Idiot (10:49 AM)

Send pics!

Connor (11:02 AM)

Just got to the arena! They’re giving me a tour first

We’re in the locker room and they already have a locker with my name on it? And a jersey and gear? I haven’t even skated yet

Okay now I’m gonna skate with Ronda

Joseph The Idiot (12:00 PM)

How goes it?

Connor (12:04 PM)

Just got off the ice! Ronda’s awesome and I think they’re going to offer me

Joseph The Idiot (12:07 PM)

SERIOUSLY?

Connor (12:25 PM)

I just signed a contract Seph

Joseph The Idiot (12:26 PM)

Oh my fucking god

I’m so fucking proud of you

I love you so much

I cant wait to see you play

What number are you?

I need to buy a jersey

Think you can hook me up?

I’m so proud of you duck holy shit

Connor skated out onto the ice as her name was called by the announcer, clad in her Whitecaps jersey. She looked up into the stands and grinned up at J.T., who’d flown over for the game specifically: her first game. He sat next to Tyson Jost, and grinned down at her when he made eye contact with her. He blew her a kiss, which she caught, and Tyson gagged. J.T. shoved him. 

The game went by faster than any of her games ever had, and before she knew it, she was showering in the locker room after the game. She quickly redressed in her game-day outfit, then walked out of the locker room. Connor was greeted by a huge hug from J.T.. 

“You did it!” he cheered, swinging her around and kissing her face. “I’m so proud of you!”

“I wouldn’t have done it without you, honestly,” Connor said. “You mentioned it to me and put it in my head, and now here I am.”

“You’re a professional hockey player, Duck.”

“So are you, Seph.”

“You’re better,” J.T. retorted. 

“You make more money. And you won the Stanley Cup.”

J.T. chuckled and let her down on the ground, kissing her forehead. “Whatever, you still did it.”

“I know something else I’d like to do,” Connor said slyly, smirking at her boyfriend.

J.T. grinned at her. “Then let’s get out of here.” 

#jt compher #j.t. compher #jt compher imagine #jt compher smut #jt compher writing #j.t. compher imagine #colorado avalanche #colorado avalanche writing #nhl #hockey #nhl smut #hockey smut #hockey writing #nhl writing #jt compher x original character #jt compher x oc

[powermakar]

Powermakar's master list

PLEASE DO NOT STEAL/REPOST MY WORK ANYWHERE.

! = smut

NHL/UMICH HOCKEY

Owen power

The Art of Secret Keeping: Part one Part two Part three! Part four

Keep Your Glasses On !

You Don't Need Your Glasses for This !

I love you, for you

Just not enough

5>1

In Sickness and Health

Ethan Edwards

Paybacks

Don't Say Goodbye

Brace for Impact

Luke Hughes

My Best Friend's Brother !

I'm Not Falling for That Trick

She's Busy

Nick Blankenburg

So Care for a Dance?

Kent Johnson

5>1

Jt Compher

Take a Picture !

F1

Oscar Piastri

New Sheets

Dating him

Logan Sargeant

Slut! (3+1)

This is me Trying

#hockey #owen power #umich hockey #umich wolverines #buffalo sabres #ice hockey #national hockey league #owen power imagine #ethan edwards imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl players #nhl hockey #new jersey devils #buffalo sabers #owen power smut #owen power blurb #owen power x reader #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl #nhl smut #jt compher fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #f1 #logan sargeant imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri f1 #oscar piastri fanfic

[wyattjohnston]

and just like that, the exchange has come to an end! thank you to everybody who participated—all 43 people!

if you take the time to read these fics, take the extra minute to reblog it and let the writer know how much you enjoyed it. the only way to spread things on tumblr is to reblog them. likes don't get the word out there!

please respect all warnings at the beginning of fics. if a fic has been marked as smut or 18+ and you are younger than, do the right thing and do not read it.

keep your eye out for the summer fic exchange 2k23 sign up post. if you want me to let you know when it's happening you can click here.

the winter fic exchange 2k23 masterlist

Buffalo Sabres

Tyson Jost

- A Christmas 3+1 by @2manytabsopen for @ bqstqnbruin

- cooler by @jostystyles for @ butgilinsky

- it's always the boy next door by @ya-pucking-nerd for @ ilyasorokin

- Slowly, Then All at Once by @color-offside-the-lines for @ jostystyles

Carolina Hurricanes

Andrei Svechnikov

- All I've Tried to Hide by @laurenairay for @ hoesforthecanes

- The Myster of Love by @comphy-and-cozy for @ idontgiveaflyinggrayson69

Colorado Avalanche

Cale Makar

- i love you, grumpy by @nylwnder for @ gravestrain

- tell me you want it a thousand miles away from the day that we started by @fallinallincurls for @ hockeylvr59

- Unexpected Love by @buttercupjosh for @ wildrangers

JT Compher

- this song is about you by @torontoflames for @ comphy-and-cozy

Nathan Mackinnon

- I Got You by @hockeylvr59 for @ raysofcrosby

- The Problem with Maddie by @luvsherleafs for @ fallinallincurls

- you always did feel just like home by @wyattjohnston for @ blueskrugs

Minnesota Wild

Kirill Kaprizov

- Christmas With You by @raysofcrosby for @ callsign-denmark

Montreal Canadiens

Josh Anderson

- promise this won’t change a thing by @matthewtkachuk for @ luvsherleafs

Juraj Slavkovksy

- second times the charm by @ilyasorokinn for @ lam-ila

New Jersey Devils

Jack Hughes

- sweet nothing by @gravestrain for @ quinnshuggy

Nico Hischier

- be my fire in the cold by @tinyhockey for @ lifeofpriya

New York Islanders

Anders Lee

- Welcome Home by @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69 for @ barzysunflower

Anthony Beauvillier

- holiday cards by @fear-of-flyers for @ buttercupjosh

- It Was Real For Me by @lam-ila for @ sorryjustafangirl

- tell me that you'll open your eyes by @liquidflyer for @ 2manytabsopen

Mat Barzal

- comin' home to you by @quinnshuggy for @ color-offside-the-lines

- Last Christmas by @bitchinbarzal for @ liquidflyer

- New Year's Surprise by @barzysunflower for @ bitchingbarzal

- Sparks Fly by @hoesforthecanes for @ tinyhockey

Seattle Kraken

Andre Burakovsky

- They Shoot Websters, Don't They? by @bqstqnbruin for @ laurenairay

Jamie Oleksiak

- i won't say (i'm in love) by @barkbarkbeauvillier for @ jxmieoleksiaks

- seizing the moment by @butgilinsky for @ typical-simplelove

- the untitled date day by @jxmieoleksiaks for @ barkbarkbeauvillier

- Untitled by @selfindulgentpoorlywritten by @ tippedbykreider

St Louis Blues

Colton Parayko

- something just like this by @tippedbykreider for @ senditcolton

Toronto Maple Leafs

Mitch Marner

- won't you stay til the a.m? by @senditcolton for @ fear-of-flyers

Morgan Rielly

- babe for the weekend by @sorryjustafangirl for @ broadstbroskis

William Nylander

- choosing you by @broadstbroskis for @ nylwnder

Vancouver Canucks

Brock Boeser

- fools rush in by @pcttymcrlecu for @ torontoflames

Elias Pettersson

- here comes your man by @thomasschabot for @ selfindulgentpoorlywritten

- Home by @wildrangers for @ thomasschabot

- Nervous by @typical-simplelove for @ ya-pucking-nerd

Quinn Hughes

- More than a Memory by @blueskrugs for @ matthewtkachuk

- What the Heart Wants by @lifeofpriya for @ pcttymarleau

Washington Capitals

TJ Oshie

- What We Had by @callsign-denmark for @ cellythefloshie

Winnipeg Jets

Adam Lowry

- Last Christmas by @cellythefloshie for @ wyattjohnston

if you wrote a fic and the person you wrote it for did not reblog it, tell me! if you know you haven't reblogged the fic written for you (and left some nice comments!), please go do that now.

ANONYMOUS EXCHANGE FEEDBACK

#the winter fic exchange 2k23 #exchange masterlist #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #hockey fic

[tonyspep]

hi! it’s your winter fic exchange anon here! :)

i wanted to touch base with you before i begin writing!

1. Do you have a particular player you'd like me to write about from your list, or are you open to any of them? Is there one player you're particularly interested in at the moment? Here’s your list of players as a refresher (Erik Johnson, Tyson Jost, JT Compher, Nathan Mackinnon, Auston Matthews, Mitch Marner, Tyler Seguin)

2. You mentioned that you’re interested in fluff, smut (18+ only), alternate universe, reader insert or oc. I'd love to know if you have a particular preference for any of these six options. If you're interested in an alternate universe, is there a specific one that you'd enjoy?

3. What pronouns do you prefer for the fic?

4. Would you prefer your fic to have a holiday theme or not?

5. Are there any topics that you prefer NOT to be in your fic?

6. Is there anything I didn't ask about that you think is important for me to know?

i’m so so so excited to write for you and i can’t wait to see your answers!!

Hi!!! This is so cool!!! I'm so happy that you're excited to write for me!!! I can't wait to start my own fic and to read the one you're writing for me. I know I'll love it. The player I would like you to write for is Auston Matthews. The fic can totally have a holiday theme and if you can write it as friends to lovers, that would be great. The pronouns you can use are she/her and if you want to do it with an original character that's fine, but a reader insert works, too. However it flows for you, I'll be fine with either one.

Thank you so much for reaching out and for writing this fic for me!!! Have a wonderful holiday season 💚🤍❤️💙🩷💗💓💘💕🎄🌲🎁🎅

#winter fic exchange #hockey rpf #fanfiction #how do you say 💌 💘 💝 💖 💗 💓 💌 💘 💝 💖 💗 💓 out loud #nice things #text post<3 #writing