#lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

(sugar, we’re) going down swinging - miro heiskanen (part i)

Pairing: Miro Heiskanen/Reader; Reader is Tyler Seguin’s sister

Mentions: Tyler Seguin, (brief mentions of) Jamie Benn, Roope Hintz

Warnings: Mentions of past underaged drinking, sexual connotations, cursing

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: Miro Heiskanen has a sweet tooth. TSeg’s sister has a coffeeshop and a knack for putting new twists on familiar recipes. 

The writer has previously made a promise for a fake dating trope, but that’s coming in the next part. In this part, pls enjoy the coffeeshope trope, because we’re seeing how many tropes this baby can fit. 

--------------------

"Iced mocha for Tyler Seguin," you call out to the half-full coffeeshop, mostly because you know it would piss him off. 

 It works, too - Ty only wants attention when he feels like it, and the dumbass is way too used to getting exactly what he wants - and you grin as you watch Miro Heiskanen make his way over to you at the counter, while big brother glares at you from the table they'd claimed in the far corner. 

 He's wearing a pair of sunglasses indoors like the douche that he truly is, but still. You don't need to see his eyes to know that he's glaring. He's either trying to go incognito or trying to survive a hangover, and he's never fun while doing either things. 

 So you focus on Miro instead, and you focus on annoying him. The kid really is too sweet for his own good. You'd practically be doing him a favour, if you get him to lose his cool for even a moment or two. 

 "Baby, you're not a rookie anymore," you coo at him as he gets closer, mostly because you know it would make him blush, and that works, too. He makes no move to take his hands out of his pockets, though, and you wonder idly how he plans on bringing the coffee back over for Ty. 

 "You don't have to keep letting my brother boss you around," you tell him after a pause, only-half to remind him that he should maybe get to it now that he's already given in, and he gives a shrug - which is probably about as expressive a reaction as he's physically capable of. 

 "Kinda do, he's still got the A," Miro says, and you're just about to protest when you spot the smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

 Point to Miro. 

 As reward, you move away from the cashier counter to the display case right to the side, filling a plate with an apple strudel you know he likes to treat himself with and a small cheese tart. It's a Japanese recipe, adapted where and how you'd felt like it because peanut butter's awesome in pastries and recipes in general are for squares, and you'd been looking for a guinea pig to try them out on. 

 Preferably before you eat the whole batch. 

 He follows you as you move, looking only mildly intrigued, though he fully raises an eyebrow - that's, like, 1.5 expressions in one day! - when you set the plate down in front of him. 

 "You sass my brother, you get a treat," you explain to him, grinning, and it takes him a moment before he smiles back. 

 Point to you. 

 "Okay, sure, thanks," he says, like a free pastry's gone and made his day, and it's so sweet that you think he's trying to give you cavities. Or maybe he's trying to sweet not-talk you into giving him more pastries, and thus the cavities. 

"You trying a new recipe with the tart? I haven't seen it before, I can tell you what I think about it after," he says, because of course he knows your routine by now, and you almost reach out to pat his head - he's too cute. 

 "I'll give you a couple extra if you like them," you promise, because A) he likes almost everything, B) customers at the coffeeshop rarely try a cake or pastry they haven't seen in the display case a couple of times, out of a healthy fear of your more creative recipe-redesigns, and C) you know your brother's good for it. 

 But Miro nods, looking pleased, as though you haven't just done a whole cost-benefit analysis in your head, and you decide to throw in a couple of strudels in his to-go bag later either way. 

 You watch him as he makes his way back to his table, noting that yours isn't the only female head turned in his direction. That's what you get for opening a coffeeshop in a university area, you guess. 

 You know you should be getting back to work, and you tell yourself that you know — but you don't actually do it until you see Miro taking a bite out of the tart. You don't really see how he feels about it, but you do see him smacking Tyler's hand away when Ty reaches for the strudel, and as you turn back to work you're feeling inexplicably pleased. 

 --------------------

 "Please  make more strudel, more cheese peanut butter tart," the note in your suggestion box reads. When you'd opened the note a ten dollar bill had dropped out, which you'd always found funny - Miro understands the concept of tipping, kinda. 

 But he'd always include a tip with his suggestions, and it always makes you feel like he's trying to bribe your into making more of whatever it is that he wants. 

 Usually it's the apple strudel, because it's insanely popular and he'd come by after practice a couple of times to find that you're sold out. Those days, he usually leaves in a sulk - and it's funny to you, that you know what Miro in a sulk even looks like. 

 Sometimes it's about one of your new recipes - a comment of critique, or just asking you to keep making more of exactly what you just did. He's a surprisingly good taster, capable of figuring out if you'd tweaked your recipes even the tiniest bit, and he's not shy about making his feelings on the changes known - at least in writing. 

 Sara, your assistant-slash-boss reads the note over your shoulder and snorts, dancing away before you could swat at her. 

 "Just give that boy a trial run and get him the fuck over it, you'd be doing him a favor," she tells you, ducking before the plastic takeaway dessert fork you tossed at her would have hit her. "I'm not kidding, babe," she tells you, popping up again like a demented prairie dog, and you would roll your eyes at her except she's looking uncharacteristically serious. "Does he not understand the concept of cheat day? It's not called cheat coffeeshop."

 And you roll your eyes at her after all, even though she's not wrong, exactly. But you can't bring yourself to complain about how often Miro swings by, whether it's with Tyler or Jamie or the rest of the Finnish mafia. Sometimes he swings by alone, too, and you secretly like those days best, because he usually spends those visita hovering around the counter or in the kitchen or in your office with you - eating slowly, almost delicately at his pastries, and pushing your hands away whenever you or Sara try to steal a taste of whatever he seems to be enjoying so much. 

 He visits way more than anyone else on the team, even Tyler, and Ty visits often enough that your coffeeshop's kinda known for him. Your coffeeshop - his - Sara's, whatever you want to call it. The coffeeshop started out as Sara's, a modest and kinda rundown little place until you and Tyler had decided to sweep in.

 The thing is, you're known in your family as being a little flighty - a reputation you can't even make any arguments against while still being honest and fair. And you like to think you're almost always honest and fair. But there's just so much of the world to experience, and so little time to experience it all in - it drives you crazy, sometimes, all the things you're not doing, and your family understands that. 

 Even supports you in that, maybe a little more than they should. But hey, Ty could definitely afford it. 

 When you announced to your family that you're dropping out of pre-med and going to baking and pastry arts school, your mom had protested for about a week until Tyler had called about this - Sara's coffeeshop, a little rundown but it's been around for about as long as time, a local no-frills favourite in downtown Dallas and if you wanted to go to school you can damn well make sure you like what would be waiting for you when you get out of it first. 

 He bought out a fifty percent share of the coffeeshop, and let you know that it's a loan - a gift only if you follow through with it. He let Sara know she's in charge of the business as a whole, while you're in charge of the kitchens - more specifically, the pastries and whatever hot menu items you decide to add on. 

 Before you and Mr. Moneybags had joined the staff, the coffeeshop had been seriously no-frills - it sold coffee and cold sandwiches and that was about it. Some of the regular crowd had stayed around for your menu overhaul, but you'd brought in a younger crowd, too, students and hipsters and puckbunnies (though you've yet to call any of them that to their faces). 

 That was about two years ago, so you think you have a pretty good track record - two years of balancing school and working on your own recipes and prepping pastries to be sold and learning how to balance the business's books, because you'd learned that that's something you need to get used to (inventories, dealing with receipts and regular payments to suppliers and so on) and if you try to add business classes on top of everything else you might die. 

 (So much for wanting to try and do everything all at once.) 

 --------------------

 Two years of working at the coffeeshop, at building it from the near-ground (sorry, Sara) up has matured you - at least, that's what you tell Tyler right before you slam back two shots of vodka, one coming neatly after the other, waiting for the burn to die down before you punch an arm victoriously into the air. 

 "You could pretend that was your first drink," Jamie says to you from where he's leaning against the counter - even with you perched on top of it, ankles crossed as neatly as anyone could possibly want, you don't have to look down much to look him in the eye. His eyes are crinkled with amusement, his voice low and easy, and you lean down to press a kiss against his forehead - beaming at the perfect imprint your red lipstick leaves behind. 

 "Why start my first night as a twenty-one year old with a lie?" you ask him, grinning wide, and he's laughing up at you one moment and pushed away the next, Tyler's beaming face replacing his as he lifts you off the counter and sets you on the ground. The crowd cheers at that, for some reason, the party a mix of your bakery school friends and some loyal customers and some of Tyler's teammates, and you let big brother lead you to the cake you'd baked yourself. 

 No one else would know exactly what you'd want, you'd said, and Miro had shot back a quietly sassy. "that's because no one else would think to put that much rum in a cake," which. 

 Point to Miro. 

 But you can see Miro's face across the cake, smiling at you in the candlelight after the lights are switched off and everyone is gathered around to sing you happy birthday, and if he's willing to die by alcohol poisoning by birthday cake then that's alright by you, too. 

 "Make a wish," Sara shouts, sounding like she doesn't need the cake's help, and after catching Tyler's gaze you close your eyes - so no one knows that you'd wish for exactly this - before leaning down to blow out the candles. 

 --------------------

 Two hours later, you're perched on the counter again, legs swinging idly as you watch Roope dance on one of the nearby tables. You're wondering, in a purely academic kind of way, how many gyrations it'll take before the table comes crashing down - it's a lucky thing you and Tyler had renovated the coffeeshop and swapped out all of the furniture, or that would definitely have happened the moment he'd climbed on. 

 And then you'd be short one extremely important scientific study. 

 You're distracted from your research by Miro coming in close - too close, standing between your legs, his waist is slim, you realise, when you realise you can comfortably sit with it between your knees. The knowledge makes you warm all over and you want to say that you don't know why, except you do. 

 "Water?" he asks, as though you're not clearly thirsty for something else, and you're blinking at him to confirm you'd heard right. You get a little sidetracked by his grin, but then you follow his nod down to the glass in his hand, taking another moment before you accept it. 

 And sip, closing your eyes again because you can feel his gaze on you, feel the warmth of his hands on your thighs, just above your knees but under the hem of your dress. You don't put the glass down until you've drank about half of it, and when you do, it's to rest both your wrists on his shoulders, like a parody of a slow dance. 

 Or like you're putting the two of you in some private circle, away from the noise of the crowd. His eyes are gorgeous from this close - and he's flushed, but they're too clear, watching you with something between wariness and want. 

 "You're sober," you say, and the word comes out like an accusation, and Miro blushes even harder - before his eyes narrow at you. "I'm twenty, I don't really drink when I’m here - you're not?" he asks, and in the same heartbeat his hands are off you, resting on either side of your legs on the counter instead. 

 He looks genuinely concerned, it's adorable, and you lace your hands together behind his neck before he could escape completely. "I'm not, like, wasted," you tell him, and when he looks unconvinced, you lean down to press your forehead against his - so at least you wouldn't have to see it. 

 "Promise I'm not, baby," you say, the endearment coming as easily to you as it always has, and you wonder if his shoulders always tense when you say it. His hands move, slow and uncertain, to rest around your waist, and you smile a little. "I'm just a little tipsy, a lot happy. Did you see Roope dancing on the table?"

 "Yeah, that's why I brought you the water. Didn't want you getting any ideas," he says, and you laugh a little.  

 "I'm not going to ask why you're worried about me," you tell him, pulling back to look him in the eye again, and he's not looking uncomfortable now - just a little curious, just a lot fond. 

 "You think you know why?" he asks, and he's tilting his face up just right - you have your hands holding his face steady for you in the next heartbeat, you're pressing your lips to his like you'd been wanting to for months now, you feel him kissing you back, then deepening the kiss, confident and needy and sure - 

 and then he's gone. 

 And this time Tyler's not even to blame - you look around a little dazed, wondering if he'd spotted the two of you and came over, pushing Miro aside like he'd done to Jamie, wondering if you're more drunk thank you thought. 

 "Finish the water, Y/N," Miro says, because Miro had decided to pull away all by himself, and he's looking at you with - you don't even know. "I'll get you another glass, and then I should probably go. Happy birthday again, thanks for the - birthday kiss." 

 And then he really is gone, pushing his way through the crowd, and then you start wishing that you are drunk. 

#nhl imagine #hockey imagine #miro heiskanen imagine #miro heiskanen #lyss writes hockey #dallas stars imagine

[matbaerzal]

I’ve had this blog for a year now and I’m so glad I stumbled upon this world. I wanted to give some love to my friends and some of my favorite blogs!

Here’s me trying my best to express my feelings even though I’m terrible at it. So, excuse the occasional keysmash or the excessive use of exclamation marks, but I love you guys sm! 

@tkachukme Samantha, you are so dear to me! You hype me up whenever I need it and I’m so honored to get to be your hype person too. I appreciate you so much and you deserve the world, my love! I love you so so much, you’re like the tito to my mat, the tk to my nolan. 💖

@idontgiveaflyinggrayson69 Nat, you’re so wonderful and talented! You inspire me to continue developing my own writing. I was honestly a little intimidated by you when I first stared following you, because your blog’s just so great and dhasjklf but you’re seriously one of the nicest people I know, I love you!💕

@thirteenisles Ko, you are the Mom™️ of tumblr! You’re a badass with a heart of gold, and I appreciate and love youuu. You’ve brought a smile to my face countless times, either by just seeing you on my dash or when you’ve checked in with me. 🥰

@bluebarriemuzzins Freddie, you’re one of my dearest friends on this site! I love our chats and you’re so creative and talented in more than one way. You’re so kind and funny and wholesome. I love you 💜

@zuucc SILJE!! du er bare så kul og talentfull, jeg digger deg! Your fics are all masterpieces, and you should expect me to be first in line at your future book signings.. Also you’re welcome for me bringing Mat into your life :) I LOVE YOU 💕

@yeeehaw-hockey Hannah, du er seriøst best, og drit morsom og altfor snill!! I’m so grateful for you, your feedback gives me life and just your tags in general are amazingggg! I love youu grinch 💚

@95er Vanessa, the talent POPPED OUT in this one!! Sometimes I get like a ‘friend crush’, where I just want to be someones friend so bad, and I had that with you hahah. You’re so sweet and I adore and love you! 🧡

@ethan-bears / @shesasupergeek EMMA! You’re one of the first friends I made on here and I appreciate you so much. Both your blogs have excellent content, and you’re so sweet and kind. You’re the resident thunderbirds blog, and I’ve said this before, but I think of you every time I see thunderbirds content on my dash. love you!💙💚

@shirarihena You’re a delight to see on my dash and we don’t talk that much anymore, but I always smile when I see you in my notes or on my dash. You’re also one of the first friends I made on here and I appreciate you sm! ILY 🧡💙

@fraction-of-a-flying-puck  Laur I love you sm. You’re so sweet and I love chatting with you! I’m sorry we haven’t talked that much lately, but pls know that I smile whenever I see you on my dash. ❤️

@doublebarrzal you’re one of the funniest people I know, Dean. From your love for mullets to Barzy’s nostrils and everything in between. Thank you for fueling me whenever I feel chaotic lmao (#neverforget #matmendes) I love youuu! 💖

@captainkreider My brock anon lmao 🥺 Kathleen, I’m really glad you’re on this site, you spread so much positivity and you’re the nicest, sweetest person. ILYSM!! 🥰 

@generallybarzy / @generallylyss Lyss, I love you! You’re my number one Barzy bitch and you’ve kept my Barzy obsession well fed. You are so talented and I appreciate you so much.💕

@charlie-theangel / @charlie-theangelwrites You seriously are an angel!! You’re so so kind and lovely, and as if that wasn’t enough you’re also so fucking talented. My heart rate rises when I read your writing and I’m so glad you share it with us. ILY ❤️

@powerblais Erin, you are an absolute sweetheart! You’re so talented and I honestly don’t know how you do it. All your projects amaze me, and you’re a really great friend. I appreciate and love you! 💙

@softgrantaire Sometimes I just scroll through your blog whenever there’s any type of discourse going on, for pure entertainment. Your video edits are amazing and you are so hilarious!! Whenever I see you on my dash late at night I feel like telling you to go to bed, then I remember I’m an hour ahead so really I’m the one that should be going to bed.. (ngl it’s 4am as I type this out) anyways, I love you, Alex!! 💛 

@jamiedrysdales​ Ari, you are such a cutie!! you’re so kind and I appreciate you so much! Love you! 💚

@swedeonmarky I love your content so much and you are so sweet and lovely! ILY 💖

@allyz​ / @barzzal I’m really happy you’ve joined our little corner of tumblr! you’re so sweet and your writing is amazing! ilysm💕 

@shadowsandmoonlight You’re so much fun to speak to whenever we talk and I’m so glad we’re friends! I appreciate you so much. love you! 💜 

@tysojost​ You are such a joy! I LIVE for your tags (your #look at that dog is just the cutest thing ever) and your fic feedback is just *chefs kiss* and I appreciate and love you sm💙

@softboybarzal You are so so sweet and thoughtful. I am really thankful for you and your kind words have brought a smile to my face more than once. I love youu! 🧡

@suchalilyofthevalley​ / @kerwritesthings​ I appreciate you so much, you’re so kind! I want to thank you in advance for the help with my musician barzy fic because I’m probably going to need it and it was so sweet of you to offer! ILY 💖

@spacegirlsgang​ Mary, every time I see you on my dash my mind just goes “friend!!!”. Your content is always top tier and you are such a sweetheart. I love you❤️

@ahoswhiskers​ Kinga, you are so sweet and I feel like you bring so much positivity to this site! and Milla is literally the cutest! I love you 🥺💕

@princessphilly you’re so lovely and I your content is *chef’s kiss* !! I might have to convince you to write for Vince Dunn again 👀 ILY 💕

@barzyredsnapback I love seeing you on my dash, and the few times we’ve interacted you have been so so lovely! ily 💖

I have probably forgotten someone, and I’m so so sorry if I did, but there’s so many lovely people on here it’s hard to keep track sometimes. I love you all and thank you for following me and being a friend. 

#blog rec #the word 'love' is mentioned 28 times lmao #did I mention; I love you?? #amalie gets emotional

[generallybarzy]

Tag Game!

Rules: Answer 30 questions and tag 20 blogs you are contractually obligated to know better.

Tagged by @canadianheaters thank you even though i suck at these!!!!! 

Name/Nickname: Lyss

Gender: Female (she/her)

Star sign: gemini

Height: 5′3 but technically 5′2 1/2 

Time: 9:22pm (21:22)

Birthday: June 20th

Favorite bands/Groups: okay this is a lot.... COIN, Bastille, Surfaces, lovelytheband, The Neighbourhood, Peach Pit, Nightly, Lord Huron

Favorite solo artists: Hozier, Shawn Mendes, Harry Styles, lately a lot of Jake Scott, Sam and Sounds, Vance Joy, Matt Maeson

Song stuck in my head: CWJBHN by Jake Scott and Josie Dunne because omfg i’m writing and very emotional, highly recomment

Last movie: i don’t watch a lot of movies honestly but probably when I watched The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly with my brother lmao

Last show: The Bachelor (don’t look at me i know)

When did I create this blog: January 22, 2020

What do I post: hockey shit but mostly barzal stuff (when he’s actually playing and not holding out ahhhhhhhh) 

Last thing I googled: where to find when i joined tumblr asdjsjgkjnr

Other blogs: my main @generallylyss and a poetry/soft stuff blog that i only give to very few people (if we chat frequently you can ask) and an old supernatural one that i haven’t touched in a long time 

Do I get asks: not enough but yeah

Why I chose my url: it was generallyhockey but then i decided i mostly post about barzy so it turned into that haha

Following: 141

Followers: 974

Average hours of sleep: uggh this is all fucked, over my quarantine it was like 12 uhhhhh but usually its like 5

Lucky number: 13. The fav number came before i knew of barzy though, it was actually one of the reasons i gravitated towards him

Instruments: played flute for like 8 years and also i play keyboard sometime and i have a guitar but i’m def not good

What am I wearing: black leggings and just a gray long sleeved shirt, very basic rn haha and socks but my feet are vv cold

Dream job: working as part of a media crew for a sports team

Dream trip: nyc or like the west coast cause i’ve never been over there

Favorite food: any type of potato honestly. fries?? always. fries are my go to when we’re eating out

Nationality: american

Favorite song: don’t wanna chose asdfggyttsgr

 Last book read: umm Blood Meridian (that was for class though) and currently A Tale of Two Cities. idk i’m into the older lit i guess haha

Top three fictional universes I’d like to live in: uhhhhh deadass i literally don’t know any uhhhhhh

@fallinallincurls @dembenchboys @softboybarzal if you want to

#tag game #mutuals #im literally bad at about you things asddgrsfgs

[the-writing-dump-bin]

Thanksgiving

SFW

Self indulgent fic Jotaro x Lyss

I could tell Jotaro was nervous, even if he played calm and cool. I had been seeing him for a while now but he had never met my family yet. My parents had invited him over for Thanksgiving dinner, hoping to meet the man I had been talking about the past few months.

I would be lying if I wasn't nervous as well. My parents were fine; my dad does try a little hard to get to know them right away and my mom would probably make an inappropriate joke at some point during the night. It was my sisters and my brother in law that I was worried about the most. My sisters would poke fun at me, trying to make me feel embarrassed. My brother in law is nice, but he is a smartass and would join in on the teasing. Maybe when they see the mountian standing behind me, they'll think twice before making a comment.

We pulled up to the house, both of us releasing a breath we didnt know we were holding. I laugh nervously as I wring my hands together.

Jotaro sees this and grabs both my hands in one of his large ones and squeezes, giving me one of his rare smiles. "We can do this." He assures us. I nod and unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door. I don't need to knock, its my parents house, I can just come in.

The house smells wonderful with my mom's homemade stuffing- I can smell that from a mile away, I love it. My heart pounds as I make myself visible to the rest of the house. Most of my family is in the living room watching hockey, my mom is in the kitchen tending to the food.

"Hey, Lyssa-girl!" My dad calls out- that's the nickname he had called me since birth.

"'Sup, bitch." My younger sister says- we have a special bond so a greeting like this is the norm.

My older sister and brother in law say hello and give me a wave. "Its just you?" He says, snickering. "I thought you were supposed to bring your new boyfriend? He get scared and decide to skip out?"

Removing our shoes, we walk into the living room. Jotaro bends his head down a little so he doesn't hit his head on the archway, he's trained himself to do this when he goes into any room.

"Holy shit." My younger sister says out loud. "He's so tall!"

My face starts to heat up, I stand there awkwardly as the rest of my family observes him. "Th-This is Jotaro." I introduce him to the room, pointing to each person and saying their names.

My dad gets up from his chair and extends his hand to Jotaro for a handshake and says that its nice to meet him. "You too." Jotaro replied. "Have a seat." My dad offered his chair to him, but Jotaro declined and sat on one of the kitchen chairs that I had brought in.

I went into the kitchen to see my mom, in which she gives me a nod and whispered "he's handsome" to me. I'm so embarrassed, couldn't they just chill and not comment? Returning to the living room, I sit next to Jotaro. My breathing is a little fast and my heart beats rapidly; anxiety is setting in.

I think the rest of my family feels intimidated by him; hes got his usual neutral expression on his face and he's very quiet.

The questions from my dad and brother in law start coming in. Jotaro answers them, his deep voice rumbling as he speaks. They ask more questions and I can feel Jotaro's irritation starting to grow. I knew he would get annoyed quickly, maybe a setting like this was too soon for him.

My heart starts to beat even faster now; I'm frightened he will snap at them and this would turn into a disaster. They'll think he's a rude, mean person and tell me to break it off now so I dont go through what I went with with my ex. But they dont know him. They don't see what I see. I start to wring my hands and silently plea in my head that Jotaro keeps his cool.

Suddenly, I feel something squeeze around me and hold me, like I'm in a bear hug. The feeling of my hands being held made me stop wringing them and I looking to my right at Jotaro.

He's still in conversation with my dad and brother in law, looking at them while he talks. Though no one could see, not even me, Jotaro was also calming me down by using Star Platinum. He could feel my anxiety radiating off of me and in his own way, he's trying to tell me 'its okay'. Star's hand pats my head lovingly and I start to relax, smiling bashfully at the action.

After dinner, Jotaro thanked my mother for the meal, it was very delicious like always and he really did like my mom's homemade stuffing, I knew he would. He sat back in the living room with my dad, brother in law and our family friend who lived downstairs and watched sports on the tv. I stayed in the dining room with my sisters and my mom, talking to them about random things until my older sister started to pry at my relationship with Jotaro.

"Where did you meet someone like that?"

"The library. I was writing one day and I accidentally bumped into him when I was trying to grab an encyclopedia. Long story short, he gave me his number before he left."

"That sounds cute, actually." Said my younger sister. "He doesn't seem like the type to do something like that though. Where is he from?"

I smile. "He comes off as brooding, but he's really nice. He was born in Japan but moved to the States for school. Not really sure how he ended up in Canada though."

"Does he know how much of a nerd you are?"

"He does. Thanks."

"What does he do for work?" My mom missed that conversation earlier when she was in the kitchen.

"Marine Biologist."

"Oh, cool."

"He seems so serious." My older sister said. "He doesn't seem to have a sense of humor."

I nod. Yeah, he doesn't really have much humor, but I still laugh at his attempts- he tries hard sometimes.

Its hard to tell what my family thinks about him from this first meeting, but I think it went okay. I understand if they are a little wary of a new man in my life after what I went through in my last relationship, but I hope they get to some day see that he makes me happy. He takes care of me and makes me feel safe.

Time to leave. Mom makes me up a plate of leftovers and dad puts his homemade cheesecake in a container for me to take home.

"It was nice meeting you, Jotaro." My dad says, pretty sure he feels like an ant compared to him.

"And you, too." Jotaro shakes my dad's hand and waves to my mom and the rest of my family. "It was a pleasure meeting you all." He looks down at me and smiles. "Lyss is an amazing woman. I'm glad I met her."

Okay, now my face is beet red. All he had to say was that it was nice to meet them, that's it. I turn my face away from everyone, completely embarrassed. "Time to go." I mutter. We say goodbye, get in the car and leave for home.

-

Walking into my apartment, I go into my room and get ready for bed. Jotaro follows, taking off his shirt and putting on lounge pants and plops himself onto the mattress, watching me change.

"You're being creepy." I giggle, hiding myself a little. I crawl to lay next to him, giving him a sweet kiss. "Thanks for being calm tonight. I was worried you would snap at their annoying questions."

"I know." Jotaro placed his hand on my hip, rubbing his thumb on a bit of skin that showed. "I can tell when you're nervous and anxious, thats why I calmed you down. Their questions may have been annoying, but that's what families do when someone new comes in."

I start to cry. I can't help it, his words get to me.

"Stop that." He says, wiping my tears away. "Its annoying."

Laughing, I give him a playful shove. In return, he rolls on top of me, smiling and staring at me in the eyes. "I hope your family likes me." He brushes the hair from my face and kisses me. "Because I want to be with you."

"I want to be with you, too. I'm sure they will. Hard to tell after one meeting, but at some point they'll see how happy you make me."

We make out for a few minutes before we shift ourselves under the blankets, cuddling close as we drift off into sleep from the Thanksgiving dinner we enjoyed.

What twist of fate brought me this man? Whatever it was, I'm glad it happened.

#self insert #self indulgent fic #my fic #my writing #jotaro #jotaro kujo #jojo #jojos bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken

[lowkeyhockey]

stronger than my demons - nolan patrick

Pairing: Nolan Patrick/University Student!Reader

Mentions: Travis Konecny

Warnings: Description of depression and anxiety, curse words. Does not follow the “canon timeline” of this season (:

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: Nolan makes a bad day better. He always does. 

* * * * * * * * * *

With Nolan gone, without his arms to hold you firm, you fall asleep sometime in the middle of the pink-tinted hours of the pre-dawn and wake around noon. You wake and immediately try to remember what time your thoughts had finally decided to take a break, to give you a break. There’s no way you’d gotten a full night’s rest, or even a half night’s rest — but maybe you’d gotten enough that you wouldn’t feel a failure at even sleeping.

When your mind decides to race ahead of you the way it’s been doing lately, it always feels like your own brain is a whole other entity from you, like it’s an enemy you just can’t seem to beat. How are you supposed to beat yourself, anyway? In what universe would you not end up the loser, however the battle ends up going?

You wake with resentment heavy on your tongue, thick in the back of your throat, you wake cold and alone and praying for the clock on your bedside table to show you an hour closer to dusk because that would at least mean that you have fewer hours of the day to get through.

But you wake at noon, with the sun directly overhead as though judging you for your sins — and that means you haven’t missed Nolan’s lunchtime call. He never misses it, calls exactly once at half past twelve whenever he’s away. Doesn’t matter if he’s just out for lunch with Travis or if he’s mid-roadie. He calls. Just once, though, and if you don’t pick up when he does he just waits for you to call him back.

And he never blames you for it.

Sometimes you’re asleep, insomnia or a late-night burst of productivity hitting you hard enough that you destroy whatever semblance your sleep cycle had to an actual functioning thing. Sometimes you’re in class, and you dig your phone out to text him an i love you and an on tuesdays i have biochem, remember? and sometimes an oh my god prof anderson’s even more boring than usual this week.

On Tuesdays he’d text back an i love you more, like it’s a competition and like he genuinely believes he’s winning, he’d text you a new science meme he found online, he’d text you a focus on ur prof anyway, and stop checking out your TA.

You’d always reply to the last one with a sneaky pic of your TA, usually while he’s bent over one of your classmates’ desks to explain a concept to them in detail. There’s a reason why your classmates keep asking him to explain the most basic of things, and it’s not just because he’s incredibly enthusiastic about doing it.

But it’s — Thursday, you think, you’re not quite sure, but it’s media day for the flyers and that means that Nolan’s probably going to be busy all day. For the second time since you’d woken up, you pray - for a moment - for time to move faster than it’s doing.

A peek at the clock tells you that your prayer’s gone unanswered, and — hey, at least that gets you to direct your annoyance outward. To the clock, to god, maybe, or just to the concept of time.

But because you still have about twenty five minutes before Nolan’s call, you climb - slowly - out of bed and head to the bathroom — if nothing else, you could at least brush your teeth before he calls you. That’s how he pushes you, when he’s there in person: just brush your teeth, babe, or just have some of the toast i made, i’ll make more if you decide you’re hungry or it’s okay if you don’t hit the gym today, Newton’s been whining for another walk.

And you both know by now that things are always easier after you’ve taken the first step. You brush your teeth, shower, even go through your (pretty basic) skincare routine before Nolan’s Facetime request pops up on your screen.

By the the time you accept the call, you’re feeling halfway-human again, though you’re in one of Nolan’s ratty old Wheat Kings jerseys and not your own clothes. You manage a smile for him, tired and - at the same time, and just from seeing his face - not, smile widening as he swings his phone sharply around.

You see something like a patch of orange fur flying through the air, Nolan ducking it just in time, and you hope that he hadn’t just dodged Gritty. God, were parts of Gritty - aside from his bellybutton patch - detachable?

Nolan laughs, the low, rumbling sound making you smile a little wider, even as you’re wishing that he’s there with you so that you can feel the sound. Nolan’s a grade A clinger when you both have the energy for it - you know exactly how his laughter feels when his chest is plastered against your back.

“I’m under attack, babe,” he tells you, and you think that you’re looking better than you feel, because he’s grinning at you with flushed cheeks and messy hair, a disaster of a masterpiece of a person and he’s not trying to quiet himself down for you.

Nolan is - well, most people would think of him as quiet. private, even secretive, restrained. But he trusts you, and even on the days when you feel more walking dead than alive he feels like there’s more of the world to see - and feel, and experience - when he’s sharing it with you.

He tries to quiet himself - makes himself soft and safe, soothing and easy - when he knows you’re having a rough day. But you love him when he’s like this, too.

Okay - in all fairness, you love all versions of him.

“Baaaaaaabe,” he whines at you, still grinning, and you realise that you’ve been staring.

“Is it Gritty, baby?” you ask, and you can feel yourself grinning back now — it feels like a mask stretched thin over your face, but it feels real, too. “You know I’m not getting in Gritty’s way. Ever.”

“Fuck, no, I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he promises you, and he’s turning again, the camera catching a shirtless Carter Hart in the background. They’re in the locker room, you think, and even though the other guys might be there too, you make sure to wolf-whistle at him.

Hartsy looks up to grin at you, giving a small, awkward wave that you think means he’s still a little shy with you, and Nolan swings the camera around again — this time so that his face is filling the screen, and he’s arching an eyebrow up at you.

“It was Teeks, actually. You wanna flirt with him too?” he asks, and it’s your turn to laugh — and it’s like something slips off your shoulders when you do, a weight you hadn’t known you’d been carrying.

“Think he still likes me after the last girl I hooked him up with?” you ask — you haven’t had the time or energy to hang out with TK in a while, thirty minutes with him is about as much social interaction as you’d get from five hours with literally anyone else, but the last time you did hang out together there had been a fourth person there, a lab partner you’d had earlier in the semester.

Teeks had seen her profile picture in your Whatsapp chat - he had zero sense of boundaries or personal space - and had insisted on an introduction. And, as it turned out, he’d come to regret it.

“Fuck you, she talks like she’s spitting out a dictionary,” you hear Teeks shouting from somewhere, and Nolan turns away from the phone - and from you - then, though you recognise the furrow in his brow even from his profile.

“Dude, I told you not to talk about her friends like that,” he tells his friend, sounding disapproving and stern, and Teeks - who’s the opposite of serious, especially when it’s Nolan being serious - goes pfffft in reply.

“You said to not call her a n-e-r-d, and i didn’t,” Teeks shoots back, like you’re a genius who just happens to be incapable of spelling, and you’re laughing again.

Nolan turns back to face you, then makes a face like he’d just been jabbed before he angles the camera so that you can see Teeks, too, maybe standing on tiptoe so he can hook his chin over Nolan’s shoulder.

“‘Nerd’ isn’t a bad word,” you tell both boys, mock-serious like you’re settling a dispute, and TK pumps a fist in the air.

“Y/N can say it, she is one,” Nolan protests, and you’re making a squawk of - exaggerated - affront while he goes bright red.

“You know what, Teeks? You can have him,” you tell them, and then it’s Nolan’s turn to make a sound of protest. Instead of pumping his fist again, though, TK makes a face like he’s considering it before shoving Nols aside - you’re giggling when he stumbles, but when he straightens up again he’s all yours.

“We’re having lunch in a little bit, babe. Have you had anything to eat?”

You shake your head, feeling a little guilty, but Nolan looks unfazed.

“That’s okay, we’ll have an early dinner tonight, yeah? I miss you,” he says, the last words coming in a low mumble. You’ve been missing each other a lot - you had a summer internship as a research assistant while he’d gone home over the off-season, and even as the season’s coming back into swing now you’re feeling more pressure from a heavier courseload.

“Sounds perfect, Nols. I can’t wait.” And you’re not lying, not just trying to be good enough for him - pretending to be a girl capable of going out for dinner in the city. You don’t have to lie or pretend. If Nolan wants to have dinner out, you want to be there with him. And if later you decide you’re too tired, or too anxious to be surrounded by people, you know he’ll want to be with you - on the couch, in pyjamas, eating takeout and fighting over who’s getting the better fortune cookie.

“Love you,” you say to him in a whisper, even though there’s no one around you to laugh and tease about you being so mushy.

“Love you more,” he replies, each word crystal clear, and you see another orange thing flying by - still just Teeks? - right before you cut the call.

#nolan patrick #nolan patrick imagine #nhl imagine #philadelphia flyers #philadelphia flyers imagine #hockey imagine #au where the flyers aren't suffering from lack of Stupid #lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

kiss me once (you know i had a long night) - freddie andersen

Prompt: Do you have any idea who you just pissed off?

Pairing: Freddie Andersen/Single Mother!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of sexual activity

Word Count: 1.9k

Writer’s Notes: Shoutout to my first fic! It’s a oneshot that’s going to be part of a bigger verse titled Can I Go (Where You Go) featuring [Y/N], a single mother, Lila, your five year old daughter, and Freddie Andersen - a man very happy to be dragged along for the ride. Each oneshot fic can be read as a standalone, and the fics won’t have the same rating/warnings, so make sure you check! Thanks so much for reading, and please hmu if you have a prompt/request/critique!

Summary: Someone went to bed a little angry, someone’s utterly exhausted, and someone (probably) needs a cold shower. But hey, we all have our problems 8D

"Do you have any idea who you just pissed off?" 

 Even his famous goalie reflexes couldn't save him from the dinosaur stuffie you threw at his face - and if you were thinking more rationally you'd realise that he'd let you play target practice to let your frustrations out, but you weren't, so you didn't. Still, you couldn't help the slight smile that grew (despite your best efforts) on your face just from watching the bear slowly slide down, its wide, pearly white grin replaced by Freddie's furrowed brow like a real life slide transition.

 But then, seeing Freddie's face usually made you smile. It was kind of a hazard of the job. Maybe someone stronger, someone more used to seeing the kind of gentle concern Freddie currently had in his eyes, might have been better equipped against his face, especially considering the year and a half you'd been together. 

 Someone else might have built up an immunity, or allowed familiarity to breed contempt. But for you, both scenarios were impossible things - more science fiction than possibility - and your poor daughter was suffering for it. 

 Of course, what you called suffering someone else might consider sleeping in her bed, all five years and two hours of her completely turned off from the world, pudgy little arms wrapped around a Carlton the Bear bear Freddie had gotten for her before he'd gone on his roadie. 

 The fact that Carlton had replaced Barney - your birthday present for Lila from last year - in her bed had nothing to do with your using Barney as a makeshift weapon. Nope. You were just doing what every single single mother quickly learned to do - that was, use every single tool in her arsenal to get the job done. 

 Poor Freddie had had to be reminded of it the hard way, the reminder coming barely seconds after he himself had walked through the front door, as quiet about it as thief - or a dad coming home at two am, long after he'd promised his little girl he'd be home. 

 He caught Barney with both hands before the stuffie could hit the ground, left his luggage bag by the door as he walked to you, holding the toy out like a peace offering. God, but he looked gorgeous this way - red hair tousled like he'd ran his hands through it out of frustration a time or ten, those large hands of his dwarfing the toy, his game day suit rumpled in a way that begged you to go and take it off for him. You'd be doing both of you, not to mention the suit, a favour, really. 

More than one suit’s been found with a button missing after Freddie’s had to undress himself, with you waiting for him in your shared bed.

 Freddie in a suit was a sight meant to set your heart racing. Freddie freshly out of a suit - even the idea of it  should probably have sent you into cardiac arrest by now. The fact that you were still standing, still giving him that tired half-smile masquerading as a frown, was probably something of a medical miracle. 

 But then, since meeting Freddie, you'd never managed to forget exactly how lucky you are. 

Lila wasn't allowed to leave her toys lying around and Freddie usually kept to the rule too, and this time he dropped Barney into the toy bin against the wall before he filled his arms with you instead - holding on so tight that you could imagine, for a few seconds, that he was never going to let go. It was nice to dream that he wouldn't, to relax against his solid warmth, to rest your forehead against his shoulder. 

 You couldnt hug him back - his arms were too tight around you, held you too close, and you wanted to tease him about the way he seemed to deliberately keep you from grabbing onto any more weapons - but you couldn't do that, either. 

 Not when he leaned down to brush his lips against your hair, then your temple, then the high point of your cheekbone, sliding down your jaw as though dying for a taste of each last inch of you. He'd pulled far enough away from you by then for you to rest a palm against his chest, huffing out his name and - again - trying to sound more annoyed than amused and - again - failing, and the next time his lips landed against your skin you could feel the way they were twisted into a smile. 

 Solid, stoic Freddie Andersen could barely kiss his girl without breaking out into a grin - you grinned yourself then to feel it, to imagine the way his boys would (and have) hoot in laughter to see it, and that was maybe the signal Freddie needed - the next time his lips landed on you, they landed squarely against your own, his tongue brushing against your lower lip until you relented and allowed him to kiss you more deeply. 

 Allowed him to make you lose your mind, in other words, stealing your breath and making you forget you had a kindergartner in the room right off your living room, the soft glide of his tongue against yours making you wish for his tongue to slide - just as smooth - elsewhere. He knew all of your favourite spots. 

Freddie was the one to pull away, thumb brushing at your lips until you realised you were pouting up at him. Though whether that was because of his late arrival, or Carlton, or the fact that he'd stopped kissing you was up for debate. Come to think of it, there was a lot he needed to make up to you for. 

 "You?" he asked, voice coming out sleep-rough, the one word coming out as half-an exhalation against your lips - making you wish, again, that he was kissing you, would keep kissing you, would let you kiss him all over. 

 But then, communication was - you've been told - a healthy part of any relationship.  

 And his still-furrowed brow look was filled with enough hope to make you laugh aloud, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. "You wish you'd pissed me off," you shoot back, tilting your head to Lila's bedroom door. "She knew you weren't going to make it to her birthday. She's fine with that. But we both hoped you'd be back in time to tuck her in. That was her last night as a five year old." 

 "Okay, but she's been telling everyone she's six for five months now."

 You laugh again, this time at the attack on your daughter - what a mother you are. But Freddie was smiling too, the crease in his brow fading away at the sound of your laughter, so maybe it was okay. By this point, Freddie was almost as much of a parent as you are - god knows he's read more books on the subject than you ever did. 

 "You believed her," you pointed out, curling the fingers of the hand you still had against his chest - a tool at your disposal, ready for use - and pulling him down until you could kiss him again. He allowed you three brief pecks, each time teasing, chuckled low in his chest when you let out a frustrated groan. 

 "Greedy," he chided, and you were just about to tell him exactly how greedy he makes you feel when he tilts his head to Lila's door, looking - again - like someone had had to put down a dog, and it was somehow his fault. 

 Freddie tended to take the whole world onto his shoulders - he did it with his team, he did it with his friends, and he did it with your family - the family he insisted to the world was his, with every little thing he ever did. 

 Like take Lila to family skate, patiently teaching her how to take baby steps and how to get up each time she fell, until she was racing across the ice (while you watched from the entrance to the ice, heart in your throat) by the end of the day. Like stay with you through your last, short stay at the hospital, only leaving to check on Lila at her grandparents' and bring you back illicit treats and fresh clothes. Like book his own seat, in a commercial flight, because the team plane wasn't heading back to Toronto until the day after Lila's birthday.

Was it his faul the plane had been delayed? No. But Lila had been upset that he hadn't gotten back in time for a bedtime story, and Freddie had been upset because he'd planned on surprising Lils at her birthday party, and you'd been upset because 

a) the two people you loved most in the world were unhappy, and

b) you missed him. 

 So when you murmured "five days is way too long for you to be gone," he understood, and believed you, pulling you closer into the curve of his body again. You didn't mean - you never meant - to sound as though you resented his schedule; what mattered was that he came back, and he always did. 

 "She'll probably forgive you when you surprise her with pancakes in bed tomorrow," you told him, and he makes a soft humming sound as though considering it - as though he wasn't already on planning on that, and to use his free day tomorrow to take Lila wherever she wanted - like the zoo. Or an art museum. Or a build-a-bear workshop. See how Carlton likes getting replaced. 

 It was maybe a little mean to talk Freddie into getting out of bed before Lila, who was, in her tiny, infernal heart of hearts the worst kind of morning person, but you knew by then that if Freddie didn't have some kind of way to make amends he'd do more and more ridiculous things out of guilt. That was how Lila had ended up with her own personal bouncy castle last summer - and the castle's still standing, in a room at Freddie's house he's not going to get back until Lila hits middle school at least.

 The smile he gives you, eyes all wrinkled in the corners, is enough to make you feel like a superhero and a Disney villain in one. 

 "Pancakes for the little princess, and for my princess?" he asked, and no matter how many times he's called you that you still blush, just a little, just enough for him to unwind one arm around you to chase the colour with his thumb. 

 "We don't have time for a scene tonight, but maybe tomorrow, hm? I'll get Lila nice and sugared first, then work that energy off at the park or something, and then we'll foist her off onto your parents." 

 You nod then, then, tilt your head back for one last kiss, and this time he gives it to you. The next kiss, he presses against your forehead before he goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. The last one, before you fall asleep, you feel pressed into your hand as he brings it up to his lips, the murmured "I love you" he said to you in Danish understandable only because he's said it so many times. 

 Unlike your poor little daughter, you fall asleep content. 

#v:can i go (where you go) #freddie andersen imagine #maple leafs imagine #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #lyss writes hockey #freddie andersen #leafs

[lowkeyhockey]

accidents (how we went from friends to this) - part ii

Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Female Reader

Warnings: No sexual content, but Sid is 19 and reader is 16 (which is the age of consent in Canada)

Author’s Notes: Part II of Accidents, which is in turn part of the Can I Go (Where You Go) verse, but can be read as a standalone. I bumped this up in my queue because my gift exchange fic is killing me, and because someone asked me to :D i am # weak.

  Summary: Y/N gets Sid to attend prom with her, even if she insists on calling it a grad formal. The more things change, the more they stay the same. 

----------------------------------

"Missing your grad formal's one thing, Squid," you tell him, and your cheeks are hurting from grinning so wide and you're probably looking like an idiot, but that just means that it's alright that your words match.  He's grinning back at you, teeth still too big for his face and his hair getting a little too long, but he's grinning and this is great. 

 "You're not allowed to miss mine." 

 Which doesn't make sense, you know it doesn't, but it's allowed. You've been good all year - you've been good your whole life, really - and what most of your classmates see as a boring pre-after party event you see as a chance to have fun. And Sid's actually – down for your dumb high school shenanigans. 

 He doesn't even mind your fiddling with his bow tie, a deep midnight blue that matches your dress, even though there had been nothing wrong with it and you both knew it. 

 It's like, tradition. Or at the very least a cliche.  If this was a movie, your mom would be tearing up and shouting at your dad to get the camera, and your dad would be ignoring her and trying to fix a steely eyed stare on Sid until he like. Promises to bring you back before curfew or whatever. 

 It would have been nice, is the thing. But you have this instead, and honestly – it's perfect. 

 "You could have taken me if Sid didn't wanna go," Taylor calls down from the stairs, as though hearing your thoughts, somehow managing to push out the words through the biggest pout you've ever seen on her. You step away from Sid to reach up for one dangling sneaker - curling your fingers around Tay's ankle and giving it a light squeeze. You take it as a good sign that she doesn't kick your hand away. 

"I wouldn't have asked Sid if you could have been my date instead," you promise her, trying to look appropriately serious, but it's hard to push that through your grin. 

 Which – okay, you're lying. If the dance wasn't 16+ only you would have asked both of them to be there. You would probably have made a girls' night of it with Taylor, with Sid playing the part of the exhausted chaperon he was clearly destined for. 

Sidney Crosby:  the second coming of Hockey Jesus, and world-weary chaperon to his sister and her best friend. It’s good for a man to have two destinies. You're pretty sure that at least 0.5 of your destiny was to keep the great Sidney Crosby grounded. 

Judging by the look on her face, Taylor's not, like, intensely convinced, and you look to Sid for some emotional support only to find him mirroring her expression. Only he looks even less impressed somehow, which is impressive enough for you to pat his cheek with your free hand. 

 (Your parents aren't there to take a picture of you but Trina is, and that's the first picture of the night: she was coming down the stair behind Taylor, and catches a shot of you holding on to both Tay and Sid. God, but you'd been a Grade A Clinger.)

 --------------------

 "Really thought you've moved me up from second-string, for a moment there," Sid tells you as he opens the car door for you, and you'd been standing closer to him for pictures just five minutes ago but he still gets to you, this way. 

 His smile is kind, the last time you saw him so dressed up in person was at the draft last year, and there's something about his hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it. It's because of one or two of that, or because of a combination of all three, but you lean in to kiss his cheek before you slide into the car. 

 (He's cleaned up nice - you kind of miss the scruff - but his aftershave more than makes up for it. )

 It's his mom's car, he's not so big a hotshot that he keeps a car just for summers in Nova Scotia. You love the familiarity of it. You wish Sid would buy one of his own here anyway, even if it's just a secondhand clunker, just so you know he'd keep coming back. 

 You tell him as much, grinning as you promise him that you'd be more than happy to babysit it for him while he's off setting new records in Pittsburgh, and he snorts at you but keeps his eyes on the road like the responsible driver that he is. You only wish you could be as focused, and not on his profile. 

 The curve of his smile, even from just his profile, is such a familiar thing to you. It warms your chest, makes your heart work double-time (presumably to work the heat off), makes you reach over to rest your hand against his thigh. 

 It's all muscle, under your light touch. Sid's been spending his summer pretty much alternating between working out and eating enough to feed about three lesser athletes, and the knowledge of it warms your cheeks. And then Sid reaches down to cover your hand with his - which is not at all responsible driver-y of him - and you're suddenly warm all over. 

 "Can you grab the cooler in the back? There's water in there," he says, interrupting your thoughts on - what? how solid he felt under your hand? But you're impressed all over again. 

 When you reach around to dig through the cooler, though, you find that he wasn't kidding about the water - there's nothing but bottles of water and chunks of ice in there, just when you thought Sid's decided to pregame with beer or - wine, or vodka, or whatever. 

 He's the pro-athlete, not you. You don't know what people drink to get turnt at parties. 

 "You're such a dork," you tell him, too-fond about it as you fish a bottle out and open it to take a sip - careful to brush away lipstick marks after - before offering it to him. He shakes his head and you close the bottle again, putting it in the cup holder between you. 

 "Don't want you hungover tomorrow," he says, and it's your turn to shake your head. 

 "Can't get hungover if you don't get me something to drink," you point out, teasing, and he laughs. "Useless," you add, the word too fond to be mean, even though you'd tried your hardest. 

 When you lean back into your seat, hands clasped neatly in your lap like you're afraid of wrinkling up your dress somehow, it's his turn to reach over between you, his hand resting warm against your thigh. 

 "That's not my job, Y/N. Besides, the water came in pretty handy already." There's a steadiness in his gaze - unexpected, unfamiliar - when he glances over at you, holds your gaze for just a moment. "You looked a little overheated there." 

 You're blushing properly then - you can feel it, you're hoping it's not too visible in the early evening light - and he looks - like he's thinking about it, or you, or the way you're acting like an idiot even though he's just there as a friend.  

 "Eyes on the road, Sidney," you manage after a moment - too long a moment, maybe - and he's shaking his head at you again, still with that non-expression expression on his face that you don't quite know how to read. 

 When did he even get that look? God knows Sidney's never been complicated.  

 He loves hockey, loves his family, loves you - at least a little, but he has to, with how many hours he's spent listening to you bitch about college applications and problems with your basketball team or friend groups or lab partners. He works hard, and takes care of the things and the people he loves. He - when the fuck did he get hot?

 You're still confused when you look away, look out the windshield for the first time since you got into the car, realize then - with a sharp jolt of embarrassment - that he'd only been looking at you because of a red light. It was only fair, considering how you'd been staring at him the whole way there. 

--------------------

Despite the hand he has around yours, you're separated as soon as you enter the hotel ballroom your school's rented out for the dance. You give his hand a quick double-squeeze - your standard signal asking if he wants you to set up an escape plan - but he responds by letting yours go, turning with an easy grin to greet some of the guys who've run up to crowd around you. 

 There's guys from the school baseball team, some guys you know used to play street hockey with him, childhood friends dressed up like James Bonds and Bond Girls. Sid transferred to Shattuck's in like, grade 9, but everyone still knows and loves him. Everyone's still proud to know him, and you know Sid's still a little confused and a lot thankful for all the support, and you're more than happy to share him. 

 It's an excuse, anyway, to run and catch up with your girls, barely giving enough time for everyone to gush compliments over everyone else's dresses and hair and makeup (never mind that you had all gone shopping together, and that most of the girls had gotten dressed up at Annika's place) before catching everyone's attention by blurting out, lingering embarrassment still too strong to be subtle about it, "is it me or did Sid get hot?" 

 You're met with a couple of blank looks, a couple of raised eyebrows, look slowly around the circle your bodies make for a face that has an answer when strong hands spin you around - it's Sara, in a black feathery dress and thick eyeliner that makes her eyes look huge despite the narrow-eyed look she's giving you, hands like clamps on your shoulders. 

 Or maybe you're - being oversensitive. You feel about ready to vibrate out of your skin, antsy and uncomfortable, and unhappy about it. It doesn't overwrite or replace the giddy happiness you'd felt getting dolled up at the Crosbys' house, exactly - it just rests on top like a blanket, or like a layer of powder, changing the look of it. 

 What is it with things changing?

 God help you - are you finally panicking about graduating, about moving away from your friends and your halfway-empty childhood home, about starting anew like you've been wanting to for years?

 Sara's hands tighten on you in a steady double-squeeze, and just like that, you feel your anxiety fade away. She's been your captain for both basketball and softball for like, three straight seasons. She knows better than almost anyone how to get you to cut your shit out. 

 When the slow grin spreads across her face, though, it's your turn to narrow your eyes at her – you know how to get Sara to cut her shit out, but she's a lot more trouble than you are, and you had plans on actually enjoying your grad formal. 

 All she says, though is a sly "aren't you glad you didn't figure that out until after you asked him out?" 

 and you're set to - scold, or protest, or agree when you feel a hand press against your back, large and warm and solid. 

 You know who it is without turning around - you recognize his aftershave, you realize with something like slow-growing horror - but you're saved from having to ask him how much he'd overheard by the girls jumping in - and God, everything in the world could be changing but you'd still have your girls, and thank fuck for that. 

 Annaya's dating someone in his draft year, though the guy spent the season in the AHL, and she starts off the shit-talking by teasing him about his penalty minutes. It's not mean, is the thing - the girls know to stay away from asking him about the shitty end to his season - but you still worry, just a little. 

 You lean, just a little, against his side, just to feel if he was tensing up or feeling uncomfortable, and he slides his arm around your waist in easy acceptance. 

 --------------------

 You tell him about it after, because of course you do, because he's one of your best friends in the entire world and there's no one you'd rather have gone to the formal with, because his hands on your waist as you sway together on the dance floor could be made a deadly weapon, because his warm breath against the side of your head makes you feel antsy all over - but in a nice way. 

 And you don't want anything to spoil this night for either of you. 

 When you give in to it - you've never been a coward, of course you were going to give in - it's with an exhale that's almost a sigh, and Sid makes a questioning sound in the half-second before you shift to rest your head against his shoulder, relaxing even more completely in his arms. 

 It feels like completion, like belonging. 

 (And you don't really feel brave enough to look him in the eye ask you're asking him this, but ––) 

 "You know you got hot, right?" you ask into the side of his neck, voice soft. He starts a little, but when he starts to pull away you give him a light pinch through his tux jacket. You smile against his neck as you do it, both hear his surprised laughter and feel it all around you, and melt deeper into him. 

 "You totally do, you asshole," you say, and you're laughing along with him. It feels better this way, with that out in the open. "Give a girl a head's up next time, eh? You almost gave me a heart attack, when you opened the car door for me." 

 "When we left my place or when we got here?" he wants to know, and you let out a small huff of amused disapproval. 

 "You know I was like, drooling, by the time we got in the car." Lucky thing he'd brought all that water, come to think of it, because you'd been thirsty. You can feel him blushing, heat coming off him in waves, practically, but that's alright - he'd gone and packed a ridiculous amount of water. He can re-hydrate later, it's fine.

 It's not vey eco-friendly, but still very much appreciated. 

 "You look gorgeous too, you know," he says, and he sounds - careful, for a reason you can't quite wrap your head around. Not that you want to look into it too deeply. You prefer making another disapproving sound, briefly lifting your hand from his shoulder to physically brush his words away. 

 "I'm not fishing for compliments, Sid." 

 You pull back to look him in the eye, to flash him a quick grin, ignoring the disapproving sound he lets out himself. "Besides, I spent two hours getting ready. Ten, if you count dress-shopping and the spa day and everything. I know I look hot." 

 "So it's just that I'm not allowed to look nice," he teases, voice low - and when did his voice get low?

 "Hot," you correct, because of course you have to. It's - honesty, or just the principle of the thing. His smile grows at that, and you have to feel that with your free hand, have to let your palm curve against his cheek and your thumb brush against the corner of his lips. 

 "I asked you for a friend-date, you know. Not a date-date." You can feel his expression shift at that, under your fingertips, and you wrinkle your nose back at him. "That's how I asked, I mean. But I don't really feel like being just friends, not right now." 

 He studies you for a second, his hazel eyes warm and serious at once, looking like he's trying to understand you. Looking like he's wanting but uncertain, like he's the innocent high school student being propositioned by an older man. And - you're not speaking Greek, Squid, Jesus. 

 "I like you, you know I love you, but -" and you wave those words away, too, before something else breaks. 

 "But you're not looking for anything serious? Dummy," you tease, because come on - you wrote the script for him yourself, years ago, for each time Sid tried to do normal teen things like go out for dinners or to the movies or to the rare school formal with a pretty girl and would end up with having too-high expectations from said girls placed on his shoulders. 

 "I'm not either. You're a hotshot NHL player, you're going to kill it in Pittsburgh, and I'm already so, so proud of you." His brows are furrowed, just a little, and you pat his cheek - twice, light, just enough to get him to focus. 

 "Don't go fishing for compliments, Sid." You pause, considering it, then add, "your hockey's always been hot – I guess it was just a surprise to think you're hot like this." 

 "I've always thought you're beautiful," he says, because he wouldn't be Sid - your Sid - if he wasn't constantly trying to one-up you, but you preen - exaggerating it just a tiny bit - under his words.  

 "I know, it's a terrible burden." But let's get to complimenting your brains. "Anyway, I'm going to uni soon, and I'm not going to be doing it in the States." For one, you're pretty sure Taylor would kill you for even considering it.  For another – you don't want to. 

 You've been aiming for most of your life to earn one of U of Toronto's iron rings, and everyone - Taylor and Sid especially - knew it. Dating a NHL player - even if he's, like, the future of the league - has no part in your five year plan. 

 The thought of your future makes you tense up, just a little, the familiar anxiety gnawing away at your edges, but that just makes this feel even more right by comparison. 

 "I love you as a friend, but this doesn't really feel like just a friend-date anymore." Because Sid might be the one halfway to hotshot-dom but you're still the one who's going to have to keep this on track, probably. You fix your gaze on his - gaze steady, gaze wanting, something like shyness to it but the shyness is overwhelmed by everything else. 

 "So when we get out of here, do you want to do some date-date stuff?" 

 He grins then, a little shy and a little amused, and wanting, and you grin back, feeling brave about it. 

#sidney crosby imagine #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #sidney crosby #pittsburgh penguins #pens imagine #v:can i go (where you go) #s:accidents (how we went from friends to this) #lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

as long as skies are blue - mitch marner

Pairing: Mitch Marner/Reader

Warnings: Curse words, OC death (not reader), mention of cancer

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Sometimes, it’s okay to start over. Sometimes you need to move on.

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Grief is a cold thing, even in the summer. But all the time you're spending at your local ice rink probably isn't helping. 

 You find yourself there more often than not anyway, more often than you probably should be, watching the skaters move across the ice like ice nymphs, or something like it. There's something pretty, something almost inhuman in their graceful steps and twists and turns. 

 And then, every now and then, one skater would slam into another with all the delicate grace of a freight truck, and the illusion shattered.

 Exasperated, you stand with the whistle already between your lips, blowing two quick, sharp whistles before your assistant coach could even protest. Though he does it anyway, just a moment too late, skating across the ice to you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder - well, shoulder-to around chest-height - with the fourteen year old boys now clamoring for your attention like he's on their side. 

 "Mitch, buddy, stop," you say, and the words come out almost pleading, and maybe you should have addressed the kids first but you know which of the three could potentially give you the most trouble if left unchecked. One of the boys - Ryan, because of course it is - starts to jump into the breach, probably sensing weakness, and Mitch surprises you by wrapping a restraining arm around his shoulders. 

 When that fails to shut the kid up, he tugs a little harder, wrapping the kid up in a headlock until they're both wrestling down on the ice, laughing about it, while Daniel stands beside you to watch them with - God, that was envy on his face. 

 You should tell him that green doesn't go well with his bright red no-contact jersey. 

 "Sin bin, three minutes," you tell them, after the laughter's died down a little. Mitch - again - looks like he's ready to protest, and you add with your best approximation of a grin, "all three of you. Move it." 

 "This is a tyranny, Ryan groans, lying flat on his back to stare up at the ceiling lights like he's waiting for divine retribution, and Daniel nods, nudging at his knee with a skate. 

 "What did I do?" Mitch asks, sounding legitimately curious, and you shrug your shoulders at him - trying your best to look down your nose at him even though, now that he's standing, he has a good few inches on you. 

 "This is a tyranny, Marns," you parrot back to him, sing-song, ignoring Ryan's groan. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

 You've never had to explain yourself to him, is the thing. You had grown up with Mitch, had shared your juice boxes and pillows and blankets with him in pre-k, had spent your first solo camping trip with just him and Damien and the stars (in your backyard, but still), had told him about your first kiss in fifth grade.

 He'd wrinkled his nose, looking grossed out, when you told him how Jonny Levi had jammed his tongue in your throat, and then he'd asked you to kiss him - so he could have his first kiss on the same day you had yours. It would only be fair, after all. 

 His lips had been dry, but soft, the kiss a chaste brush of his lips against yours until you'd grinned and nipped at his lower lip, and he'd pulled back looking surprised and a little offended. 

 He went and told your twin about it too - your kiss with Jonny, not your kiss with him - and they both decided they'd beat Jonny up if he ever tried it again. Without your consent, that was. And you'd consented to a kiss, not to frenching. There was an important distinction. 

 You'd decided, in the ninth grade, that if your kids ever ask you about your first kiss that you'd tell about that one - how gentle Mitch's hands had been on your bare waist, warm from the sun and the hours you'd both spent swimming and playing beach volleyball, how he smelled (for once) like sunscreen instead of hockey sweat, how he'd kept his eyes closed until you'd nipped at his lower lip. 

 It was too perfect - would have been too perfect, if you hadn't done just that.  And you'd always been terrified of perfect things; they always looked so fragile. 

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

 Damien, your twin, had always been the fighter between the two of you. No one in your family would know a Size 0 if it hit you in the face, and Damien had never been afraid to use his extra weight on the ice - where Mitch was tall and slight, skating around other players in the GTA like they were standing still, Damien had always preferring skating straight through them - and more often than not, sending them flying. 

 They had been tight as thieves, were destined for the NHL - everyone knew it. Of course, only one actually lived long enough to make it there. In the end, it wasn't a concussion or a pissed off parent or too many sneaky beers after a good game that finally got him. It was cancer, and Damien had fought till the very end. 

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 You hadn't been surprised to hear that Mitch had volunteered to run your local ice rink's summer puck and stick sessions - he had to have been missing Damien as much as you did. Maybe more, now that he's living their shared dream in the pros. 

 Damien's never showed an interest in going to university, so it's easier to escape the memory of him while you're there. 

 He - Mitch, that was, of course it's Mitch - bumps his shoulder against yours as you both head off the ice at the end of practice, his smile determinedly easy. You know chilled-out Mitch, you know goofy Mitch, you even know media-trained Mitch, and this isn't any of those. 

 He's keeping his smile on for your benefit, and you feel guilty for making him put in that much effort. 

 God, but you're a freak. If not for Damien, the rink probably wouldn't even want your help with the stick and puck sessions - you must be such a downer. 

But Mitch knows you, too, and in an instant he's got his arm wrapped around your shoulders - smile gone now, replaced by a furrowed brow frown that you don't know very well, and you wonder - for a split-second - if he's going to wrestle you down onto the ice like he did with Ryan.

 "Whatever you're thinking, cut it out," he says instead, and the side of his head is now pressed against the top of yours, both his arms now wrapped around you, his chest plastered to your side. Like he's an over-sized, hockey stink-infused weighted blanket. 

 "That was a good session, no one got hurt, Daniel promised me he's going to be more careful." He pauses then for a beat, obviously thinking, and continues in the next breath, "the kids all love you, the agility skate drills you're making them do is definitely going to help them in the long run, Dams would have been proud of you." 

 It's the last one that has you stiffening in his arms, but Mitch refuses to let go, because of course he does. "Is that it? You're thinking about Damien? You don't have to do this if you don't want to," he tells you, and this feels like the kind of conversation you should be having face-to-face, but Mitch has never been one to let things go. 

He doesn't tell you, has never told you, but the last time he did let you go - when he'd gotten drafted, and had moved closer to the city, while you moved to Boston for university - he'd pretty much lost you. And that had stung, okay. 

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

 You'd lasted only five minutes of stubborn, stony silence under the weight of the Mitch blanket - god, but both of you are so stubborn, Damien had never put up with either of your bs - before you'd broken down in tears, and it had been another half hour before Mitch had gotten you to promise you'd meet up with him after you both showered the session off to talk tears- and snot-free. 

 He drives you both to your favorite cafe way back in high school, which makes a nice change from how you both used to walk there lugging your hockey bags (because wheels are for losers), and by the time you get there you almost forgive him for making you face your emotions.

 He knows how you feel about emotions. 

 He knows enough to fill the car with chatter the whole way, talking about how the Leafs are going to look better next season with him on the roster, how he's going to get you tickets for when he's playing in Boston  if you promise not to show up in the wrong  jersey, how he's happy to be home even if he misses what home used to be like. 

 It's the last that makes you frown a little, that gives you the courage to reach over and rest your hand on his knee. The smile he give you is genuinely happy Mitch, chilled out Mitch, and the smile you give him in return is almost shy before you start drawing patterns into his knee just like you used to. 

 One of his superpowers is reading your handwriting, and it's probably because you let him copy your homework so many times. 

 (The first 'I love you' had been written out across his back, while he was half-asleep, and you'd thought you'd finally gotten one over him until he'd mumbled an "I love you too" before rolling over to half-squish you into the mattress.) 

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

 "I miss him, and it sucks," you admit to him over a shake and a heaping plate of poutine, and he nods, his eyes sympathetic. "I miss you, and that sucks too," you tell him, and when he reaches out to cover your hand with his, your eyes start to fill with tears again.   

 "This whole summer - I'm prepared for all of it to suck. And that sucks most of all, because I know how much of a downer I am on everyone else. It's not like I'm the only one who lost him." 

 "He's your twin, though, it definitely sucks the most for you." He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, and that's the trigger for your tears. Knowing Mitch is there to watch your six while you cry - while you're clearly at your most defenseless - has always been enough to get you to lower your defenses enough to cry. 

 Never mind that you're both in your favorite - or ex-favorite, he could probably afford to eat at nicer places now - cafe, with the early evening crowd all around you

 "And life always sucks a little less for me, whenever you're around," he adds, and you use your joined hands to wipe your tears away - before sticking your tongue out at him. 

 Because clearly, that's what grown adults do to hide the fact that they're blushing.  

 Which is - dumb, so dumb, all of it, but Mitch is stroking your cheekbone with the thumb of the hand you still have pressed against your cheek, so you guess that at least he doesn't think it's dumb. 

 "You don't have to run sessions if you don't want to, the kids will get it," he says, and his eyes are on your joined hands - or maybe on the easy sweep of his thumb against your cheekbone, or maybe on the way the color of your blush is deepening. Your face is feeling warmer, anyway. 

 "But I kinda wanna see you there. Even if you're a bit of a downer because you're fucking sad,  Y/N, which is normal, by the way." 

 When you give him a tiny smile - half-grimace, and definitely more apologetic than anything else - he smiles back, wider and easier and so him.  

 So you ask, because you kinda have to, "and if I want to see you somewhere else? Like - that Italian place we used to always go to on date nights?" You hesitate a little before saying the last two words, wondering if you're overstepping, wondering if you misread this or if he's going to think you're a freak for asking right on the heels of talking about Damien - 

 but his grin is brighter than the sun, and you think Damien would approve, at least a little. Even if he'd make gagging sounds about it. 

 "Y/N, I'd go to Montreal for you," he says, sounding like he genuinely means it, and you make gagging sounds on Dam's behalf - before breaking out in teary giggles after. 

 And Mitch looks offended for a split-second, but that's okay because he's leaning over to kiss you a moment later, and you sink into the kiss for maybe too long before you remember to nip - again - at his lower lip. 

 And maybe you'd gotten the order a little wrong but you're ready to start again. 

#hockey imagine #nhl imagine #mitch marner #mitch marner imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

your name on my lips (tongue-tied) - freddie andersen

Summary: You’ve had childhood fantasies about this exact moment: Freddie’s hands on your waist, his lips pressed against the side of your head, a sea of white fabric spilling between the two of you. But the ring on your finger has nothing to do with him, and his own happily-ever-after had crashed and burned over a year ago, and you’re just - sorely in need of a stiff drink.

Author’s Note: I’m still debating whether to leave this short story as is or to expand it into a full verse, so hit me up if you’d like to see more of heartbroken!Freddie and confused!bride-to-be <3

Requested: Kinda. A lovely anon asked for an angst with happy ending fic, but because the planning for that’s taking me a bit I’m holding up this slightly-angsty with slightly-hopeful-ending short story as a humble offering :D 

"How did it feel?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper, voice halfway to not-existing. You could have said nothing at all, should have said nothing at all, because now he's looking at you in the mirror and you've never quite learned how to avoid his gaze. 

 His eyes, that deep brown, are the steadiest things you've ever known. Come flood or fire, heartbreak or fear of mortal peril ⁠— you know you can't look away. You've never managed it, so why start now? 

 Now, when everything's about ready to change, when his deft fingers are pulling back your hair in a gentle braid he'd learned when you were maybe five, and he just a few years older. He'd always been your go-to, for braids, and even for your bridal look you can't imagine tapping someone else in. 

 He's your go-to for most other things, too. Just not romance. Just not happily ever afters. Just not finding yourself under an arch, ready to exchange rings and vows and claim yourself as one another's. So why are you asking him this now? 

He's asking you the same thing with his eyes alone, and you manage a smile, or a weak apology of one. It's a topic he's never allowed you to cross into, or even pass by; some days you think he'd be happy if both you and The Topic stopped existing, so he could lock the memory of the pair of you in a box and keep you tucked away. 

 That's what Freddie does, with an ease that has always driven you mad with both annoyance and envy. He compartmentalizes, and what he doesn't want to think about he simply - doesn't. 

Like you. Like The Topic. Like his ex-fiance. 

 "Come on, Freddie," you say, and you should probably be thankful that you're only looking at him through the mirror. His hands have dropped from your hair to your hips, framing you like he's not yet ready to pull away, never mind what terrible questions you want - no, have - to ask him. 

"You've done all this already," you say, and you have to wet your lips before you can continue, an unconscious darting of your tongue that you see his gaze dropping to follow. "Or - not this exactly, I don't think even this place has a dress that can fit you." 

 It's a joke, but a weak one, and he doesn't even try to smile for you. The bridal shop's not one for waifish instagram models, but you think even the overly-excitable shopkeepers here would have a hard time finding something to fit - much less show off - Freddie's broad shoulders and large, muscled thighs. He's so strong — it's too easy to picture him in your mind's eye, to want to lean back against him and feel that strength against you.

So stupid. You close your eyes anyway. You let the picture of him fuel you; it always helps, knowing that he's right there should you fall. You can hear the shopgirls chattering, but from a distance - the dress viewing room, with its small, circular stage half-surrounded by mirrors, is all yours for the evening, and Freddie had told them that you'd call for their help when you need them again. 

 He'd sounded so casual about it, so sure. But then, he's done all this already. 

 You take care to pitch your voice even lower than the girls', to make your words a  secret for just you two to hear. 

"You got the girl, the ring. The location, the catering, your parents were here."  You remember his mor's excited fluttering, how she'd danced around The Topic and tried to pretend she couldn't see how you'd been heartbroken at best, how she'd tried to include you in the planning anyway, like you were another of her daughters - like you were Freddie's sister - and not a girl who'd been half in love with her son for more than half your life. 

Had been. Past tense. The burn of his hands on your hips couldn't - shouldn't - compare to the weight of the ring on your finger. 

Jesus, the boys had joked - when you first came to them with the news - that Michael was trying to buy you with the diamond he'd chosen and privately you had - almost? - agreed. It's not your style at all, too large, and you've cut your face more than once just from forgetting that you had it on. 

 But then, you have the rest of your life to get used to it. 

"Drop it," he says, his voice sounding like it's coming from right beside your right ear, but it came after a few moments of silence and it's almost as though he's giving you an out. He doesn't sound stern, or firm, or anything but tired - nothing of his casual confidence now, and hearing Freddie with his defenses down always manages to get your hackles up - like you now have to work twice as hard to protect the both of you. 

 "I won't, asshole. You know how long it took me to get here?" you ask, and you feel his lips against your hair - you have to bite back a smile, and this time, you'd bet anything on him doing the same. It's been a while since you'd snapped at him, and you - you think you both - have missed it. 

 And that - more than anything else - maybe meant that you were ready to ask. 

 "You were so ready to get married, Freddie. And then I woke up, and there was that text message from you saying that you'd changed your mind, that the wedding's off." 

 You open your eyes, then, aren't surprised to realise that there's a tear falling down your cheek when you do, aren't surprised when he takes one hand off your hip to wipe at it for you.

 Brides can get a little emotional, your mama had warned him, and he'd slipped a handkerchief into his pocket and winked at her, promising he'd put Facetime on again when you've narrowed your dress selection options down a little. He uses it to wipe your tear away, and you yearn for the brush of his calloused fingers instead. 

 "She was wrong for me, and we both knew it," he says, each word slow and measured, each word calm and steady - like he's been ready to tell you this all along, and you just hadn't been ready to hear it. "It just took some time for us to come to terms with it, to make it all stop. It's hard, when things are going 500 miles an hour." 

 Like this — you can relate, so maybe it's good that Freddie's kept the story secret for so long. You wouldn't have been able to before, wouldn't have understood how planning for the best day of your life could feel a little like drowning. 

 You lean back against him, and the hand holding the handkerchief drops from your face, wraps around your midriff instead. Holds you close. 

"Does it feel like that for you? 500 miles an hour?" he asks, voice soft, and you nod your head. 

And then: "Should it be?" 

You don't know if you'd thought the words or he'd actually said it, but your eyes are meeting his in the mirror once again and you know he's thinking it either way. 

 "I don't know," you admit, and even to your ears, you sound unhappy. Not flustered, not embarrassed, just - not happy. Not at all how a girl picking out her wedding dress should be. Maybe it had been a bad idea, you doing this with just Freddie, but with his crazy schedule you could either have all your girls with you or just him — and that hadn't actually felt like much of a choice at all. 

 You were always going to choose him. 

 You smile a little at him in the mirror - a little apologetic, a little sheepish about your dramatics, and he kisses the side of your head again before stepping back off the stage. The lack of him - the deliberate taking-away of the warmth of his chest against your back - makes you startle a little, but when you turn your head to meet his gaze directly this time, ready to ask him what gives?  he's giving you a sheepish little smile right back. 

 "Go and change back into your clothes, we can come again some other time if you want to. First, ice cream, and then vodka if you still need help figuring things out." 

You're breathing out a sigh of relief that you didn't know you'd been holding in you, feel your shoulders untensing as you take his hand and let him help you off the stage. His hand - calloused, warm - around yours feels more real than anything else of the last few months, and you know that whatever you decide, he'll be right there with and for you. 

#freddie andersen #freddie andersen imagine #toronto maple leafs imagine #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #toronto maple leafs #lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

cat and mouse (for a month or two or three) - freddie andersen

Pairing: Freddie Andersen/Single Mother!Reader

Mentions: Mitch Marner, Nazem Kadri

Warnings: Curse words, slight sexual innuendo, two POVs

Word Count: 6.5k

Credits: @hockey-reblogs beta’d this for me, and like. thank g od IDEK what i did to deserve her help and support <3

 Summary: Someone can’t wait to get on the ice, someone wants to meet up off the ice, and someone has an unexpectedly intense reaction to coffee. OR: a story of how you two met. 

 Writer’s Note: This is a standalone fic that’s a part of a bigger verse titled Can I Go (Where You Go) featuring [Y/N], a not-very single mother, Lila, your very opinionated daughter, and Freddie Andersen - a man very happy to be invited along for the ride. 

-------------------------------------

The first thing you notice upon arriving at the Mastercard Centre, your new training facility for the next five seasons (if your contract has anything to say about it) is the noise. The words sound about the same, shouts about cellys and sick dangles and benders and dusters, all the words North American players like to throw around to make it sound like they're from a generation older and greater than they are, but the pitch is - different. 

 A lot higher, for once, the voices a lot softer, and you're frowning even before you turn the corner to the Leafs' locker room. Mitch Marner and Nazem Kadri are standing near the doorway, Naz grinning in a way that you know from watching game tape means he's probably going to lay a hit on someone, and Marner looking - well - scared, but they're not looking that way at each other. 

Which, is probably good. Mitch is as new to the Leafs as you are, which means you'd probably have to take his side against Naz, and you've seen Naz's hits. Game tape. It's weird to think of them as teammates now, with how you've memorized the slightest shifts in their stances to figure out split-seconds before the recoil of their stick exactly where the puck is going to go, but you're good at dealing with weird. 

 Dishing it out, taking it. Part of hockey, and part of being a goalie. You're not good at, however - you're not used to - dealing with the sight that had apparently frozen Naz and Marner into caricatures of themselves. 

 About thirty girls, give or take, all of them minors, in green tartan skirts and hockey skates and green and white sweaters. You wonder if the Leafs are taking another PC shift on the ice crew, though the girls aren't even in Leafs colours. But then you see that half the girls are holding hockey sticks, and suddenly you're feeling just as worried - worried, not scared - as Marner's obviously feeling scared. 

You can't blame him, though. Kid looks about twelve, looks like a couple of the bigger girls could beat him up without breaking a sweat. He's probably worried about his voice cracking in front of them or something. 

 It's Naz who sees you first, shit-eating grin in full effect as he calls you over, but his voice is drowned out halfway through "Yo Andy, get over-" (which, thank you, but no) as a girl shouts, "motherfucker, get on the ice and I'll show you roughing." 

 And then you change your mind. 

 Naz cracks up laughing at the threat and you match Marner's smile, but a woman is there in the next heartbeat - this one, thankfully not in uniform, though you wouldn't mind seeing what she could do to a schoolgirl skirt - pinching the girl's nose in a way that you're almost certain isn't part of the school's disciplinary code. 

Or maybe it was. California didn't have corporal punishment, and it didn't have school uniforms either, and judging by the way you were looking at the woman - the teacher? - up and down and trying to picture her in pumps and tiny skirt and blazer, with maybe a green ribbon in her hair, it was probably for the best. 

The girl doesn't look like she's in pain or anything, so you wander over to the boys, trying to not make any sudden movements just in case the girls could smell fresh blood. "School trip, we're teaching them the ropes," Marner says to you before you could ask, and Naz's expression turns a little wry, his smile a little dry as he adds. "Private school girls, so make sure none of them breaks another nail or we could be looking at a lawsuit." 

*****

 You'd been helping one of the younger girls with her skates when you'd glanced up and saw Freddie Andersen - the Great Dane, the Ginga Ninja, the new goalie for the Leafs - approaching through a break in the cloud of girls, and you bite back a grin that was - okay, maybe a little mean. 

 But his furrowed brow-stoicism was an expression you knew well, from the faces of men who just didn't know what to do with a small army of girls - which, good. You girls can handle your own, which is a weird thought to have when you're on your knees in front of an apprehensive-looking sixth grader, but all the other girls had gotten each other laced up and strapped into protective gear and you wonder whether it was actually necessary for the headmistress to insist that the Leafs drop in to "show you the ropes", as it were. 

 It was a school in Canada, after all, and in Toronto to boot, where hockey wasn't so much a pastime as it was a minor religion. An open, accepting religion - you could be both practicing Christian, or Muslim or whatever and a Leafs fan. There was a reason why games aren't scheduled for the same time as Sunday Mass, or Friday prayers. 

 God and the NHL both knew which one people would rather attend. 

 But Branksome Hall's new to allowing hockey to be played and not just watched at the school, and having been a hockey fan for most of your life (not to mention a young and new teacher, which made you an easy target for assignments such as these) you were an obvious pick to get girls into the sport. 

 You probably won't have a school team this season, but it's always nice to get girls on the ice, and your girls could always use an outlet for their excess energy (not to mention aggression). 

 Brianna's all talk and you tell her that, giving a last, gentle tug on her nose before she pushes you away, laughing, and you turn to the boys just in time to hear the tail end of Nazem Kadri's words. 

 Which, ouch. But not at all wrong, and it's your turn to laugh, though Madame Mercier - who's just as suddenly by your side - is looking considerably less amused. 

 "Branksome Hall takes the health and safety of our girls very seriously," she says, her French accent - French, and not Quebecois, she'd remind anyone with a faux-haughty look on her face and a twinkle in her eyes - thicker than it usually is, and you jump in to alleviate the tension before the boys could apologize - or very pointedly not apologize. 

 "We do, but we also understand how dangerous skating and hockey can be, and the girls and their legal guardians have all signed the disclaimers we've passed along to your organization," you say with a smile - not the practiced one you hold in reserve for overbearing parents, because god only knew what you'd do if you ever ran out of those - but something easy and warm. 

 You'd been an athlete yourself, when you were in school, and you hadn't gone to a school like Branksome Hall, where the Board of Governors could up and decide to introduce a new sport to the school and then have the pull to have some of the best athletes in the sport go and teach it to the girls themselves. Never mind that it's still off-season, and that the boys would probably rather be in board shorts than hockey gear. 

 You're just you, a little messy, a little too casual, you have nothing of Madame Mercier's dignified grace as you offer your hand out to the newcomer. Frederik Andersen, who's all ginger scruff in the early light of day, brown eyes looking a little wary even as he takes your hand. 

 His hand's large, because of course it is, and a little rough, because of course it is, and you feel an impulse to sandwich it between your own for a full study. But a smaller hand covers the back of it before you could embarrass yourself, yanking both your hands down - 

 and you look further down to see Lila coming out from behind Mitch Marner's legs, all toothy grin despite the fact that she was clearly feeling ignored, and you laugh again. "Sorry about that," you quickly say, dropping the goaltender's hand and dropping to your knees to scoop up your little girl. 

 Mitch, sweet boy that he is, reaches out to tickle her sides, and you suppose you're thankful that he's learned his lesson about having his hands too close to her teeth. 

 "I'm [Y/N L/N], and this is my daughter, Lila." Lila frees one of the arms you'd pinned to her sides in an attempt to stop her from squirming out of your arms to give the man a wave, looking almost shy, and Freddie in turn - surprise fading into something that almost looks like shyness, too - reaches out to pat her head, as though copying his teammate. 

 God, if you were just unlucky enough the boys might come to see Lila as some kind of lucky charm to be fussed over or petted, like a team mascot in tiny human form. It seemed a little far fetched, but you know hockey players and how superstitious they could be, and you turn around to pass Lila off to your nanny before any of your dire predictions could come into fruition. 

 When you turn back around, Freddie's hand is still hovering in midair, and you can't help but raise an eyebrow at him, watching a flush slowly spread across his cheekbones as though in slow motion. He looks so dumb, looks something like a piece of art. You'd title it: hockey player vs social situations or something like that. 

 You squash the urge to paint him. 

 "Frederik Andersen, right?" you ask, because he hasn't introduced himself, and smile encouragingly when he nods, feeling like you were talking to one of your younger girls. 

 "Call me Freddie," he says, and you grin, turning to include the other boys in it. 

 "Freddie, Mitch, and Naz," you say as though to check their names, though of course you know them all. "Thank you guys so much for coming, I'm sure all the girls are going to love this. Now, are you guys ready to meet the next group of miracles on ice?" 

A little kitschy, a little corny, but Mitch is grinning back at you, and Naz is looking amused, though you suspect that with the latter that's pretty much his default expression. Freddie's not looking at you, though, and you follow his gaze to the near-empty corridor, wondering if he's looking for an escape route - but no, he's watching Emilie and Lila. 

And you feel - jealous? Emilie's very pretty, and she's so good with Lila, and you were only expecting two hockey players with you today and not three and - Frederik Andersen could do whatever he wants, really, it's nothing to do with you. 

Naz gives you a light punch on the arm, like you're a part of the team, though you're just a teacher for the group of girls he's been made to babysit. "Lets get at it, coach," he says, as he follows Mitch to the entrance of the rink, and you give Lila a small wave before following suit

Madame Mercier doesn't even own skates and she's not about to start trying it at fifty-two, and Freddie Andersen - you realise, then, that he hadn't even been wearing skates. He was still in his coat, for god's sake - he was taller than you even though you're in skates so you hadn't noticed. 

But then the girls are calling for you, tapping their sticks against the ice where they all stand in a loose circle on center ice, and you and Mitch and Nazem hurry up to join them. 

*****

 "Freddie," you repeat to the little girl, all brown, windswept curls and a grin that takes up about half of her face, and her hazel eyes look like they understand but all she does is blow a raspberry at you. And then giggle, like it's the funniest thing in the world, and maybe it is, because her nanny laughs too. 

 Emilie, she'd said her name was, in the same accent that the strict-looking teacher had.  The one that wasn't [Y/N]. You didn't even realise that you hadn't asked her name, and now she's ignoring the three of you, leaning against the glass like she's worried one of her girls might actually break another nail. 

"She's only three, Mr. Andersen," Emilie says to you, and that Lila decides to repeat, the lisped "three!" sounding jubilant in her voice. Emilie smiles down at her, expression so fond, and you can see why. "She has one month before she turns three," Emilie corrects herself, as though the one month makes a difference, and you nod a little dumbly because maybe it does. 

"She looks a little older," you say, though she doesn't. "She looks smart." And she does. There’s something assessing in her gaze, more curiosity than shyness or fear.

You've always liked kids, but they've always looked a little fragile, especially compared to you. And the kids you usually meet are excitable boys either starting out in or already playing hockey, eager to show the world that they have what it takes. 

And Lila's just staring at you with her large hazel eyes, squirming for a moment before she suddenly flops back, body going limp all over until her nanny relents and sets her down on the floor. Her little shoes squeak with each step, and you both watch her as she makes her way - just as determined as any young boy you've ever met - to the rink entrance. 

"Too smart," Emilie says with a smile, and you grin as Lila drops to the ground in a deliberate collapse, patting both of her hands against the ice. It looks like she doesn't want to walk in - she's ready to crawl in instead, but Emilie is on her in the next heartbeat, scooping her up and pressing kisses against her little face. 

"No, silly, your maman said to stay here," she tells Lila. 

 You take the chance to step in then and say, "I can take her in, she'll be safe with me," but the look Emilie shoots you is arch, a little too knowing, and you feel heat rise on your cheeks again. 

"If her maman wanted the little one on the ice she'd take her herself, non?" But her grin turns friendly again as she tilts her head to the ice, before swinging around so that Lila isn't pushing out of her arms to take matters into her own tiny hands. "Now go, before her maman wonders why I'm keeping you."

And you're fairly certain that this isn't in your schedule, that no one's expecting you to stay, but you already have your gear and skates in your bag and you wanted to get some solo training in before training camp, anyway, so. 

 You go. 

 *****

 He's easy on his feet, you realise with a pang. Quiet. You hadn't even realised that he was standing right behind you until Wei Yan slammed into his side, not hard enough to make him stumble, but enough to catch your attention, making you turn around with a slight frown. 

 She's not at all apologetic about it, grinning as she says, "inertia" as though that alone's an explanation, even though it isn't. Freddie's looking down at her like he doesn't quite know what to do with a fifteen year old girl suddenly attached to his side and spouting Newtonian principles at him, which, fair. 

 The girls love to show off what they'd learned in class - little teachers' pets, all of them, and you could relate - and usually, it makes you smile. It means you've done a good job. Nut somehow inertia is always the first thing they remember, probably because it allows them to do things like this, and you can't have them breaking the new Leafs goalie before he's even broken in yet. God knows the Leafs need a good man in the crease. 

"Goon," you shoot back at her, waving your hands like you're shooing off some stray chickens. And you might as well be - wherever Wei Yan led, the rest of the girls usually followed, and soon there'd be no one doing the skating drill you had set up. 

Mitch was in the far end of the rink, coaching most of the girls through puck-handling drills, and Naz is on center ice dropping face off puck after face off puck while girls battled for dominance. You could see his grin from here, delighting in the role he's getting to play in the chaos. 

 When Wei Yan doesn't move, leaning against Freddie's side and giving him a narrow eyed look that he seems intent on returning in full measure, you skate over to them to give her a gentle nudge. "Shoo, you know how hockey players feel about a hit on their goalie," you tell her, and she turns to face you, grin unnervingly like Kadri's.

 "There's no D-men on the ice," she points out, sly, and it takes Freddie by surprise - the laugh he lets out is over-loud, and it looks like the sun had broken out just over his face. 

 You're soon giggling too, more from the sound of his laughter than anything else, and Wei Yan skates away looking smug. 

 Silence stretches after that but it's not awkward, not really, the two of you watching as Wei Yan lands another hit - this time against Marie, who's a full head shorter than her and maybe fifteen pounds lighter, but she's so gentle about it that you can't help beaming. 

 They're good girls, and you're so proud of them, and you're so happy that the school's letting them have this outlet. 

 Freddie's apparently thinking along the same lines because when he breaks the silence it's to ask, voice light but sounding just a hint too serious to be properly teasing, "you went to all the trouble of bringing Lila to the rink and won't even let her skate?" 

You turn to him with brows raised, more amused and curious than annoyed by the personal question, and he smiles a little at you, as though encouraged by your expression. "Seems a little mean, is all," he explains, and you laugh. 

"My dad's a diehard Leafs fan," you explain. "He'd never forgive me if I didn't bring her. But she's still a little too young for skates. " 

 There's a beat of silence, and it looks like he's studying you now, as though he's memorizing the planes of your face the way you'd tried to memorize his hand, and you're already blushing - your gaze sliding from his eyes to his lips - when he asks - 

"Would he forgive you if you said no to the Leafs' new goalie taking you out for coffee?" 

And the colour's exploding over your face in full force, now, you could feel even the back of your neck getting warm, it's like you've never been asked out before. And you might be a single mom but you're only twenty-six and still attractive, still in full possession of a sex drive, thank you very much, you're clever and you're articulate and you're athletic. 

You shouldn't be staring up at him looking like you'd just finished a 5k on the treadmill, mouth in a flat line, arms crossed across your chest. 

 He shouldn't be looking down at you, looking somewhere between confused and mortified, but god that was such a pro hockey player question - I have money, I have fame, I can hit a puck really, really hard, wanna come home with me?

And he'd just been talking about your daughter - Lila, of all people, who absolutely doesn't deserve to be around more hockey players. Once burned and all that. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Freddie finally bursts out, and you shake your head. 

"Of course you didn't, Mr. Andersen, I apologize if there's been any confusion," you say, and you know you're using your stern teacher voice, and now he's looking down at you like he doesn't know who you are. 

 Which, of course he doesn't. He doesn't know why you're so opposed to - well, if not hockey players, then hockey players pulling what he'd just tried to pull. 

And you would have let it drop at that but he's moving just a little closer, brows furrowed, looking contrite. "I didn't, I'm not trying to use my position to ask you out. I'm just - I was trying to be funny." 

 He looks half- in pain is the thing, and you believe him. You can certainly believe he's not the best at being funny. You relax a little, make a show of untensing, giving him a small smile and putting a hand on his arm. " It's fine, really. It's just that I'm working - and I have Lila." 

 Not that Lila's really an excuse, with the full-time nanny Sid hired and pays for. But Freddie doesn't need to know that. 

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks, and he still looks like you'd kicked a puppy, and he looks softer than you're prepared for. But when he continues, words tumbling over themselves in the rush to be said, "I can get you tickets for the opening game, you said your dad's a fan and you can bring Lila -" 

 you shake your head, laughing. "I said it's fine, and my dad has season tickets anyway." Honestly, you think it's the biggest family heirloom your family has to your name. 

 He looks like he believes you, he looks like he's relaxed somewhat, and he looks like he's not some pro-athlete dick so you even tease him with an "I'm sure I'll come and see you sooner or later, see if you're any good," 

 and if it sounds like flirting it's possibly because you are, just a little. 

 But he's smiling back at you, looking like you'd given - well, not a puppy, but maybe a dear friend - CPR, and you find yourself smiling back. 

 And become aware, in the next moment, that the girls closest to you have stopped doing their drills, and are looking at the two of you just smiling at each other like idiots with expressions that ranged from surprise to delight.  Which meant that Madame Mercier was probably watching, too, even if you both had your backs to her - which meant you had to disguise what you'd been talking about. 

 "But if you still want to make it up to me," you say to Freddie, voice low, not waiting for him to reply before you skated to the girls. "Line up, ladies, Mr. Andersen's going to get in goal for you. Make sure you show off a little, eh?" 

And the sound of his laughter from behind you, the quiet swish of his skates as he moves to set up between the posts, makes you smile. 

*****

 You go to all the pre-seasons game you have the time to attend with your dad, and once with Emilie, though the poor girl ended up with a headache from all the noise. You - you were in your element, in your old Sundin sweater that still hit you about mid-thigh, usually with blue lines painted under your eyes even though it was just the preseason. 

 After your first game, a young man with a Leafs intern lanyard comes over to your seat with a puck and a kids' jersey, and you're frowning just a little until he tells you that they're both from Marner. You ask the kid to give Marns your number, so you can thank him personally, and when he texts you later that night he tells you that he's just excited to have someone wearing his number in the coming season. 

He's just a sweet kid, and you thank him about ten more times, and you take it to mean that you're going to have to bring Lila in for a game sooner or later. You'd enjoyed watching Marns while he was with the Knights, and you're definitely looking forward to rooting for him on the Leafs - and Freddie, too.

But he doesn't look at you. Freddie, that is. 

 Not during warmups and definitely not during the games, you don't think he sees anything but the puck and there's something almost magical about that degree of hyper-focus. 

It's the night before opening night when he seems to remember that you exist - and it's Marns texting you, not Freddie, and at first you ignore it because Marns has taken to texting you memes you can barely understand, though the girls at your school giggle when you pass it on to them. You won't let him contact any of the girls directly - it would be unprofessional for you to give away any of your students' numbers, and none of them ask you for his - but he seems proud of being the girls' favourite coach. 

 (The girls still practice at the Mastercard Centre, and you're the one chaperoning them more often than not, but with the season coming underway the boys are no longer obligated to show up - the school's hired their own skating and puck-handling coaches, and even a goalie coach though Melanie's the only one interested in getting between the posts, and she far prefers when Freddie's the one to help her.) 

When you finally reach for your phone, deciding that a social media break's allowed after three straight hours of grading physics papers, you're surprised to see a closeup shot of Freddie in his goalie mask - eyes narrowed and staring at you through the grill and phone, like he sees exactly what you're doing and he doesn't approve. It's a little intimidating, more than a little hot. 

You wonder what Marns has done to piss him off - and why Marns decided to send it to you - but the text that pops up after you reply with a simple "???" just says - "he's wondering why u haven't brought lila yet." 

 Which, weird. Also, flattering. Also, weird. You hadn't even been aware that he's noticed that you're there at all.

 "so he can eat her?" you shoot back, grinning a little down at your phone, and marns replies in the next instant with 

"maybe" 

then: 

"rude tho"

then: 

"y don't u ask him urself"

You shoot back a "he didn't ask ME himself", even though it feels at this point like you're two kids passing notes in class, and you're judging yourself for it hard when your phone dings thrice with more text messages. 

From Marns:

"can u imagine freddie taking a selfie"

and then:

several barf emojis, and you don't know why, because Freddie has a pretty decent face 

and 

from an unknown number: 

"Why haven't you brought Lila to any games?"

When your phone dings again, a few seconds later, you see several frowning emojis from the same number, and you hate how you can picture exactly, in your mind's eye, the way Freddie could be frowning at you right then. 

 You save his number under "F.And, L", knowing how hockey players - at least the ones you know - value their privacy, and you wouldn't want his number to get leaked if you somehow lose your phone. Marns is just saved under a frog emoji, and he seemed inordinately pleased about that when you'd told him. 

"Too loud for her," you send back to Freddie, and before you could think twice about it, you send Marns several sweat droplets emojis. You are a teacher - if anyone asks, you could say that you had no idea what they meant, you just know that that's what the kids are texting nowadays.

"Marns is going to be disappointed," Freddie replies, and you're disappointed - despite yourself - because he didn't say that he would be disappointed. 

Another two dings, another two texts, and it's Freddie saying "We'll have to get her in for a practice," while Marns just fills your whole screen with more barfing emojis. 

You shoot them both the okay emoji, and then tell them that you need to get back to work. 

 When you check your phone again before bed, there's two text messages, both of them from Freddie. 

The first: "Good luck with your work, and sweet dreams" 

And then a picture of him, light spilling over him from a bedside lamp, duvet halfway up his bare chest. He looks a little tired, a little shy, but he's smiling up at the camera. 

 A selfie. You wonder what else Marner has told him. 

 And you save the picture.

 *****

 The boys win the first home game of the season, and you couldn't make it because Lila's down with a cold but you send Marns a selfie of you and Lila in Leafs jerseys in front of the TV - you wearing Sundin's number and grinning wide, Lila in Marner's and opening her mouth to show him a mouthful of chewed-up mashed potatoes. You figure it's not too different from a picture of unchewed mashed potatoes, and besides, you're just happy that she's eating. 

 Marns sends back a shot of him flashing a peace sign, flushed with good spirits and (you're pretty damned sure) alcohol he's barely old enough to be drinking, and the way he angles the camera makes you think he's trying to hide the fact that he's in a bar. 

 Which, dumb, but you pass along the congratulations the girls text you to send to him, and there's almost thirty of them, and by the time you're done Freddie's message to you has been waiting for several minutes, unopened. 

 "Thanks for the congratulations," it says, even though you didn't send him one, and you giggle as you lean back to reply. 

 "sorry! had to pass on messages from mitchy's fans first, and there's a lot of them." 

 Freddie: "Yeah? And who were you rooting for?" 

 "david pastrnak," you reply, grinning to yourself as you did it. 

and then before he has time to get into a sulk: "guy has to be a superhero to have gotten one past you" 

 He doesn't reply anyway, not for a good half hour, and you switch the tv to a golf tournament with the volume on low, because of course that's what Lila falls asleep to best. 

And then, from Freddie: "Guess that makes me your kyptonite." 

 Which, okay, he isn't wrong. 

 You're not sure how to reply - you guess this means that he's at least a little bit into you, and he knows you're at least a little bit into him, and - you're not sure how to reply. 

 "you're not wrong," you text him. And then, like a coward, but at least an honest one: "i need to go and tuck lila in. make sure you drink lots of water before bed x" 

 And he sends you a goodnight text, tells you to tell him if Lila's not feeling better in the morning, as though there's anything he can do about it anyway. 

When you wake up the next morning, there's a text from Marns sent at around three am that says, "YOOOOOO WAS TAT SMOOTH OR WHAT" 

Which, okay, he's not wrong. 

 *****

 The boys go through a losing streak like it's nobody's business. Which, is disappointing, but it's the Leafs, and Toronto's a city that's grown accustomed to it. After a home win against Florida that they barely managed by the skin of their teeth (which, it's Florida) Freddie's on your doorstep instead of celebrating at some bar or another, or maybe sleeping the adrenaline off. 

You raise your eyebrows at him, don't move aside to let him in even though you'd known he was the guy at the door when you'd looked through the peephole, and you'd gone and opened the door anyway. He looked rumpled, exhausted, hair a mess but not covered in product - like he'd gone for a shower after the game and then left, not even bothering to swing by his place to change out of his game day suit. 

 And you're in your Leafs jersey still, it's practically a dress on you so you didn't bother slipping any pants on, and the TV's still quietly going over game recaps.

You know this, the look on him, even though you've never seen him this way. He racks up a loss, takes it all on his own shoulders, won't let anyone take some of his burden or even see any of his pain. You've lived this, just not with him, and you're not in the mood for dealing with a moody hockey player. 

It's Lila's birthday tomorrow, and Marns' already said he would come, and he's asked if he could bring some of the boys with him, too. He hadn't mentioned Freddie, and neither had you - Freddie's been on radio silence since the loss against the Hawks, third in a streak that didn't seem like it was going to end. That had been five days ago, which

You're a big girl, you can take it. 

 But you don't particularly want to expose Lila to it. 

 "Look, I know I've been stupid," he starts, the creases in his brow deepening when he sees you're not going to start shit, but he falls silent when you shake you head. 

"Don't make a martyr of yourself, Freddie." It comes out sounding short, impatient, you're a little tired yourself and it's late. 

 And it hurts, just a little, him showing up here and now like you're some kind of fair weather-only friend. You're not even a fair weather fan, or you sure as shit wouldn't still have your Leafs jersey. 

He looks confused, though, raising one hand to rest against the frame of the door, and leans in, like proximity would help. That, or he's too tired to stand straight, which. Idiot. 

 "You lost, and you went and licked your wounds in private. It's fine." You pause, consider that, and decide to go for something a little more honest. "Or it's not fine, I missed you, but if that's what you need to do to get your head on right for your next game then I can live with it." 

 You're a big girl, you've survived worse things. 

 "I'm sorry," he says, and you smile, because - that's one you've never heard before. And you didn't think he'd understand, either, how you needed an apology and not a self-lashing from him, because the latter's designed to make you feel sorry for him more than anything else. 

 Which, you already do. Idiot. 

 You open the door wider, but instead of letting him in you step forward to wrap your arms around him, feeling him do the same to you - one across the back of your shoulders and one around your waist, warm, solid weights holding you in place for a long moment. 

 "I know you were worried about me, I shouldn't have put you through that, all I needed to do was pick up the phone." He pulls back, then, to look you in the eye, and your right hand slips higher to settle on the nape of his neck, to keep him there. 

 "Idiot," you tell him, but you're grinning, and in a moment he's grinning back. "You can come on in. I'm almost done getting things ready for Lila's birthday party tomorrow." 

"Can I help?" he asks, but you brush the offer aside, leading him through the hallway and into the living room, where you give him another push until he's settled on the couch. 

 "Beer's in the fridge, if you want, and Lila's already in bed. We have a spare room if you'd like to use it." He looks a little concerned at that - and, yeah, maybe you are being a little too forward - but you flash him another grin. 

 "What, you're making it up to me, right?" You ask him, voice teasing. "So you're going to do all the barbecuing for the party tomorrow."

He smiles back at you, but then the smile slowly fades, and he says again, sounding like he has to, "I'm sorry. I needed time to myself, but we're - friends, and- " 

 "You shouldn't have gone full radio silence?' You shake your head, amused, but Freddie's still looking at you like you might throw a temper tantrum, so you move to sit on the couch beside him, stretching out your legs so that your feet rested in his lap. 

Physical contact helps. Open communication helps. The slow massage he was giving your left foot definitely helps. After a few minutes: "I was upset, but it's just five days, Freddie. I've gone into radio silence for longer just because I had an assignment due." You give him a nudge with your other foot and he takes the hint, switching feet. "We're still friends," you tell him, the emphasis on the last word unmistakable, and you watch him colour up a little. 

 "Are you free next weekend?" He blurts out, like you figured he would, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. 

 "Nope, I'm chaperoning a school dance." 

 "Can I chaperon with you?" 

And there's no biting back the laugh you have to let out at that, hand covering your mouth so it doesn't wake Lila, and Freddie's looking halfway between amused and embarrassed.

 "The school isn't usually okay with having strangers attend our private school functions. Why don't you come out for coffee with me instead? Say, after your game on Tuesday, even if you lose?"

 The smile he gives you is something like watching the sun coming out, or maybe you're just feeling warm, but either way you'd have liked to be closer to him. 

 And then - voice teasing - "last time I asked you out for coffee you tried to snap my neck." 

 Which, fair, and you shrug a little even as you shift closer, so that you're sitting on the seat beside his on the couch, your bare thighs across his lap. His arm slips down from where it had rested along the back of your couch to around your waist, which. Feels nice. "Nah. Last time it was this kinda arrogant Ducks trade who'd asked me, and I wasn't even sure if he's any good between the posts." 

 A misstep, maybe, because his brows are creased again, and you have an urge to smooth it out with your thumb so you do just that. "So you want to go out with a good goalie," he says, something so uncertain in his voice, something sad in the way he looks down as you as though braced for the worst. Idiot. 

 You kiss his cheek, because you can't help it, then the corner of his lips - pulling back before he could kiss you properly, grinning a little as you drop one last kiss on the tip of his nose. "Yeah, but I'm hoping that's not all you're good at." 

#freddie andersen #freddie andersen imagine #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #toronto maple leafs #toronto maple leafs imagine #v:can i go (where you go) #lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

accIdents (how we went from friends to this) - sidney crosby

Title: accidents (how we went from friends to this), part i

Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Female Reader

Mentions: Taylor Crosby

Warnings: Pairing is not endgame, mentions of underaged kissing 

Word Count: 2.2k

  Summary: How many friendships start with a book? (In which someone is always way too hyper, someone kisses two boys because it's easier than talking, and someone leaves because he's genuinely too good to stay.) 

Writer’s Notes: This is Part I of a story that’s a part of a bigger verse titled Can I Go (Where You Go) featuring [Y/N], a not-very single mother, Lila, your very opinionated daughter, and Freddie Andersen - a man very happy to be dragged along for the ride. But in the beginning, there had been Sidney Crosby.

Each story in the verse can be read as a standalone. Thanks so much for reading, and please hmu if you have a prompt/request/critique!

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A shriek pierced through the air with the volume and intensity of at least two or three feral wildcats, and you turn around with half a grin already formed on your lips, waiting to catch sight of her to complete it. And when you do, you drop to your knees on instinct, heedless of any grass stains that might show on your pretty floral dress - besides, grass and flowers go together, don't they?

 And you go with Taylor, would never say no to a hug from her, ignore the way your friends stand in a small huddle waiting for you to rejoin them because they're so used to this. Never mind that the elementary and middle school buildings were on the same campus, and that you run into Taylor maybe five times a day on a good day. 

Whenever you see Taylor, you hug her. That's it. One time, you'd pretended not to see her just to tease her, and she'd climbed onto a water fountain to leap onto your back. And that was only one of the ways she'd lost her baby teeth around you. 

 All things considered, it's really safer when you greet Taylor like a semi-normal human being, letting her leap into your outstretched arms and almost tumbling over backwards anyway just from the force of her enthusiasm, wrapping your arms tight around her and pressing a kiss against her silky blonde hair. She smells just a little like lavender, and you smile even wider at that, because you knew you hadn't just misplaced your favourite bottle of perfume. 

You suppose you should scold her for the thievery but by now, it's labeled in your head under ‘something that reading buddies just do’. Especially considering neither of you have actual sisters to steal or get things stolen from. 

 The two of you had met six months ago, when Tay's first grade teacher had marched her class over to your waiting class of sixth graders, and before either your or her teacher could divvy your two classes up for the reading buddy programme Taylor had simply collapsed into your lap, foot nudging the copy of Roald Dahl you had by you on the floor with an expression that said that she's going to practice her reading with you only if she has to. 

 She tells you later, eyes wide with earnestness, that she only liked you because you'd been sitting on a blue beanbag, and you're still grateful for the fact that blue's your favourite colour, too. 

 The programme lasted just three months, with the two of you meeting every other day to sit in the small, glasshouse reading nook attached to the library, but neither of you particularly cared about letting a teacher tell you that you didn't have to hang out. 

 You didn't even let your parents do it - Taylor was sleeping over at your house every other weekend just three weeks into the programme, and you had dinner at the Crosby's whenever you had basketball practice, because it always ended around the same time as Sid's hockey training did and it was always easier to feed two hungry student athletes at the same time than just one, when said student athletes have dinner so much later than most people. 

 Of course, Sid eats enough for at least three people, and you kinda hate how easily he seems to convert food into muscle mass. He wouldn't have let Tay bowl him over so easily - and you look up over Taylor's shoulder to see him grinning down at you like he's thinking the exact same thing, reaching out to tussle first Tay's hair, then yours. 

 Dumb Sid. Dumb, cute, athletic, nice Sid, who laughs like a honking goose and has never minded having to share his little sister with you because you didn't have any siblings of your own. You think you'd maybe hate him if he weren't so cute and athletic and nice. 

 Or maybe not - Taylor would probably never let you, was already unhooking one arm from around your neck to reach for the hand her big brother still has resting in your hair, as though the three of you could really walk home attached together like this. 

 "Don't you have training today?" you ask him, managing to stand up with your arms around a squirming seven year, freeing a hand to wave goodbye to your friends before they walk away. You know that  two of your friends - Sara and Anaaya - would probably have liked to stay and talk to him too, but you girls had a pact that Sidney Crosby was too big a potential sore point for your U-12 girls' basketball team, and that meant that no one was allowed to date him. 

 Not that you'd want to, even though he's dumb and cute and athletic and nice. 

 He's been pretty grumpy lately and you're pretty sure you know why, but if he's not going to bring it up you won't either. Especially not with Taylor now on the ground between the two of you, swinging both of your arms as she looks around for a new way to make mischief on your way home. 

 You'd have thought that Tay would have ran out of new ways by now. But you also think that Taylor would never run out of new ways to make mischief, wherever she might be.

 Sid lets out a small grunt and you grin as you used your linked hands to nudge Taylor, which had a (totally expected) domino effect of her nudging (punching, really) Sid's side, as high as she could reach and as hard as she could do it. 

 You burst out laughing instead of scolding  her for trying to push her brother off the sidewalk and onto the street - what a way for the great Sidney Crosby to go - and he gives you the admonishing look he really should be giving Taylor instead. Your puppy dog eyes are almost as good as hers, though, and he's shaking his head a moment later and starting down your normal route home again without taking any sort of vengeance. 

 "Nah, I think they're making me play with Dartmouth again," he says, sounding just a little sulky about it, and you wince in commiseration as though you understand even though you don't, not really. 

 You've only ever played for your school, basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring. You used to do a little figure skating, a little hockey in mites, because didn't everyone? But you'd never been like him. No one expected you to be amazing, not at sports, and Sid's only fourteen and already dealing with the whole country calling him the next something. 

 The next great hero, or the next great villain - he's way more than good enough to play with the Bearcats for real and everyone knows it, and that's why they hate him. They won't let him play even though he's just a little bit too young, and even though he's a lot too good for his actual age group, and even though the players and parents in the national midget 'AAA' league shout and boo and hit him so hard he barely wears any of his sweaters or team shirts outside of a game anymore. 

 The assholes have made Taylor cry, at some games, watching what they do to her big brother. They've made you cry, too, but you don't like talking about that.

 You let go of Taylor's hand to cover her ears instead, keeping up your pace so she doesn't protest too much, telling him with an expression more serious than you knew you could manage, "those dumb jerks don't know what they're missing out on." 

 (But I do, I will, if you go, you want to add, but you don't like talking about that either.) 

 He gives you a grin, though, probably to make up for your seriousness, probably because Taylor's trying to squirm extra hard now and neither of you wanted to upset her. "It's whatever, you know? Winning the Air Canada Cup's going to be pretty okay too." 

 And you laugh, dropping your hands from Taylor's ears to push him again, this time doing it directly. His t-shirt's soft against the palm of your hand, and you kinda want to curl your fingers into it instead. 

 "Watching you win it's going to be pretty okay, if my mom lets me go," you agree, as though you and Taylor didn't already have outfits and facepaintings planned. Taylor's "87" painting on her cheeks are going to have hearts in the holes of the '8', and your "Croz" painting's going to be done in Tay's best handwriting. 

 You wouldn't let Taylor cry listening to and watching those assholes alone. And besides, god, it really was beautiful to watch Sid play.

 Sometimes he lets you practice shooting with him in his basement. He doesn't make you stand in front of the goal, because padding or no it still hurts when the pucks hit you, but he lets you choose the music as you guys race to get pucks in the net - because he's older, because he's Sidney Crosby, he has to make ten shots before you make five, and usually he wins anyway.

 But this time he and Taylor drop you off at the mailbox in front of your house. When it's just you and Taylor you usually walk to her house first, then go back to yours, and you can walk alone when Tay has her big brother to walk with because it's a little out of the Crosbys' way but they never make you do that.

 So you kneel down again, let Tay wrap her arms around your neck again, but you stand before Sid could ruffle your hair in goodbye - leaning in, not even having to stand on tiptoe, to kiss his cheek instead. "They're so dumb, but we're not, so keep playing for us, eh?" 

 He looks a little like a prince then, thoughtful and distant even with a faint blush traced across his cheeks, eyes that gorgeous shade of hazel and hair dark and lightly tussled by the wind, and you think that this is how Sara and Anaaya might see him. He's here but unavailable. Here but so different from you, even though he's just three years older than you, so much more mature than the other fourteen year old boys in his class. 

 You should know. Mike Wallace tried to shove his tongue down your throat that one time, when you admitted to him that you wouldn't mind kissing him, and all Sid's doing to you right now is just stare. 

 You're blushing yourself before you even know it, reach a little blindly to ruffle Tay's hair the way Sid always does, calling out a goodbye to them before Sid could say anything else.

 *** 

 You ask Sid to go to the Winter Formal with you, because Mike Wallace asked you and you refuse to make yourself do that again, but he has extra practice and you spend the evening with Sara and Annika instead. 

 Sara's in a kinda hippie phase where she pretends she can cast magic, pretends that there's magic in the night and that she's feeding off it, and Annika pretends she's not desperately in love with Sara. 

 You kiss Mike Wallace again and it's not bad, this time, even though it feels like pretending, even though he told his friends after the last time you guys kissed that twelve year old girls kiss way better than eleven year old girls, like it's bad that you’d skipped a grade. Idiot. Not too bad a kisser, though. 

 When you get home, Sid's there in a game day suit even though he didn't have a game that day, you know he didn't, you'd have gone to the game instead if he did. 

 He's a really bad dancer, but he's an okay kisser, and he lets you choose the music again even though you're in your basement now and not his. 

 When he finds out you'd kissed Mike Wallace already that night, he makes a sound like he's going to throw up, and you punch him as hard as Taylor would have punched him, and burst out laughing right as he starts letting out those stupid honk-laughs of his. 

 *** 

 "I trust you, y'know. I would leave Taylor if I didn't know I'd be leaving her with you." 

 And you do know, and you trust him too, but he's still going all the way over to America and he's stronger than you still - you can't lift up Taylor and threaten to throw her into the bushes on your way home from school the way he can. 

 But you suppose that if he's going to Shattuck-Saint Mary's, the way you knew he would, his way home from school's going to be looking really different anyway. 

 "Don't tell her that," you say instead, with an eyeroll that somehow makes the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes more likely to fall instead of less. "I don't want her to hate me too," you say, and it's a little mean, but he winces and you know it's a direct hit. 

 And Sid always appreciates accuracy, doesn't he?

  "I'll miss you too," he tells you, instead of rising to the bait, and you let him pull you into burying your face against his shoulder before the tears could fall. If he questions whatever wet spots you leave behind on his t-shirt you'd tell him that his permanent hockey player-stink made your nose run

 but he doesn't ask

so you don't say it. 

 An "I miss you too"s not the worst thing to end a goodbye on, you think later, even if you never told him that you'd miss him. He's dumb, but you're not surprised that he figured it out. 

#sidney crosby imagine #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #penguins imagine #penguins #v:can i go (where you go) #s:accidents (how we went from friends to this) #lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

MASTERLIST

ONESHOTS

1. your name on my lips (tongue-tied) - with freddie andersen

Description:  You’ve had childhood fantasies about this exact moment: Freddie’s hands on your waist, his lips pressed against the side of your head, a sea of white fabric spilling between the two of you. But the ring on your finger has nothing to do with him, and his own happily-ever-after had crashed and burned over a year ago, and you’re just - sorely in need of a stiff drink.

ONESHOT STORY [x]

2. stronger than my demons - with nolan patrick.

Description: Nolan makes a bad day better. He always does. 

ONESHOT STORY [x]

3. as long as skies are blue - with mitch marner.

Description: Sometimes it’s okay to start over. Sometimes you need to move on. 

ONESHOT STORY [x]

VERSE: CAN I GO (WHERE YOU GO)

Description: A ‘verse featuring [Y/N], a (not very) single mother, Lila, your (very) opinionated daughter, and Freddie Andersen, a man who’s just happy to have been invited along for the ride. But in the beginning, there had been Sidney Crosby. 

Stories in this verse:

1. accidents (how we went from friends to this) - with sidney crosby

Description:  Unexpected friendship, expected stardom, unexpected baby. You'd moan about karmic retribution, but Sid (who's at least three times as superstitious as you've ever managed to be) threatened to throw his jockstrap at you the last time you went into a rant about the perils of ditching health class. Ends five years before the start of kiss me once (you know i've had a long night)

PART i [x]: featuring books, shitty hockey parents, and taylor crosby

PART ii [x]: featuring prom, and taking time to appreciate the things that stay

parts iii and iv are works in progress

2. cat and mouse (for a month or two or three) - with freddie andersen

Description: Someone can't wait to get on the ice, someone wants to meet up off the ice, and someone has unexpectedly intense reactions to coffee. Set about two years before kiss me once (you know i’ve had a long night)

ONESHOT STORY [x]

3. kiss me once (you know i’ve had a long night) - with freddie andersen

Description: Someone went to bed a little angry, someone’s utterly exhausted, and someone (probably) needs a cold shower. But hey, we all have our problems 8D

ONESHOT STORY [x]

#hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #hockey rpf #nhl rpf #lyss writes hockey

[lowkeyhockey]

does anyone want a nsfw part 2.5 to accidents? 

because i do

#lyss writes hockey #me @ me: shhhhh

[lowkeyhockey]

ahhhh i’d gotten an anon ask yesterday but tumblr seems to have swallowed it whole and i’m so, so sorry about that!!

but thank you so, so much for your kind words! i’m really glad you liked the first part of accidents!!

i can’t say when the next part is coming out - i’m neck-deep in exams season rn - but i’ve the outline done and i can’t wait to get to actually writing it! thank you so, so much for your patience, and i really hope it’s going to be worth the wait 💕💕💕💕

#lyss writes hockey #asked and answered

[lowkeyhockey]

LOVE your freddie stuff!! absolutely wonderful writing and i love how you write him :) 💞

i’m absolutely screaming - thank you so, so much!! 😭😭 you’re so impossibly kind to say, and i’m SO happy you liked reading it!

i’d l ove to write more freddie, both in the current verse and out of it, so if you ever have any requests/prompts for him pls just just drop a line!

(but may i add, as a sidenote, how absolutely trippy it is to get such impossibly kind words from a gritty icon? i love my terrifying orange axe-wielding son)

#asked and answered #lyss writes hockey #kind words!! that i am too Soft to handle #v:can i go (where you go) #hockeyrat

[lowkeyhockey]

are these snippets of future fics or starters that i can’t seem to actually use? you decide!

#i havent written anything in a ges okay #i miss words #me @ me: shhhhh #lyss writes hockey