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ownabanks · 4 days ago

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What’s up, buttercups —

We’ve made it to the halfway mark of the series, and you know what that means… things are about to shift 😉 Without giving too much away, let’s just say some guys don’t handle it well when someone else tries to steal their girl 🔥 Triggers: This chapter might just take you on a little emotional rollercoaster 😉

I hope you enjoy it — happy reading, my darlings 💕

Tropes &warnings: William Nylander x reader x Auston Matthews, friends to lovers, frenemies to lovers, triangle drama, Smut 18+; semi-public sexual activity (physio room), fingering, sexual intercourse (p in v) Word count: 7.4K Taglist: @ashloveshockey @ownabanks @16thirtyfours @kittyk3tr @puckinghockeygirl @tonyspep @am34lover4ever

Offside Hearts: Chapter 5 — Cross-Check* I William Nylander x reader x Auston Matthews

The hallway outside the Leafs’ practice rink smelled faintly of disinfectant layered over old coffee - the kind of clean that felt scrubbed in but never fresh. You adjusted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder as you pushed through the double doors, and your sneakers making muted contact with the waxed floor. Morning skate had just wrapped, and most of the guys were already stripped out of their gear, scattered into whatever post-practice rituals they swore by. A few staff hovered near the trainer’s office, trading easy chatter, and you offered a brief nod in passing, keeping your pace unhurried.

You weren’t looking for him. Not exactly. But there he was.

William stood just beyond the glass doors to the players’ lounge, leaning casually, one hand raking through the damp waves at the back of his head as he laughed at something Elsa had just said. She stood close enough that her elbow could have brushed his if either of them moved. High-waisted black shorts, a navy knit tucked in with precision, and sunglasses perched on her head like they belonged in a magazine spread. Every piece of her looked intentional, from the gloss of her hair to the careful neutrality of her lipstick.

She clocked you first.

“Hey,” Elsa greeted, as she moved through the doors and towards you. Her was smile probably genuine, though polite on the surface, and balanced on that fine wire that always made you feel like you were being quietly assessed. “You just missed the highlight reel. William scored top corner.”

You smiled, matching her lightness. “Damn. Must’ve been the oat milk latte this morning.”

William turned at your voice, and his expression shifted almost imperceptibly - no sharp lines, no sudden flinch, just that softening you’d seen before. And the quiet recognition in his eyes felt like stepping into a familiar room.

“Hey,” he simply said, his voice warm, tinged with that rough, post-skate fatigue. “Didn’t think you’d be here today.”

“Client meeting downtown got rescheduled,” you shrugged lightly. “So, I figured I’d drop off those mock-ups for the social team.”

Elsa’s gaze flicked between you and William. Her smile didn’t waver, but something in her eyes sharpened, like a subtle, assessing glint, as though she was filing away every beat of the way you spoke to him, and how slowly he smiled back.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” William said softly while scratching the back of his neck. “You always make this place feel less depressing.”

“Well, I’ll pass that on to your interior designer,” you deadpanned teasingly.

Elsa then gave a soft, even laugh. “He’s not wrong. Hockey rinks aren’t exactly known for ambiance.”

You offered her a polite nod, but your eyes still found their way back to William - the damp curls falling against his forehead, the cling of his shirt in places that had no business holding your attention, and the flush of sweat that still lingered across his skin. He looked relaxed. Like nothing between you had shifted. Like nothing had ever gone unsaid.

“So…” you said, feigning breeziness, “you two are like dating now, huh?”

William blinked a few times before nodding gently. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s going nice.”

“Nice,” you echoed, stretching the word. “That’s practically a love sonnet.”

Elsa’s lips curved, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then, with a quick glance at her phone, she took a step back. “I’m going to make a quick call,” she murmured, already turning. “I’ll give you two a minute.” And then she was gone before either of you could answer.

You watched her disappear, then turned back to William, who was still watching you.

“Why did you say it like that?” he asked.

“What? I guess, I just think it’s a bit funny,” you said lightly. “I mean, you didn’t even mention her when you got back to Toronto. And suddenly she’s here. Just… Feels kinda fast, no?”

And that landed in a way that made his brows pull together ever so slightly - not anger, but the careful tightening of someone choosing his words, as he glanced down the hallway where Elsa had gone, then back to you.

“Sometimes you just know,” he said simply with a shrug.

The tone wasn’t casual, though. It was too measured, as if he were holding something back.

“Sure,” you said. “But do you?”

The question hung between you, unplanned and too bare, as you noticed the flicker in his jaw - like a twitch so small anyone else might have missed it. But you didn’t.

He didn’t answer immediately, just looked at you like he was re-evaluating something. Like maybe you weren’t playing anymore.

“I’m happy, alright,” he said at last, though it came out quieter than it should have. “It’s not that fast. People meet in all kinds of ways.”

“Yeah, of course,” you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your voice light. “Who doesn’t love a summer romance?”

For a moment, it seemed like he might say something else. Or maybe he wanted you to stop before you made him. Either way, the silence fell too quickly, before Elsa returned a moment later, slipping her phone into her coat pocket.

“Sorry. Had to check on something for next week’s event.”

“No worries,” you smiled politely. “I just got a bit curious how the two of you met.”

“Oh, we met at a charity thing in Båstad,” she offered with a wide smile, glancing at William. “Not exactly romantic. Too many name tags and shrimp hors d’oeuvres.”

You huffed a light laugh. “Still… sounds a little like fate.”

William shot you a half-smile, maybe a half-warning, like the one he used when he wanted to change the subject without asking you to stop.

“So,” you said, breaking the tension, “you guys heading out soon?”

“Yeah, late breakfast,” William said swiftly, adjusting his duffel.

“Cute,” you teased, though the edge in your tone slipped through. “You’ve gone full domestic already.”

Elsa’s smile stayed even. “Oh, he’s the finest gentleman.”

You laughed, but it didn’t quite ring true. “I’ll take your word for it.”

William’s mouth then opened like he might add something- maybe a joke or an explanation, maybe even an apology - but you just stepped back before it could land.

“Well,” you said, brightening your tone, “I should get going. Enjoy your brunch. And congrats… on everything.”

Elsa nodded, smooth as glass. “Nice seeing you again.”

“You too.”

And then you turned, your shoes striking sharper than they should against the floor, bag sliding over your shoulder. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. You could feel it; the electric hum you’d left behind, the things unsaid thick in the air, and the way William had looked at you as you walked away.

Like something had shifted, and neither of you had the faintest idea what to do with it.

A couple of days later, the restaurant you found yourself at spoke money in the kind of voice you had to lean in to hear; low lighting that made every glass of wine look like a jewel, matte black cutlery with just the right weight, and textured linen napkins that could probably bankrupt a small café. You trailed Auston through the entrance, shrugging out of your coat and smoothing a hand over your dress before the hostess led you through the glow and murmur to a long, candlelit table reserved for the Leafs and their plus-ones.

The table was already alive - laughter pinging off crystal glassware, half-empty bread plates scattered like confetti, and someone halfway through a story about a missed connection in Finland. Sanna was a flash of red satin at the far end, Alice beside her with her ankle draped casually over her boyfriend’s. And William? He sat a few seats up from the middle with Elsa close enough that the angle of her shoulder almost mirrored his.

She wore a fitted black dress with structured shoulders, her lipstick just a whisper darker than her natural colour. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, posture perfect, the kind of beauty that made you think of gallery openings and knowing which wine to order without glancing at the menu. She looked like someone who never rushed, never spilled, and never got caught in the wrong light.

Perfect for him, you thought.

William then stood briefly when you approached, his eyes catching yours before he nodded toward the empty seat across from him.

“Hey,” he said, a soft smile in place, one hand resting lightly on Elsa’s shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Fashionably late, as always,” you replied, smiling back as you slid into the chair beside Auston.

“We’re lucky,” Auston murmured softly, leaning close enough for his voice to hum against your ear, “we missed the small talk about buying pre-con condos in Scarborough.”

You laughed, grateful for the light joke, though you still felt William’s gaze until Elsa leaned into murmur something against his shoulder - the kind of private, practised intimacy that didn’t demand a response, only a presence.

And just a few minutes later, wine was poured, oysters ordered “for the table,” and conversation layered itself around you - hockey gossip, PR damage control, someone’s wedding plans in Tulum. As always, you played along, laughed when you should, while letting your knee brush against Auston’s under the table. But every so often your eyes strayed across the flicker of candlelight to where William’s fingers ghosted over the curve of Elsa’s wrist, or her hand rested casually on his thigh.

It didn’t feel… real. Not in the way it had once felt with you and him - whatever that had been. This looked perfect, curated, but hollow around the edges, like they were hitting marks only they could see.

You then excused yourself after the second round of drinks, clutch tucked under your arm as you slipped through the velvet curtain into the quieter hallway that led to the washrooms. The restaurant noise dimmed, replaced by a low thrum of ambient music and the steady click of your heels on polished floor.

You’d just finished drying your hands when the door swung open.

“Hey.” Elsa’s voice sounded, smooth and sweet, like still water in a glass.

“Hi,” you turned to see her step inside alone, the door closing with a soft seal. She didn’t head for the sink. Just crossed the space slowly, her gaze steady under the feathering of her lashes.

“So… Can I ask you something?”

“Oh,” you said surprised. “Uhm… Sure.”

She crossed her arms, not in an angry way, more like protection, as she hesitated with her words. But then found them with a soft, gentle voice.

“I need to ask... Are you in love with him?”

It landed light and lethal all at once.

Your mouth went dry. Opened, though nothing came out immediately. She wasn’t glaring. Wasn’t trying to rattle you. If anything, her expression was calm, almost sympathetic, like she’d already run the numbers and was just waiting for you to verify them.

“I—” You swallowed. “We’ve been friends for years,” you managed with a level of carefulness.

“That’s not what I asked,” she replied softly.

You held her eyes for a moment longer before dropping yours to the gleam of her nail polish, to the faint flicker of the fluorescent light.

“I’m not in love with anyone,” you finally admitted, almost in a whisper.

It wasn’t a lie. But not the entire truth either.

Elsa didn’t push though. She just nodded, as if confirming something she already knew.

“Okay,” she offered a gentle smile. “Well… still, you look absolutely beautiful tonight, by the way. That dress really suits you.”

And just like that, she turned, disappeared into a stall, and closed the door with quiet finality.

You stared at your reflection for a second after that. Your hair was still in place, lipstick untouched. But your face looked… altered. Like something had been peeled back.

As you returned back to the table, Auston swiftly leaned toward you, brow furrowed. “You okay?”

You simply nodded, taking another sip of your drink, before his hand then found your knee under the table, fingers curling in a way that made your pulse skip.

But when you glanced up, William was looking straight at you.

The noise of cutlery and conversation thinned into static, as his gaze dropped briefly to where Auston’s hand rested on your leg, then back to your face. Whatever passed over his expression, it was gone before you could name it, just as Elsa leaned in to him again, smiling at something you didn’t hear, and he didn’t really respond.

The rest of the night blurred; the questions you couldn’t answer, the warmth of Auston’s touch, and Elsa’s voice still echoing in your head.

Are you in love with him?

You told yourself no. But still your heart wouldn’t quite settle on it.

You knew it was a desperate move. Reckless even. But you needed it. Craved it.

The hall had emptied out to its bones, post-practice chatter long faded into the mechanical hum of dryers spinning somewhere deep in the belly of the building. Overhead, the fluorescents buzzed their quiet complaint, washing tile and steel in a pallid glow that made every edge look sharper than it was. The floor gleamed from the morning’s mop, but faint scuffs from blades and boots cut restless arcs through the shine. The air clung heavy; sweat, disinfectant, liniment oil, rubber, and that faint metallic tang that never really left you. A smell you carried home on your skin and in your hair whether you wanted to or not.

You kept your pace quick, your hand locked in Auston’s, his grip just a little too tight to be casual, your pulse already ticking toward the inevitable. Past the trainers’ hall, you glanced over your shoulder: empty. You checked again anyway. Instinct, now. Habit and suspicion had grown its own heartbeat.

He was already reaching for the door, fingertips brushing the handle like a man seconds from giving in. The hinges gave a small, reluctant creak, and then the click of the latch behind you landed low and final, the sound of a secret sealing shut.

The equipment room was quieter than you remembered, shadows softening the harsh strip-lights. Skates hung in paired rows along one wall, tongues sagging open like mouths mid-breath. Buckets of pucks sat in corners, sticks leaned in loose formation against industrial shelving, ready for the next war. Towels, sock tape, sweat-damp vests were stacked in careful, utilitarian order. It smelled like rubber soles and leather polish - like repetition turned into muscle and memory.

But right then, it didn’t matter. Not in that very moment.

Your inhale barely landed before Auston was on you, his hand sliding around your waist with that grounded, claiming certainty that always seemed to shut out thought, as he lifted you onto the physio table. His mouth found yours without prelude; all heat and teeth and breath stolen mid-gasp.

And you met him without hesitation, your hands flattening against his chest before curling into the cling of cotton, chasing the thud of his heart under your thumbs. His body pinned you fully, solid weight and intent, as if every inch of him had been built for this single moment.

“Fuck baby,” he rasped into your mouth, voice rough from practice and lust. “You’re all I thought about. All fucking morning.”

Your reply never made it out. You were already moving, fists in his shirt, shifting until his thigh slotted between yours. You didn’t mean to roll your hips - you just did - and the friction drew a sharp, broken sound from you.

He kissed you deeper, wetter, one hand cradling the base of your skull, thumb brushing that soft spot just behind your ear. The other dragged you closer, closing what little space remained until modesty had no chance. Your sweater hitched higher with each sweep of his fingers, just as you found the hem of his shirt, pushed until the cotton gave way, exposing warm, damp skin to your touch.

His mouth broke from yours to trace the line of your throat, teeth catching on heat-flushed skin. And when his tongue skimmed the place just under your jaw, your head tipped back into the shelving, a low moan slipping out unchecked.

“I almost lost it,” he murmured, breath jagged, voice scraping low against your ear. “In the showers. In front of everyone.”

The words struck deeper than they should have, heat coiling low in your belly, as his hand slipped down, past the waistband of your jeans, over the thin cotton of your knickers, and fingers pressing in just right. Your gasp broke free - sharp and unguarded, almost too loud.

It was reckless, messy, and laced with the awareness that someone could walk in at any second. But neither of you cared.

Not when his fingers moved with that unerring precision that pulled you higher and higher until pleasure burst, molten and unstoppable, leaving you shuddering against him.

Not when you felt the hardness of his member straining in his shorts before he unleashed himself in one swift motion, dragging your jeans and knickers down just far enough before pushing into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

And especially not when he drove into you, hard and unrelenting, until both of you tumbled over the edge together, breath spilling in heavy, uneven bursts.

You didn’t even hear the faint sound outside the door.

Didn’t notice the shadow pause – tall and broad - caught in the spill of hallway light. Didn’t see William standing there, still, and silent, the weight of him heavier than any noise. His gaze took in everything: the arch of your spine, Auston’s mouth at your throat, your fingers gripping tight into his shoulders as he pounded into you. He didn’t see the whole picture. But enough.

Enough to twist something hot and vicious in his chest. Enough to make his jaw clench and his stomach knot. Enough to know, beyond doubt, that it was real. That the sounds leaving your mouth weren’t pretend.

He didn’t knock or speak. Just turned away, sneakers striking the corridor in sharp, clipped beats - each step pulling him further from you, from whatever you’d been, from the version of himself that still believed he knew you.

Meanwhile, inside the close heat of the room, you didn’t feel the absence. Auston was still between your thighs, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns over your slick skin as you caught your breath. You whispered his name, part confession, part surrender, and he kissed you again. And again.

You hadn’t been expecting him. Not at that hour. And especially not with that look.

The knock was soft but certain, each tap spaced like he’d already decided how the conversation would go. And when you opened the door, William stood there as if caught mid-decision - hoodie pulled low, cap shadowing his eyes, and one hand in his pocket while the other flexed restlessly at his side. There was no smile. No easy greeting. Just a taut, unreadable stillness wrapped in the shape of someone you used to read without trying.

“Hi, you,” you said with a smile, though the words sounded unsure on your tongue.

His gaze swept over you, then past you into the apartment, before settling back on your face. “Can I come in?” he asked dryly.

And naturally, you stepped aside without asking why.

The air inside still carried the slow heat of the evening sun, trapped in the curtains, and softened by the faint breeze from the half-open window. You’d only switched on the corner lamp, its warm glow pooling low across the room. William stopped in the middle of your living room like a man who wasn’t sure if he’d arrived too early or too late, hands hanging at his sides, and posture heavy with something unsaid.

You then crossed your arms - not from cold, but from the ache that had already started to swell in your chest, as you stepped closer to him.

“Sorry, I was just—” you gestured to the couch, where your book lay open-faced and abandoned “—didn’t think I’d see anyone tonight.”

“Yeah… Uhm... sorry, I shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly.

But he didn’t move to leave. And you didn’t tell him to.

You then sat first, a deliberate act to close the distance, and after a moment’s hesitation he followed, sitting forward like gravity had grown heavier since he walked in.

The silence between you wasn’t the easy kind. It had edges, like it scraped. Like it was thick with the weight of days and the words you’d both been avoiding.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The sentence cracked through the air like a snapped stick.

“What?” You blinked.

“This,” he said, motioning vaguely between you, his voice low but steady. “The friendship. Or whatever it is now.”

Your throat tightened. “William—”

He then looked up, and there it was; the truth, plain and raw, sitting behind his eyes like it had been waiting for weeks.

“I saw you,” he said sharply yet almost sad. “With Auston. In the physio room.”

And just like that, the air in your lungs left all at once. You leaned back instinctively, as though the space between you could buffer the blow.

“Oh… well… uhm… I- I didn’t know you were there.”

“I know.” His voice didn’t change. “I didn’t mean to see it.”

For a moment you thought maybe he’d stop there, that he’d tuck the hurt away and give you the out he’d always given you. But then he met your eyes again, and his voice came rougher, stripped down.

“It felt like getting cut open with a dull fucking knife.”

You had no answer to that. Not one that wouldn’t break something further at least.

But then he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and fingers laced so tightly the knuckles had gone white.

“I’ve watched you look at him,” he admitted. “Watched you leave with him, sit next to him, laugh at things that aren’t funny. And I keep telling myself it’s fine, that you’re allowed to do whatever you want. And you are... But… I can’t be close to it like this. I can’t…” He shook his head. “It’s killing me.”

Your voice caught in your throat, yet you managed a soft voice. “What are you saying, Will?”

“I mean,” he said. “It bothers me… that he’s taken you like that. Away from me.”

And somehow that made the ache worse.

“I didn’t plan any of it,” you tried again. “It just… happened. It was just… fun.”

��I know,” he said, softer now. “But it still hurts. Like he’s stolen my… you.”

You then looked at him properly. Past the guardedness, past the restraint, to the ache that had been building all summer. It was the look of someone who’d been patient for too long, who’d bitten back too much, and now sat holding the weight of every unspoken thing.

And his next words came without edge, just simple truth.

“If this is going to keep happening… if you’re going to keep seeing him… I don’t think I can be around it. I can’t pretend I’m okay. Because I’m not.”

The quiet that followed settled like a verdict.

“I don’t want to lose you, Willy,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“Then stop.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand. It was more like a line in the sand.

Your heart twisted, your stomach turned, but somehow, you already knew your answer as you nodded gently.

“Okay.”

His gaze held yours for a beat longer, as though he expected you to take it back. But you didn’t.

When he stood, it was slow and cautious. And at the door, he glanced over his shoulder once more. Like the hurt was still there, but something else had changed, like the fog had finally cleared, leaving only clarity, however painful.

“Goodnight,” he said with a soft smile.

And then he was gone.

You stood there for a moment after, not crying, not raging - just absorbing the new shape of the quiet around you. And when your phone lit up with Auston’s name just minutes later, you let it ring until it stopped.

You hadn’t planned on telling him tonight. Not exactly. Not just one day later since William had shown up at your door.

But your feet had carried you here on instinct, and now you were standing in the lobby, buzzing yourself up, moving down the hallway you’d once walked with a rush of adrenaline - the thrill of secrecy, the hum of wanting - but tonight it just felt heavy.

The city outside had gone still, the kind of hush that comes after late-summer rain, though the air still clung damp and warm to your skin. Your heart wasn’t pounding from nerves, but from inevitability. And somehow you already knew how this would end.

Auston opened the door barefoot, shirtless, shorts hanging loose on his hips like he’d just rolled out of bed. His hair was a bit messy; curls still damp at his temples, and he looked tired. Or irritated. Or maybe just unsurprised.

“You coming in?” he asked, stepping back without a smile, before you stepped inside. And the door clicked shut behind you, locking the heat in.

His condo smelled like the same candle he always burned. The lights were low, only a floor lamp throwing gold across the living room, as he sank into the couch with the remote in his hand, flicking the TV on to something you didn’t even register. You stayed standing.

“I can’t stay for long,” you said almost quietly, which made his head lift.

Not entirely surprised. Not yet.

“I just… I need to say something. And I don’t want it to turn into a fight.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “That’s rich. You don’t want a fight, but you’re standing there like you’re about to cut my head off.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t even give you the chance.

“Let me guess,” he then said, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside him. “He finally said something. Or did he just give you that sad puppy look he’s so fucking good at, and now you’re here to ease your conscience?”

Your spine went stiff. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s always been like that,” Auston shot back, pushing up from the couch, voice climbing. “You act like you don’t know who you want, but you’ve always known. You’ve just been too scared to fucking say it.”

“Don’t do that, Auston,” you warned, stepping back.

“What? Tell you the truth?” His laugh was bitter, jagged, as he started closing the space between you, his shoulders tight with barely leashed temper. “You think you’re doing me a favour ending this? Like you’re sparing me?”

“I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“No,” he said, voice dropping into something rougher. “But you just fucking did it anyway.”

Silence stretched, thick and unsteady, as you swallowed hard, your pulse drumming in your ears.

“Please, Auston. I do care about you,” you then said softly. “But this… It wasn’t supposed to become anything real…”

His gaze locked on yours, unflinching. “Yeah, I know. And yet, it did, didn’t it.”

It wasn’t really a question. It wasn’t even a plea. It was a dare. And then he kissed you.

Hard, fast, and desperate.

Like maybe if he kissed you enough, it would change the ending.

You kissed him back for one reckless beat, because the pull was still there - the undeniable heat, the language your bodies had learned in secret. His hands gripped your waist, yours slid into his damp hair, and for a second you let it take you.

But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t enough.

So, you tore yourself back, chest heaving. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t move or blink. His hands just dropped slowly from your body. And then he stepped away, picked up the remote, and hurled it across the room.

The crack against the wall was sharp and violent, making you flinch.

“Get out,” he said, his voice low but certain.

You didn’t argue. Your fingers shook as you just grabbed your bag, your head low as you crossed to the door.

And just as your hand closed over the knob, the smack of his palm hitting the wall behind you made the air jump in your chest, making you turn the handle and step out.

You didn’t look back, and he didn’t say your name.

But when the door slammed behind you, the sound rattled something deep in your ribs, like something that felt less like closure and more like a warning.

Because this didn’t feel like the end. Not really.

The air in the locker room hung thick; heavy with sweat, damp heat clinging to the walls, and the last thump of music still pulsing faintly from a speaker someone hadn’t bothered to shut off. A few guys were already in the showers, steam curling out of the doorway, meanwhile the rest lingered half-dressed, snapping towels, chirping, and cracking beers into protein shakes like it was still funny.

William sat slouched on the bench, jersey gone, undershirt plastered to his back. His head was down, fingers working absently at his skate laces, though his eyes were unfocused - somewhere far past the room, far past the noise.

And then the atmosphere cracked wide open.

Not louder. Just tighter.

Like static pulling every molecule toward the same point.

Auston walked in, helmet tucked under his arm, and sweat sliding down the curls stuck to his forehead. His jaw was set hard. His steps were deliberate. And aimed straight at William.

The noise in the room suddenly thinned. No one said a word, but all heads turned. Waiting.

“You fucking pussy. You didn’t want her when you had her,” Auston said, voice low but cutting straight through the haze. “But now you suddenly care?”

William looked up slowly, his spine snapping straight as though a blade had traced up the length of it as one skate dropped to the floor.

“You sure you want to do this here?” His tone was calm, but cold.

But Auston just gave a short shrug, stepping in closer. “I’m not the one sulking around like a pissed-off teenager all week.”

There was a short moment of a pause. But then William rose.

They were close in height, but the way they squared off shrank the space between them to nothing, as William’s gaze dropped, jaw tightening before he looked back up.

“You don’t know what I feel,” he said, each word measured.

Auston’s mouth tipped at the corner, but there was nothing soft in it. “You’re right. I don’t. Because you don’t say it. Not to her. Not to me. You just sit there acting like it’s nothing - until it isn’t.”

William’s shoulders twitched like he might laugh. Or swing. Instead, he simply stepped forward, closing the last inch of space.

“Why do you even care? You really think what you had with her was more than convenience?” His voice was tight enough to cut. “You think she wasn’t just trying to forget something?”

Auston’s nostrils flared. “At least I fucking did something. I acted and got her, while you were too busy doing nothing. And then you lost.”

And that twisted something inside.

William’s fists curled. His jaw locked as he inhaled like he was about to let it out as words - or not as words at all —

“Alright,” Morgan’s voice cut in, loud, stepping between them with his hands up. “Nobody’s throwing punches in their jockstraps. Save it for the ice.”

They didn’t move at first. But then Auston eased half a step back, and William sat down hard, elbows braced on his knees like he needed to keep himself tethered.

Morgan looked between them, muttered a sharp “Jesus,” and then turned away.

The silence that followed was thick enough to hear, as the guys went back to their bags, their phones, and their tape jobs - all pretending not to listen. But they’d all heard. They’d all seen.

Something had cracked. And no one in that room thought it was finished.

You knew it wasn’t just a casual hangout when his text lit up your phone: “Can I take you out for dinner? Like a date.”

Not coffee. Not just a walk. Not some lazy excuse to talk. A date. The word sat in your chest for hours afterward, delicate, and strange, like a snowflake that hadn’t melted yet - its edges sharp enough to catch the light if you turned the right way.

By the time you reached Nathan Phillips Square, the autumn evening had started to soften, the chill giving way to a cooler breeze that carried the faint scent of food trucks and city pavement cooling in the shade. The fountains sparkled under the golden light, strings of warm bulbs zigzagging above the open-air patios, and the noise of the day had mellowed into the hum of people lingering rather than rushing.

He was already there, unusually on time, leaning against the railing by the reflecting pool with two cold lemonades in hand. His shirt was rumpled in that way that suggested it had been ironed at some point, his hair just messy enough to make you wonder if he’d run his hands through it before spotting you. And when he saw you, his smile was small but warm and gentle, almost boyish - and it did something inconvenient to your stomach.

“You came,” he said with a light chuckle.

“You asked me to,” you replied, stepping close enough to catch the faint flush on his cheekbones.

He looked at you for a second too long before handing you one of the drinks.

“I was gonna pretend I didn’t know you liked lemonade,” he said lightly. “But I remembered.”

You smiled, pretending that didn’t flip your heart sideways.

You wandered the square together, the last of the daylight spilling gold across the pavement. The crowds thinned as you drifted toward the quieter end, past street performers packing up and a busker coaxing soft, slow notes from an old guitar. His arm brushed yours now and then, each touch sending a small ripple through you.

“I haven’t been down here in ages,” you said, sipping from the cup.

“You’re not missing much,” he replied with a half-smile. “But I guess it’s better with you here.”

And by the time you reached the edge of the square, the air had cooled enough to make the hair on your arms rise. He walked beside you down a smaller street, away from the noise, until you stopped outside a ramen bar tucked between a vintage shop and a closed florist, its steamed-up windows glowing amber from within.

A bell chimed when you stepped inside. The warmth wrapped around you instantly, like the faint scent of broth and ginger curling in the air. Only a handful of people were there - two girls laughing into their chopsticks at the counter, and a man hunched over his bowl in the corner like it might be his last meal.

You took a booth in the back, and he slid into the seat across from you, his hands curling around a cup of green tea he didn’t touch.

“It’s weird,” he then said after a little while. “Being here. Like this. With you.”

You tilted your head with a smile. “We’ve had dinner a hundred times before.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But not like this.”

You let the silence sit. Stirred your broth as you waited, allowing him to continue.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, his voice dipping lower. “But I’m trying… because I want to.”

You looked up to find his gaze steady though a little unsure. “What about Elsa?”

William allowed the words to settle for a second.

“There is no Elsa… I mean,” he took a brief moment to breathe. “She was real but… I want to try this more than anything, y/n/n,” he said slowly. “With you and for real. Not just as your friend.”

It didn’t hit like fireworks. It landed quieter and weightier - like something you’d been waiting so long to hear that you weren’t sure how to hold it without shaking.

So, you simply nodded. “I do too, Willy.”

His exhale was soft, almost shaky, as the sound of someone unclenching.

“But… I must admit, it hurt a little,” you then added. “That it took this long.”

He didn’t try to defend himself. He just reached across the table and brushed his fingers over yours, tentative and warm. “I know. And I’m sorry. Sorry that it took… Auston, to wake me up.”

You let yourself feel it then. The ache, though a relief. The dangerous comfort of finally being chosen by the person you’d been choosing all along.

From that moment on, the conversation almost ran as smoothly as always.

Following dinner, as William walked you home, the night felt cooler, the sky deeper and speckled faintly with stars. His steps slowed the closer you got to your building, and yours matched his without thinking, as neither of you spoke much. Words felt too fragile to risk.

Then under the streetlamp, he paused. Gold light skimmed the line of his jaw, caught on the curve of his mouth. He was nervous. And you were too. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

So, you didn’t wait for him to say anything.

“Do you want to come in?” you said quietly.

And when he said yes, you felt it all the way to your ribs, a beginning, at last.

It was quiet - the kind of quiet that didn’t just sit in the air but crawled under your skin, humming in your blood. The soft thud of the door closing. The click of the lock. His breath, steady but close enough that you could feel it ghost along your cheek. And yours, uneven and stalling.

Neither of you spoke.

Not when he shrugged out of his coat, the fabric whispering against itself. Not when your fingers found his, warm and sure, and you tugged him toward your bedroom like muscle memory. Except it wasn’t. Not like this. Not with the weight of something unspoken pressing into every step, every heartbeat, every inch between you.

Nadia wasn’t home – she’d made sure of that, which only made you feel the pressure a little heavier. Not in a bad way necessarily, but still, it was there.

The lights were low, the room bathed in the dim amber spill of the city through the blinds, striping the wall in soft shadow. He lingered at the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you like he didn’t want to cross without permission. Like this moment meant too much to get wrong.

That’s when you turned to face him, the space between you taut.

“I want this, Willy,” you said, voice almost breaking with how true it was.

And something flickered in his expression – relief or awe, maybe both. He then crossed the room in two long strides, and when he kissed you, it wasn’t the kind of kiss you’d braced for. It wasn’t rushed or wild. It was deliberate and devotional. As if every movement was a map and he was memorising the borders of your mouth, every sigh he coaxed out of you something to keep, as his hands framed your face like you were glass, and he’d waited years to touch.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into the knit of his jumper. And the low groan he gave - half restraint, half surrender - seemed to rumble through your whole body.

Clothes then came away slowly, almost in slow motion, like you were unwrapping something fragile. Your shirt, his jumper, his hand skimming up your ribs before his thumb hooked into the waistband of your trousers. He hesitated, eyes searching yours as though looking for a reason not to. But you just kissed him before he could ask, like answering in a way words couldn’t manage.

He undressed you like it was a privilege. Every inch of skin revealed drew a darker look in his eyes, and when your bra slipped free, he made a sound so low you felt it in your stomach.

“God,” he murmured, almost pained. “You’re so beautiful.”

And you believed him - not because of the words, but because of the way his mouth moved down your chest, slow and reverent, his hands cradling you like he might lose you if he wasn’t careful. Meanwhile, the ache between your thighs only sharpened with every deliberate touch.

You gently pulled him down onto the bed, and he followed with a quiet obedience that was almost shy, his body fitting against yours like it had always belonged there, like it had just been waiting for the right moment.

There was no frantic urgency, no hurried fumbling toward release. Everything unfolded slowly, deliberately, with a kind of reverence that made each touch feel magnified. It was like discovering each other for the very first time - skin to skin, every inch of contact sending a warm ripple through you. Like when his fingers finally slipped between your thighs, they found you already aching for him, his touch unhurried as he explored your wetness. He eased into you with a careful patience, stretching you gradually, each movement deliberate, like he wanted to feel every subtle shift in your body. His thumb brushed over your clit in slow, steady circles, confident but gentle, like the rhythm coaxing pleasure without rushing it, letting it build in waves.

And when he finally slid into you for the first time, it was slow, deep, and unhurried. Not a conquest, not a claim, but an answer. A conversation that had been years in the making, making you gasp, nails dragging lightly over his back, and he stilled, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice frayed at the edges. “You feel like—”

You kissed him before he could finish. Because you already knew.

He then moved with patience at first, each roll of his hips tuned to your reactions, your hands, and your breath. You wrapped your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to meet him, giving him everything without holding back. It wasn’t about dominance or proving anything. It was just the two of you - stripped bare in every way that mattered.

But patience only lasted so long.

The rhythm gradually grew sharper and needier. His teeth caught your bottom lip, his grip in the sheets tightening as you gasped his name into the hollow of his throat, your hand cupping his jaw like you needed the reassurance of his face in your palm.

“Let me,” he rasped. “Let me have you like this.”

You nodded, breathless. “You already do.”

And just like that, it undid him. His movements stuttered, then grew rougher, more desperate, his mouth crashing into yours with too many feelings for either of you to name. His fingers found yours and pinned them above your head, anchoring you there as if to keep you from floating away.

You came first - a moan filled with relief, shuddering, your body arching against him with a sound that made his own control fracture. And he followed just moments later, hips jerking, and his face buried in your neck as he said your name like it was a confession.

Afterward, he didn’t move, just stayed pressed against you, your legs tangled, his heartbeat loud beneath your palm. His breath slowed against your shoulder, warm and steady in a way that made you ache all over again.

And when he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his hair was a mess, his lips red, and his eyes soft in a way you’d never seen before. It wasn’t satisfaction. It wasn’t pride.

It was just peace.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, fingers still tracing idle shapes against your ribs.

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah, more than okay.”

You then curled into him, your head under his chin, as his arm wrapped around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb stroked the nape of your neck in slow, absent circles, as you pressed a kiss to his chest, just over his heartbeat.

He kissed your temple like punctuation. Like he didn’t want to stop.

And then sleep found you knotted together like roots in soft earth.

Even as the edges of the night blurred into dreams, you knew this wasn’t a mistake, wasn’t a placeholder, wasn’t something to pretend away in the morning.

This was him. This was you. And it was finally real.

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