matthewtkachuk - Tumblr blog

[matthewtkachuk]

bad at love

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

pairing: jt compher x reader

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

word count: 4.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

It warms your heart. 

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

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

“It’ll be worth the wait.” 

And worth the wait it is. 

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reality of the situation hits you. 

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

“He loves you,” she says. 

You’re not so sure. 

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

It’s not all bad though. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[matthewtkachuk]

BEAUTIFUL!!

[matthewtkachuk]

who do i need to pay and how much do i have to pay them to have someone write me reader insert hockey fic with the same premise as pride and prejudice? asking for a friend

[matthewtkachuk]

Hi Shelbs! I’m your winter exchange fic writer, here with a bunch of questions if that’s okay! Some of them are pretty cliche but bear with me lol

1. What are the top 5-7 players out of your list that you’d like to see? (Thank you for giving so many options btw!)

2. What is your favorite color?

3. Is there a song you’re obsessed with right now?

4. On a scale of 1-10 how much do you want me to include smut? And is there any particular kind you’d like to see the most? (ie soft, rough, kinky, etc.)

5. If I do angst, how angsty are you comfortable with it being?

6. Are there any topics/tropes I should avoid?

7. Are there any topics/tropes that you’d love to see?

8. Do you prefer established relationship or a developing one?

9. Are there any players I should avoid mentioning?

10. What pronouns and gender identity would you prefer?

I think that’s enough for now! Sorry to bombard you. Please feel free to include anything you want that I didn’t mention! I’m so excited to write for you 💚

Hi love!! sorry it’s taken a minute to reply, work is absolutely nuts rn

in no particular order: brock boeser, matthew tkachuk, jakob chychrun, timo meier, josh anderson, quinn hughes, william nylander - but ill be seriously happy with whoever you pick from my list if none of these are your style

pink!

to be honest i mostly just play my daylist, but here’s my top five on repeat from spotify:

4. soft smut, but only if you’re comfortable writing it! it’s not a deal breaker for me

5. i’ve been known to indulge in angst now and again but please happy ending only lol

6. i don’t think there are any tropes i don’t like

7. big fan of the ____ to lovers trope family - exes, friends, strangers, brothers best friend, best friends brother etc etc. i also really like when one of them is a little stupid when it comes to realizing the other likes them. oh and x falls first, but y falls harder

8. no real preference but probably leaning more towards developing

9. no known scumbags. or connor mcdavid. LOL

10. pronouns are she/her, and i’d prefer a female reader if possible but again not a deal breaker

hope this helps!!!!

[matthewtkachuk]

#1 spotify song is so boring what’s ur #100

[matthewtkachuk]

and i had silly dreams - brock boeser

summary: a series of weddings mean a series of run-ins with brock, and that means josie must confront some long held feelings.

word count: 3.2k

note: happy birthday @senditcolton!!! this is what i wrote for your birthday bingo and i hope you like it. i hope you get loads of wonderful fics to read, because you deserve them all <3

bingo squares: wedding season + 'it was always you' + free space + second chance romance + interrupted kiss

Josie had forgotten that he’d be there. She’d helped with sending the invitations, helped with the seating chart and had felt her heart skip a beat every time she saw his name. She still did a double take when she saw him at the reception.

Immediately noticing the double take, Courtney, the bride, asked in a high pitch, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything is perfect,” Josie said, literally waving her off. “I forgot Brock was going to be here, is all.”

With all the subtlety that she was known for—none—Courtney whipped her head in the direction Josie had vaguely pointed at. Josie rolled her eyes but followed Courtney’s gaze to see Brock standing beside a table laughing raucously.

“He’s single.”

“Yeah,” Josie said, rolling her eyes. “That’s never been the problem.”

Courtney’s mouth opened and Josie knew she was ready to go off on a tangent about there never being a real problem. Luckily for Josie, Liam materialised to distract his bride and take her away to speak to his parents.

Their departure led to a brief reprieve for Josie who felt like she hadn’t stopped all day, or for the entire month leading up to the wedding. She had truly gone above and beyond—something that Courtney had been increasingly thankful about—and, while there was a quiet moment, she took her seat at the wedding party’s table and barely resisted dropping her head onto the table.

People approached her to check in, the other bridesmaids making sure everything was going to schedule and being redirected to the wedding planner, Rebecca, and her own parents making sure she wasn’t taking on more than she could handle. She absolutely was, but that wasn’t something she’d readily admit. Rebecca popping by was the last thing Josie wanted, because the updates she’d been getting all evening weren’t good.

She felt even more drained when she was left alone again, only interrupted by a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. Josie took two flutes.

It wasn’t a hardship to watch Courtney and Liam bounce around the room together, largely inseparable and overwhelmingly in love—they’d been together for so long that their marriage had slowly morphed into an inevitability and Josie was happy that she had a front row seat to it all.

Even if, every so often in her peripheral vision, there was someone she had to keep monitoring. That she could have done without.

Someone dropped into the empty bridesmaid’s seat beside her, and Josie’s breath hitched in her throat when she realised who it was. She may have forgotten that he’d be at the wedding, but she could never forget him.

She only looked at him out of the corner of her eye—he was like the sun, really, it was dangerous to look directly at him.

“You look stressed.”

Josie hummed in agreement, picking up her second champagne flute and saying, “It is my job to burden all the shit that Liam’s cousin is pulling and make sure that Court never hears about it.”

“And he’s pulling a lot of shit?”

“Literally hasn’t changed since high school.”

Brock’s laugh was low, and he didn’t sound at all shocked. Even having spent a couple of years not in school with said cousin—James, if she had to use his name—Brock was no stranger to the trouble that followed him around.

“Surely just kick him out,” Brock suggested.

“He’s got one more chance. I really don’t want to cause a fuss, right now Court and Liam have no idea, but the poor wedding planner is getting complaints from the staff that he’s being rude to them.”

Brock patted the table and Josie looked at him, then. It truly was dangerous because there was nothing she wouldn’t have done for him. So, when he smiled at her and asked if she wanted to go for a little walk outside to destress there was no chance she’d ever say no.

Despite the sweaty palms he gave her, and had given her for many years, being around Brock was easy. There was never any pressure, no expectations that ever came with him. At least no expectations coming from him, the expectations placed by other people were forever lingering.

The Country Club in Lakeville was the perfect place for a wedding—a fact that had held true for years, and would continue to for many more, Josie was sure—and the weather only made it more so. Despite the sun having set about an hour earlier, the temperature had held steady and, had it been any other wedding, Josie would have taken off her shoes and ran through the grass with her arms outstretched.

“Do you like being home?” Josie asked Brock when they stopped at a patio table.

“I like that it’s quieter here,” he admitted. “Vancouver’s great, but… Yeah. I like being home.”

They sat at the table, just staring over the course and into the night sky, with no knowledge of how long they’d been out there. Josie knew that she’d never be able to truly relax while she was waiting for James to do something, but it was nice.

Brock’s company was always welcome, his ability to find a topic and talk about it for any length of time had always impressed, and it was a welcome distraction even if it was only temporary.

Rebecca came to find her far too soon after they ventured outside, somehow looking even more frustrated than she had all night. James was hot on her heels, cursing up a very loud storm.

“She’s lying!” James shouted. Josie instinctively looked to Brock, her eye twitching.

“He’s now inappropriately touching the waitstaff.”

The eye twitch changed into a full grimace with an accompanying disgusted groan. James’ shouting got louder and angrier, that anger directed at Josie at the first sign that she didn’t believe him. Within a second of James taking a step forward to get in Josie’s face, Brock was standing. He didn’t raise his voice, nor did he sound particularly angry when he spoke.

“Time for you to go home, don’t you think?” Brock asked, so calm it was rather disturbing.

James stepped back but didn’t stop his yelling, trying to shout around Brock’s body to continue his tirade on Josie. Rebecca was long forgotten.

“It’s been ten fucking years and you’re still so fucking pussy whipped. She’s so fucking frigid she’s not going to sleep with you, dude, you don’t need to white knight.”

James’ words rolled through Josie’s head one by one, so slowly that she was only processing them one at a time. Until the meaning of what he’d said hit her, then her silence was because she had no idea how she could possibly respond.

Brock took care of it, though, clapping his hand down on James’ shoulder with a satisfying and deep thud, forcibly turning him around and saying, “Pretty sure your parents are looking for you.”

Rebecca stared at Josie wide eyed; Josie still didn’t know how she was supposed to have responded.

A few weeks passed and the next wedding popped up on Josie’s calendar—everyone she knew was getting married and it was the busiest summer she’d ever had. She had no responsibilities at any other wedding that summer, though, and as far as she knew there would be no sign of James at any of them, so she was letting her hair down.

Drunk. She was getting drunk.

Brock had also made an appearance which Josie hadn’t been expecting. Maybe she should have seeing as the Bride and Groom had invited practically everyone they’d ever met.

Josie and Courtney had barely left the dancefloor since they were let loose after dinner unless it was to get another drink that didn’t even make it back to the dancefloor. The looseness in her limbs helped the floating feeling coursing through her even as she and Courtney scream-singed at each other manically. Liam moved around them, manic in his own way, and joined them to bounce and sing through the choruses.

Every so often, Josie would catch sight of Brock somewhere throughout the room being cornered by someone who was no doubt talking to him about hockey. It was happening to Jake Oettinger, too. They were both far too nice to even pull a face that might let someone know they didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe they did want to talk about it—Josie didn’t know Jake very well at all and it had been years since she’d known Brock in any meaningful capacity.

The dancing did eventually stop when it was time for speeches, so Josie procured another drink from the bar and took her designated seat and readied herself for a bunch of inside jokes she had no context for. The chair beside her pulled back and Josie started to greet the old friend from high school she’d spoken with throughout dinner only to be met with Brock’s smiling face.

“Wow, Mike, you’ve changed a lot since dinner.”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention since dinner,” he said, hushed. “You’ve been having fun.”

It didn’t take long for the speeches to drag on—the bride was the least interesting person Josie had ever met and nobody had injected her with any personality in the lead up to the wedding which was a surprise because her father stole the show and spoke for what may have been half an hour.

Brock was mumbling under his breath beside her, mostly when a new person got up to speak but the ones that had her struggling to muffle her own laughs were the for fuck’s sake that fell from his mouth whenever someone paused, raising everyone’s hope, only to continue and destroy it all. Everyone was apparently following the same formula of disappointment.

The applause when the speeches finally ended could not have been solely for the speech itself, it was far too enthusiastic for how boring the speech was.

“Drink?” Brock asked, already standing.

Josie was past the point of being concerned about a hangover, so she walked with Brock to the bar, ordered another glass of champagne and happily let Brock walk them outside. It was a cooler night than the last time they sat outside, but the alcohol running through her veins meant that Josie hardly felt it.

“Do you ever just tell people you don’t want to talk about hockey?”

Brock’s mouth twitched, “Josie, I don’t want to talk about hockey.”

She huffed, slouching down in the chair she found, and then started to giggle when Brock’s face morphed into a proper smile. Still laughing, Josie let her head fall back against the top of the chair, her eyes falling shut even if she did want to stare up at the stars.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” she asked slowly, taking time to sound out each word. “I don’t know how long I can talk for.”

“I just wanted to see if you were okay after what James said.”

it was a punch to the gut, being reminded. She forced herself to shrug. Talking was, at that point, beyond her. Brock didn’t seem bothered by the silence.

When the next wedding rolled around, Josie was much more sensible. It helped that Courtney and Liam had finally departed for their honeymoon and Josie had nobody to get silly with, and also that her parents were in attendance. It was a much smaller wedding, too, so she couldn’t blend into the crowd.

The biggest factor might have been that she had been seated right next to Brock. Somehow, she didn’t know who was the reason behind it, their chairs ended up right next to each other—so close that she could feel the warmth of his body from his leg where it was pressed against hers.

“Will the speeches be better this week?” Brock whispered in her ear. Josie covered her mouth to muffle the sudden laugh that threatened to burst from her mouth.

They weren’t better, but they were at least shorter.

It didn’t take any convincing for Josie to join Brock outside—their own little wedding tradition, it seemed. It was their space, even when half the guests had ventured outside and away from the loud music, and Josie couldn’t help but lean towards him to make sure she didn’t miss a single word he said.

“I didn’t realise we still had so many friends in common,” she said after they were briefly interrupted by someone wanting to say hello.

Brock bristled, affronted, “I didn’t just forget everyone when I left.”

“No, I know,” she stressed. “You and I both know that the hockey team and I weren’t exactly best friends. James made sure of that after you went to Iowa.”

Brock’s face fell. He’d heard the stories because Josie was the one to tell him during the summer after high school after two years of being put through hell. James’ outburst at Courtney and Liam’s wedding wasn’t dissimilar to what he’d been saying to her for years.

“That’s not the point, though,” Josie interjected, noticing that Brock was opening his mouth to speak. “The point is, that I forget that you had friends outside of the hockey team. Have friends outside the hockey team.”

It didn’t do much to appease Brock, Josie noticed, a sullen expression still etched across his face. Her shoulders fell when she realised that she’d sufficiently killed the happy mood they had been sitting in.

Without warning, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Brock said, “You’re one of the best friends I’ve kept.” He continued, after a loud and uncontrolled scoff from Josie, “I know we aren’t as close as we used to be but… I don’t know, you’re someone I would have hated to lose contact with.”

Josie rose and moved towards Brock, bending down to wrap her arms around his neck before he could even register what she was doing. She was forever glad they were still in touch, even if they typically only talked over the summer.

It did nothing to help ten years of pent-up feelings when Brock’s hand settled against her lower back, the thin material of her dress doing nothing to hide the warmth of it. The size of it. The way it made her heart jump into her throat.

He didn’t move it as she started to pull away—not because she wanted to move, but because she had to in order to preserve her own sanity. She could only imagine the sadness and longing, in her eyes when she was just far enough from him to make eye contact.

“Brock…”

“Why haven’t we?” Brock asked in a whisper.

In just as quiet a whisper, Josie asked back, “Why haven’t we what?”

“You know what.”

Brock’s eyes drifted to her mouth, and Josie promptly forgot how to breathe. Josie looked at his mouth, struck by the way they slowly parted and hers unconsciously did the same. The light pressure on her lower back increased, it was only slightly but it was enough to have her leaning into him.

“Josie? Are you out here?”

With a sudden but noticeable lack of warmth against her lower back, Josie straightened with a heavy sigh—Brock was laughing in disbelief.

“Yes, Mom,” she said, slowly sinking back into the seat she’d left.

And so, Josie’s mom wandered out into the courtyard, none the wiser to what she had interrupted, and starting a lengthy rant about her own sister that held Brock and Josie captive until it was time for the First Dance.

At least by then Josie’s breathing had returned to normal, though her erratic heartbeat was never going to calm when Brock was looking at her so softly.

The summer of weddings was never ending, with Josie being pulled interstate to attend weddings of some of her sorority sisters. They were exceedingly fun, even if Josie found herself looking around the room for Brock without realising—he’d become quite the fixture.

She was still yet to see him outside of a wedding, despite his assertion that they were friends, but Josie wasn’t making any efforts to organise that either, so she wasn’t able to blame him solely. Courtney had not been quiet about any of it and had made multiple threats to schedule a double date. All of her suggestions had been cut down, no matter how well intentioned.

At Josie’s final wedding of an otherwise gruellingly long summer, she spotted Brock almost instantly. As did Courtney and Liam, both of whom pushed Josie in Brock’s direction. She only barely saved herself from tripping in her heels before Brock was shifting his attention away from Jake Oettinger—god, it really was a small world that he’d been at two of the summer’s weddings—and noticing her. He didn’t waste any time in abandoning Jake to stand beside Josie.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Surely there’s no one left in Minnesota to get married.”

“Just us, I think.”

Josie didn’t want to conjure up an image of her standing with Brock at an altar, in a dress she’d been dreaming about her entire life, but she did. In high-definition technicolour.

With cheeks red and warm, Josie blinked the image from her mind and accidentally made eye contact with Brock when she started to frantically search for Courtney to come save her. The eye contact was the worst thing she could have done; it added to her wedding daydream as she plastered that expression onto Brock’s face at the altar.

It became clear that nobody was coming to her rescue—that anybody even noticed she was in need of rescuing— so Josie turned her back on the crowd of people so that they wouldn’t see the heartbreak on her face when she said, “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” Brock asked with no hesitation or uncertainty.

“Because it’s not just us, Brock. It’s never me.”

“What are you talking about, Josie?” She had never heard him sound so exasperated or confused. The tight pull of his eyebrows softened as he said, “It was always you. It’s literally always been you.”

Josie frowned as she felt her shoulders sag—no weight had been lifted from them by the admission. In fact, she felt more tense than ever at Brock’s words.

“That’s… That might be worse, you know?” she sighed. “It’s been like ten years and if it’s always been me then why has it never been me?”

“Why has it never been me? I didn’t think I was very subtle.”

A swarm of people began to move in their direction, and Josie turned just enough to see people beckoning the crowd into the chapel.

Harried and conscious of how close everyone else was getting, Josie whispered frantically, “We can’t do this now.”

“We can do this whenever,” Brock said, taking Josie’s hand as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “We should do this all the time.”

Josie’s brain wasn’t entirely online as she felt Brock’s long fingers wrap around hers, and it was only just started to register everything around her again when he used that hand to pull her closer to him. There was so much time to move away, that Josie nearly did because she thought he’d pulled her in on accident. The way his head tilted down was unmistakable, though, and Josie didn’t want to move a muscle as their lips touched for the first time.

[matthewtkachuk]

FLA vs. WSH || Nov 8, 2023

[matthewtkachuk]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[matthewtkachuk]

[matthewtkachuk]

I’m new to hockey and I see a lot of people say similar things or just be like fuck that guy and I don’t need like sources added but sometimes tumblr is the only place calling out these dudes so if I have no history I don’t know why someone shouldn’t be supported

tldr; help a homie out and give context when talking trash about trash players some of us don’t know are trash

hi bb! i totally hear you, and i wanna make clear i’m not talking shit about people who don’t know because they’re new to hockey or whatever reason. i’m happy to answer questions via dm but there are unhinged people who will send death threats when they’re reminded their faves are questionable at best and fucking criminals at worst

[matthewtkachuk]

getting older is just watching problematic pieces of shit hockey players i thought were fully cancelled get put on my dash

[matthewtkachuk]

sam bennett scores an empty netter while leon draisaitl hooks matthew tkachuk to prevent him from helping | oilers v panthers | 11.20.23

[matthewtkachuk]

home at last 🇸🇪

[matthewtkachuk]

Okay fanfic writers, your mission, should you chose to accept it, is a filthy 100 word drabble, for any pairing, to be posted on Thursday, in time for American Thanksgiving.

Ready, set, write!

[matthewtkachuk]

need a little company - nick blankenburg

summary: morgan hasn't seen nick in years and her strongest memories of him are the crush he had on her in college. when he gets signed to columbus after years apart, morgan realises that maybe she should have given him a chance.

chapter word count: 3.8k

last < table of contents > next

Morgan sat up on her couch, her right foot resting on the coffee table with her knee wrapped in athletic tape. She’d done too much. It was exactly what her PT had told her she should be able to handle, but the pain and the swelling she could feel under the tape let her know that she was right to have been so cautious up to that point.

The tape would have to come off after she was done using it as a barrier for the ice pack she’d pulled from the front of her freezer. She wasn’t looking forward to that either.

To distract herself, she decided to make a phone call she’d been putting off for a few days. Dialling the newly saved number caused a lump to form in her throat; she couldn’t even guarantee she’d been given the right number.

She had barely put the phone on her good knee and set it to speaker when it was answered.

“This is Nick.”

It was the right number. That was something.

“This is Morgan,” she said, hoping that she was the only one he knew. Or that her voice was the same over the phone. “You’re a really hard guy to get a hold of.”

There was a laugh on the other end of the phone, and it was much happier than she had been expecting. She smiled to herself.

“Well, I didn’t know you were trying to get hold of me.”

“I had to call half the cross-country team before someone could give me one of your boys’ numbers,” she revealed, all the phone calls she’d made and messages she’d sent running through her mind, “and I spoke to some idiot named Thom who gave me the fucking third degree about who I was and what I wanted before he’d even admit to knowing you.”

It had been an infuriating conversation, with Thom asking the same questions repeatedly after silences so long that Morgan was positive he’d put the phone down and walked away. She never wanted to speak to him again.

“I’m kinda glad Thom didn’t just give it up for free,” Nick said thoughtfully. “You coulda been anybody. A stalker.”

She snorted, “Yeah? You got a lot of those?”

“There’s this one girl who made a million phone calls just to get my number—my buddy had to text me to make sure it was okay to give it to her.”

That explained the silences from Thom.

She picked at the frayed edges of the athletic tape as she conceded, “Okay, maybe Thom’s not a total idiot.”

Nick laughed, countering that he had more than a few stories that would prove otherwise and when Morgan hummed, her own laugh bubbling, he launched into a tale that included a win, LIVE, and an embarrassment of a fake ID.

The mention of hockey reminded Morgan that there was a game on, and, while Nick was speaking, she turned on the television, making sure to mute it in case Nick was pretending it wasn’t on. It’s what she would do in his position.

“Can’t believe you had to get to Thom,” Nick said at the end of his story, disbelief clear in his voice. “You wouldn’t have even been at school with him.”

Morgan hummed and ran through the list of people she had to message and call to get through to him—it took five people because the first two had deleted any hockey players numbers the second they graduated, the third was able to give her the number of person four who was a junior on the cross-country team, and finally she got Thom’s number.

“Must have been desperate to speak to me.” She could hear the smirk in his voice, the image clear in her mind even after she hadn’t seen it in person for years. She rolled her eyes.

“You’ve been waiting for me to call, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, was going to give it another 24 hours before I sent a text to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Thom gave you my number?” Morgan asked, scandalised by the idea.

“Course he did.”

“Nothing was ever a secret between you boys so I don’t know why I’m surprised,” she said slowly, a little distracted by a loose thread of tape, that she tracked it as it unravelled across the length.

Nick’s laugh drew her right back into the conversation. “You call me just to talk about me and the boys?”

“I heard you broke your ankle and wanted to like… offer my assistance or whatever,” Morgan said, hoping she sounded as nonchalant as she aimed for.

A brief moment of silence was followed by the confused question: “Why would you do that?”

“Because being injured fucking sucks?” Her knee twinged in empathy. “You’re in a new city without a real good support system; I just thought I’d offer.”

“My mom came down.”

Morgan froze, her chest tightening, because she knew a rejection when she heard one. She hadn’t realised how much she was looking forward to it—to seeing Nick, to helping him—until the opportunity was taken away from her.

“That’s nice of her,” Morgan said, knowing that she sounded frosty even if she desperately tried to fight it. “If you want to hang out with somebody who isn’t your mom, you have my number. I’ll let you go. It was nice to talk to you, Nick.”

She was inches from ending the call when Nick said, frantic and loud, “Wait—Morgan—”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling. It’s been four days, and it does fucking suck,” he admitted, quieter than he had been the entire rest of the phone call.

Morgan stared down at the melting ice pack on her knee. She said, quietly, “Call me if you need me, okay? Promise I’ll answer.”

Nick did call.

Morgan was so surprised, having fully expected him to just forget he had her number at all, that she answered her phone at her desk for the first time ever. In a hushed voice, speaking into the microphone of her headphones while staring at her screen and typing half-hearted emails to save as drafts for later editing to throw off the scent. He hadn’t questioned her simple responses or her hushed voice when he asked if she wanted to keep him company on Saturday, but he had sounded extremely pleased when she said she would.

When Nick sent her his address, she couldn’t help but laugh at how close he lived. She’d assumed he would live downtown, being young and without a family—a fifteen-minute walk had been even closer than she expected and also meant she could get away with minimal knee strapping and not the soft knee-brace she’d been thinking about.

Her entire body was taken over by a nervous buzzing as she knocked on the door—they were the same nerves she got on a first date which didn’t make much sense to her at all. The knock was a warning, only, as he’d told her the door would be unlocked because he wasn’t allowed to move and his mom was heading out. Morgan had to deal with the weirdness of walking directly into a new house.

A nice house.

A very nice house.

She called out to him and followed his voice to the living room where he was set up on the couch, his leg lifted up onto the coffee table just as hers had been when she spoke to him a few days prior. The set up looked a lot more precarious than hers had, with many more pillows around his leg and his body.

“Stop looking at me like that; I get enough of it from my mom.”

Morgan swiftly turned her pout into a smile, and her heart skipped a beat when Nick returned it. She had forgotten just how contagious his smile was—she’d always gotten caught up in the way his eyes crinkled behind his glasses.

She asked him if she could get him anything before she sat down, earning an immediate eyeroll and then, after a pause, he sheepishly asked if she could fill up his water bottle. She could still see him from the kitchen and followed his pointing to the cupboard with his glasses so she could get her own water—it was only a little disappointing that she couldn’t open every cabinet and snoop. She always wanted to know how different the lives of the rich were.

Morgan was careful when she sat down on the couch, careful to keep enough distance between them that she didn’t accidentally jostle his leg—he seemed to brace for it anyway.

“Why’d you reach out?” he asked, curiously. “You were the last person I expected a call from.”

She sighed, “When you got to Columbus at the end of the season, I was about six weeks out from ACL surgery and should have been at least able to walk without a knee brace but I wasn’t. So, I guess I kind of know what you’re going through.”

She pulled her good leg underneath her, shifting her body so that she was facing him, her cheek resting on the back of the couch.

“You didn’t want to put up with me while you were recovering?”

His question hurt, and the pull of his eyebrows hurt even more, adding to the pang in her chest that came with talking about her ACL out loud.

“I was way more worried about how big a bitch I was. I’d rather not be friends at all than have you hate me.”

It was clear that the I could never hate you was on the tip of Nick’s tongue—she didn’t know him all that well, but she was positive he’d never had a thought that wasn’t immediately clear on his face—but he didn’t say it.

“How’s your knee now? You should be pretty much normal?” he asked instead.

Her knee throbbed, but it was psychosomatic; it had been fine all morning because she hadn’t tried to go for a run in a few days. She still rubbed it to remove some of the ache.

She laughed, hopeless, a little wet. “No, but this isn’t my pity party.”

“We don’t do pity parties around here,” Nick said, even if his expression was still clearly laced with pity.

Though they might not do pity parties in the Blankenburg household, they did an excellent job at lounging around with injuries. Nick had already decided they were ordering take out for lunch and offered Morgan free rein of the remote and his Disney+ account.

Morgan didn’t know when she fell asleep—one minute she was seeing Bender and Fry on the television screen, and the next she was blinking her eyes open when she heard hushed voices speaking around her. She rushed to sit up straight, desperately trying to take in her surroundings and feeling her blood run cold when she realised that she was still in Nick’s apartment. It ran even colder when she heard Nick suck in a sharp breath and clutch at his thigh. A woman, who Morgan could only assume to be Nick’s mother, was standing at the edge of the couch, smiling at the two of them.

“Hi Morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Uh, hi, Mrs Blanks—Blankenburg,” Morgan said, wishing she didn’t sound so obviously like she’d just woken up. She probably looked exactly the same—if she hadn’t imagined Nick’s hand in her hair then that probably looked disastrous.

“Mrs. Blanks works surprisingly well,” Nick’s mom said kindly, “but so does Karin.”

Morgan nodded, her cheeks burning, and she looked down at her hands that she’d folded in her lap.

“What do you kids feel like for dinner?”

“Oh, no,” she said, her head snapping up as she rose to feet. She ignored the ache caused by the awkward position she’d been in paired with the sudden standing. “I should get going. I didn’t mean to be here so late.”

“Are you leaving because you actually have to, dear, or because you think you’re being an imposition?”

Morgan turned back to Nick for help, for anything that would help get her out the door, only to be met with, “You can’t lie to my mom.”

“I was thinking we could have chicken casserole,” Karin said, politely ignoring Morgan’s hysterics, “if that makes you want to stay.”

Not wanting to come across as any ruder than she already may have, and also desperate for a good home cooked meal, Morgan sat down for dinner with Nick and his mom. Karin stressed that they usually ate at the dining table and that they were only on the couches because of Nick’s ankle. Morgan didn’t have the heart to tell Karin that she didn’t even own a dining table.

She didn’t want to stay too long after dinner, already feeling like she’d long overstayed her welcome, so Morgan helped clean up before quietly announcing that she better be heading off.

“Thank you for feeding me.” Morgan shuffled her feet as she stood near the door. “It was really great.”

“You’re more than welcome, dear. I’m sorry Nick ate what could have been your leftovers.”

“I’m sure he’ll make it up to me,” Morgan said, shooting Nick a smile. He smiled back from where he was twisted up on the couch so he could watch her leave.

She waved at him timidly.

When Morgan looked back at Karin, she was taken back by the open arms waiting for her. Karin didn’t allow any time for thought or excuses before she was wrapping Morgan in a hug.

Warmth filled Morgan immediately. She screwed her eyes shut and hugged Karin back, trying not to squeeze too tight. An ache in Morgan’s chest started to release—it didn’t disappear entirely, though she hadn’t even known it was there until it was starting to go.

Karin didn’t seem to be bothered by the pressure or how long it took Morgan to pull away.

“You come back any time, Morgan,” Karin said, pulling away only far enough to hold Morgan by her upper arms. “Nick could use the company of someone who isn’t his mother or someone on the team.”

Avoiding the invite to Thanksgiving Dinner had been a difficult task, even though Morgan hadn’t been able to get to Nick’s house in the four days between her visit and Thanksgiving.

Multiple phone calls and half a dozen texts solely about Thanksgiving had been directed at her in the four days since she last saw him because she’d been coy in telling him what her plans were—it felt rude to reject the invite when all she was doing was eating left over stir-fry and continuing her binge watch of Ink Masters. It just felt ruder to crash the Thanksgiving of a guy she’d just reconnected with and his mom.

Showing up at his house after work on the Friday was easily done, especially when Karin was ready with leftovers that Morgan devoured without hesitation. She got away with some sketchy explanations of her Thanksgiving plans and was grateful that Nick was ready to turn the conversation away from the questions.

Karin pottered around in the kitchen, warming the leftover apple pie and brewing hot chocolate to Nick’s protests that he couldn’t get out of shape just because he was injured to which she responded, “it’s Thanksgiving, Nicholas. The calories don’t count.”

There was hockey on the television, the Blue Jackets having tied it up against the Islanders. Nick was particularly excited about Kent Johnson’s first multi-point night. Morgan wasn’t unexcited by it—she was a hockey fan at heart and, though she was loathe to admit it, had been dubbed a Blue Jackets fan at birth before they’d even played their first game—but she was sure Nick’s friendship with Kent was responsible for how he was buzzing beside her on the couch.

Her own best friend from college—Taylah—had moved back to Spokane after graduation, and Morgan had moved to Columbus. It would be nice to be able to watch her accomplish her goals, even if it was on a television screen—the phone calls, Insta posts and Snapchats didn’t always cut it.

“You had an alright day yesterday?” Nick asked, seemingly out of nowhere, his voice quiet and his head lowered close to Morgan’s so that his mother didn’t hear.

“Yeah,” she assured him, leaning in, too, until her head was resting on his shoulder.

For having seen him twice since she graduated two years prior, the comfort and safety he provided was surprising. Her head on his shoulder was no more incriminating than falling asleep with her head in his lap and his hand in her hair, so she relaxed down into the couch, even closer to Nick, and didn’t so much as flinch when Karin returned with the cherry pie.

“Are you lying?” Nick asked gently.

“I’m a horrible liar,” she admitted.

Nick very quickly became the person Morgan spoke to most frequently. He had a lot of spare time and seemingly used it to text her a variety of memes, random updates or strange thoughts that had entered his head—she was having to consciously put her phone away in her desk drawer just to be certain she was getting work done.

Calling him as she walked home from work hadn’t even struck her as a weird thought until he was answering in a voice that was equal parts chipper and soft. Morgan could not be held responsible for the silent sigh that left her lips when she heard his voice.

“What can I do for you, Mo?”

“Your mom’s still staying at yours, right?”

“Yeah,” Nick said and Morgan knew there was a smile on his face, “she’s not leaving any time soon.”

“Can you invite me for dinner?”

“Tonight? Yeah, sure.”

Before she could tell him that it didn’t have to be that night—that, while she was ready to ask for an invite, she did not want to be an imposition—she heard shuffling, the tell-tale grunt that accompanied Nick pushing himself awkwardly off the couch. She tried to get his attention again but she didn’t think he had the phone anywhere near his ear because all she heard from him was his muffled talking to Karin.

“Are you gonna come straight from work?” he asked, shocking Morgan who hadn’t expected him to be talking to her again.

She glanced around her, working out exactly where she was, and nodded to herself. “Uh, yeah, I’m walking home now, so I can just detour to you.”

His excitement was contagious, and Morgan found herself smiling as she ended the call.

Nick was waiting at the door for her when she showed up, kneeling against the scooter he’d procured and leaning over the handlebar, scrolling through his phone. She questioned it, saying that she would still have come even if he’d been sitting on the couch since she called—Nick didn’t have time to respond, because as they moved further into his house, Karin commented that he was getting increasingly more excited to have company that wasn’t just her.

It wasn’t like he was housebound, was Morgan’s immediate thought, but a much stronger thought had been brewing on her walk, and she was desperate to get it out before she lost the nerve.

“Mrs. Blanks, could you teach me how to cook a few things?” Morgan asked with her hands wringing nervously behind her back. “I’m not horrible or anything, but some different dishes would be really great, and I’ve liked everything you’ve cooked.”

Karin’s smile was immediate, “That sounds like a wonderful idea. Nick only has one apron, unfortunately.”

“I don’t need an apron,” Morgan protested. “I’ve never used one.”

“But that’s such a pretty dress you’re wearing, I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened to it.” Karin paused for only a brief moment before saying, “Nick, go get a shirt Morgan can wear as an apron.”

Without protest, Nick hobbled from the room on his crutches. Morgan stood in the kitchen and waited safely out of the splash zone, lest she get hit with anything and disappoint Karin by ruining her dress.

Her eye roll was immediate when Nick handed over a shirt with Columbus Blue Jackets emblazoned on the front. Even Karin sighed, “Nick, really?”

Morgan pulled it over her head and then gathered her hair into a low ponytail with the scrunchie on her wrist while Nick was defending the shirt choice by saying it didn’t matter if it was completely ruined because he could always get more.

He hobbled back to the chair they’d moved closer to the kitchen for him, and Morgan waited until she had his attention to smile and thank him. When she could see him again, he was staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. She tilted her head, curious as to what he was doing, only for Karin to get her attention and hand her a knife.

They were cooking a beef stew that Karin kept saying was easy—it just had to sit in the casserole dish on the stove for a few hours. Morgan had twitched at that, hoping it wasn’t noticeable; she didn’t want to be rude when she was being taught and fed for free. It was just that it was nearly six, and they’d only just started the preparation phase.

“This is for you to take home, Morgan,” Karin said, reading Morgan’s lack of subtlety. “We’ll do a cheat’s Bolognese sauce, and be eating before you know it.”

Morgan grimaced and accidentally made eye contact with Nick; she didn’t know how to handle his curiously soft expression.

Going for a run was not in Morgan’s knee’s best interest. It was, however, much needed for her mental health, so she laced up her trainers, put on her headphones and hit the sidewalk in the park at an unmaintainable pace.

The cool morning air bit at her face, but she inhaled it deep into her lungs and felt tension roll off her shoulders instantly. Not even the twinging in her knee was going to stop her, and she powered through it for what felt like aeons—the ten-minute mile she managed was enough to stop her dead in the middle of the path. It had been a decade since a ten-minute mile was an unmaintainable pace.

She stepped off the path just in time to avoid a collision with a man who was running at a much more reasonable pace. The ache in her knee wasn’t so much an ache as it was a sharp pain, a sure-fire sign that the run had been a mistake.

Crying in the park wasn’t an option; biting into the inside of her cheek was the only way she could manage to get through the new pain as she tried to hide her limp on the way back home.

[matthewtkachuk]

the canucks are literally never winning another game ever again #wearecooked #thanksfornothingcaptainquinn #canucksarewashed #whatever

[matthewtkachuk]

microdosing being your friend by unliking and reliking a post to show i read your tags