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Pyotr Kochetkov Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

Northern Nights Series:

Winter Hare (I) - Pyotr Kochetkov x F!Reader ♤

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Winter Hare (I) - Northern Nights Series

Hey y'all! I truly, from the bottom of my heart, miss you angels so much. My gratitude for y'all's patience is so beyond what I can describe, but I truly do appreciate it. This piece will hopefully be a part of a larger piece for Pyotr Kochetkov of the Carolina Hurricanes, and it's all I can muster up at the moment among my busy life. I hope you all enjoy this fic, and remember to take care of yourself!

Pairing: Pyotr Kochetkov x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Verbal abuse (not by Pyotr), Threats of physical harm (not by Pyotr), not that proofread, (let me know if I need to add anything)

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Her vision blurred, tears lingering on her eyes for far too long as she packed her leather bag, stuffing it frantically with some of her clothes and her most important belongings. As she blinked, they seemed to run down her cheeks, all warm despite the bitter air outside.

It was her fifth winter here in this cabin, living with her arranged fiance who had yet to wed her properly, and yet he expected much of her despite it all. The burden on her back started to wear on her, and she felt it deep within her bones with each ache and each movement. Her decision was deemed cowardly and selfish by many, but she knew that she would rather be selfish than be buried out in the woods alone with no one to remember her name.

Eyes darting towards the door, she bit on her lip nervously as she held back a sob, wiping her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. Closing up the bag, she opened the window, letting the cold winter air rush in as it kissed her softly, like a soldier going off to war.

It was late at night, and yet she wasn’t the only one awake at this hour—the pounding on the door signaling her fate if she didn’t move quickly.

Pushing herself out of the cabin, she fell out with a huff, landing in the freshly fallen snow with minimal noise. The coat of caribou around her neck and shoulders guarded her from the northern harshness, harnessing her warmth for a little longer-while as she ran through the dark, boots crunching the snow beneath her.

She clutched onto her bag tightly, holding it against her chest as she ran, not glancing back once. If she heard something, she only ran faster, vision trained ahead of her with each stomp of her feet in the quiet.

Each pine and spruce tree passed by her, blurring into the nighttime sky as her legs led the way, her mind still racing on its own somewhere else. Her heart seemed to run like a beast, thumping from her chest to her skull madly, her breath rough and haggard.

When she made it to her destination, she ran up to the front door to knock, but her clenched fist hesitated, only hovering over the door as she held her breath.

It was almost as if he was waiting for her, the door swinging open as she fell into his embrace, tears falling from her cheeks.

“Pyotr! Pyotr, I’m sorry—”

He hushed her, his strong hand holding her head with softness, pulling her away from the grasp of the season and into his home. “Rest. You can rest now.” His hands made steady work of her heavy coat, quickly pulling a blanket over her to contain what was of her heat as she sat down on the rug, her own hands attempting to pull the blanket closer.

He wore his own coat made of animal, thick and heavy on his own broad shoulders, providing ample warmth for his own standards, but he knew that it wasn’t enough for her.

Making his way over to the fireplace, he threw in some lumber to start a fire for her—knowing that her warmth and comfort was a much higher priority than his own—the flames crackling and spitting flecks of gold and amber outwards once it was ignited.

Pyotr had been an acquaintance of her for a decade, their first five years of their interactions being at the market where he sold the lumber he had gathered. He never sold for high price, only enough to equal his labor for the people in town. A strong man of mid-twenties, he remained celibate for the majority of his life—if not, the entirety of it—but he had moved out from his parents’ homestead once his sister had found a husband herself. His name drifted amongst the townspeople, but not much was known about him since he rather had a tight lip and kept to himself. 

Hunching over, he rested a hand on her shoulder as he searched her face carefully. “Do you want some beef borscht? I have some left over from this evening, and I’ll heat it up, no hassle,”

“No.” She moved her glance to the ground away from him, shaking her head slightly.  “No thank you, Pyotr, but that is nice of you.” The thought of eating made her slightly nauseous, thinking back to earlier that evening when she sat with her fiance at the table—his shouts of anger echoing through the cabin.

It was a curse that the house was so far out from the town, away from everyone else and guarded by the trees that stood tall. There weren’t any bruises she had to hide, but the night he threw his axe into the wall amidst an argument, she knew that staying only meant her life would be in his hands. 

Pyotr stood there, humming at her response, allowing himself to be gentle towards her. He didn’t know of her situation, but when she stopped by his stall in town to pick up more lumber—each time less frequent than the last—her eyes seemed to grow more tired with each visit, even with her soft upturned smile. Eventually, he stopped seeing her stop by completely, and the whispers around town about her whereabouts grew more frequent. 

Some words were similar to the fairy tales told to children, with her running off to live in the countryside with her fiance happily ever after in a lovebound marriage—while other whispers were tainted, lies about her seeing another man in secret, betraying her fiance.

Pyotr never allowed his mind to believe anything the townsfolk said, but his heart had a twinge of dull pain each time she was mentioned. He worried for her, for her well-being, for her own existence as a person.

He watched her sit in front of the fire, a dark silhouette, from his bed in a room offside, his gaze alert despite how heavy his eyelids felt. He didn’t want to go to sleep though, not with her in his home, under his roof. If something were to happen to her, he wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt that would eat him alive.

“Please get some rest, Pyotr,” she sighed. “Don’t let me keep you up.” She looked at him, her own eyes exhausted and tired, limbs on the verge of giving out despite resting.

“I can’t rest knowing you’re going to be on the ground—” Standing up from his bed, he walked over to her, wooden floorboards creaking with each step. “You are a guest under my roof, and I don’t have a guest room,” he sighed, feeling like he wasn’t offering enough. “So please, take the bed.”

She had no reason to deny his offer, beyond the fact that she simply just felt like she did not want to intrude into his life again so suddenly. Getting up from the ground, she brushed the pleat of her skirt lightly with her palm, nodding gratefully.

“Thank you, Pyotr.” Swallowing, her feeble attempt at fixing her rough voice was no use, and her throat felt scratchy and off, having overexerted herself while running. “Is there anything I can do to pay you back?” As she sat down on his bed, she pulled the blanket tighter around her frame, slouching slightly as she shut her eyes.

“Rest.” His own voice wasn’t smooth either, rough like pine bark, worry evident through his tone.

Something felt off about the atmosphere, beyond the unfavorable weather. His skin had goosebumps, and he eyed the door wearily from the chair near the dining area, breath unsteady.

As the home fell silent, he could hear the slight crunch of snow outside, faint—yet evident—footsteps of another person, a grown man of nearly his size. The door seemed to shake violently as the other person knocked with force, a rather intimidating tone for some.

Pyotr rose up from his seat, his own footsteps creaking rather loudly as well. “Who is there?”

Opening the door, he was face-to-face with a man who looked rather distraught with bloodshot eyes—his coat on oddly, boots unbuckled, and his hat was lopsided as he stumbled on his own feet in front of him.

“Greetings, Pyotr! Long time no see my old friend,” he rushed, words blurred and nearly incoherent as Pytor simply nodded with a tight-lipped expression. “Have you happened to hear someone running around in this area? Maybe a woman of sorts, crazed and lying about where she’s supposed to be?”

Scrunching his face, he shook his head as he crossed his arms across his chest. “No, I have not heard.”

It was evident that the other man doubted Pyotr as he glanced around his home, searching for any sign of another person in his home. “Are you wed?”

“No. And I am not seeing anyone either if that is what you are asking.”

The man looked at him suspiciously, and Pyotr could tell that he was getting irritated. 

“Whose boots are those?” He pointed to the pair sitting near the fireplace, the boots of his own fiancee.

Pyotr looked over, seeing the boots that were drying from the wet snow. “My sister Katerina left her boots here as she visited me yesterday, but she left with her husband early this evening.” 

 “And why was she here—?”

“My mother is gravely ill—pinned down to her own bed as her husband lies dead and buried outside of their home.” He spoke in a rather aggressive tone, but not yet shouting. “What much more do I have to say to prove my innocence to you?”

The other man stood there, mouth slightly agape as he realized his fault. “I am, truly sorry, Pyotr—”

“Your apology means nothing. You came here in the night, acting like you have authority over my own roof, interrogating me, and now you seek forgiveness from me.”

Nodding, he left with his head down in shame away from Pyotr’s home, and the door was closed shut, pushing away the biting winter air.

Her footsteps sounded as she shuffled her way out of his bedroom, eyes wide as she glanced towards the door with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“I heard shouting, are you alright?” she asked worriedly. “Was he here?”

His own expression remained stone, but she could tell he had a discomforting amount of anger boiling within. “He was a fool to show up and ask such questions,” he huffed. “Go back to sleep, heaven knows you need it more than I.”

Nodding, she ushered herself back into the bed in his room, clutching the blanket around herself as she lay down for the night, eyelids carrying the weight of her journey as she fell asleep. 

When she woke up, sitting upon the bed, the cabin was quiet, only the sounds of wildlife croaking in the early morning among the woods present. She found her coat neatly folded on a chair in the living area, with Pyotr sitting on the bench facing the front door, arms folded across his chest as he breathed deeply, eyes softly shut as he slept.

His boots were still on, most likely from the confrontation that previous night, as well as his coat, but his hat was tossed aside on a table, hair messy in all sorts of directions.

In the kitchen area, she found the leftovers from the night before, along with some unused vegetables and grains. Grabbing a small pot, she settled on making some porridge—something warm and filling to thank Pyotr for allowing her a place to stay for the night. She sliced up an apple that she had brought along the day before in her bag, as well as a piece of bread that she had baked on her own, plating those things alongside the porridge.

As she set down the plates onto the table, Pyotr seemed to spring awake, looking around all alert as he stood up quickly.

“I’m so sorry—I did not mean to fall asleep, milaya—”

Shaking her head, she simply smiled, not noticing the nickname he accidentally slipped. “Do not apologize, Pyotr. I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay for the night.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, observing her face with detail before he sat down at the table, preparing to eat his breakfast. “Did you sleep alright?”

“I slept fine, and hopefully you did as well,” she hummed, pulling a chair for herself at the table. “I apologize, but I couldn’t find the butter and I don’t seem to have any with me in my belongings.”

“The bread is lovely,” he chuckled, cheeks fuller as he smiled. “No need for any butter or preserves.”

All she could do was nod, smiling as she ate her own portion of breakfast, settled in her own thoughts, wondering what to do now that she had run off from her—now no longer—soon-to-be-husband. She couldn’t go back, but going into the town was another risk as well, and her options felt limited.

“You don’t seem to enjoy chatter much,” he acknowledged, shooing the silence away.

Swallowing, she hummed. “I like it that way, it’s comforting.” Only a few simple words, but Pyotr understood her vulnerability as if they were his own boots on his feet.

“Me too.” As much as he enjoyed the sound of her speaking, he wanted her to feel comfortable, not for him, but for herself. 

Slowly, the silence eased back into the kitchen as they had their breakfast, only small glances exchanged from here to there in brief moments in the sunlight that passed through the smaller windows near the ceiling.

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Miscellaneous Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

Unexpected Meetings - Matthew Tkachuk x F!Reader ✿ ♡

One Day You'll See That Your Tainted Wings Are Heavenly - Cole Caufield x F!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

Storm-Struck - Nico Hischier x F!Reader ✿ ♡

Like A Lazy Ocean Hugs The Shore, Hold Me Close, Sway Me More - Jamie Drysdale x F!Reader ✿ ♡

And All My Fears Come Back To You - Matthew Knies x F!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

A (Dark) Knight In Shining Armor - Jake DeBrusk x F!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

Cupid's Chokehold - Derek Forbort x GN!Reader ✿

I Won't See You Tonight - Alex Holtz x F!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

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Nils Höglander Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

Pastries 'n Dessert - Nils Höglander x F!Reader ✿ ♡

You're A Forbidden Delicacy, And I Won't Leave A Crumb - Nils Höglander x F!Reader ✿ ♡

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Quinn Hughes Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

'Cause This A Wasteland, My Only Retreat - Quinn Hughes x F!Reader (part one) ♤ ♡

The Water Is Rusted, The Air Is Unclean, And There For A Second, I Feel Free - Platonic!Brock Boeser xF!Reader, Quinn Hughes x F!Reader (part two) ♤/✿ ♡/♢

The Dirt Seems To Falter In My Hands, Like I Do So For You - Quinn Hughes x F!Reader ✿ ♡

You Can Hate Me If You Want, But Your Desires Don't Lie - Quinn Hughes x F!Reader ☆/✿ ♡

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Auston Matthews Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆ Fluff = ✿ Romantic = ♡ Platonic = ♢ Angst = ♤

Caraphernelia - Auston Matthews x F!Reader ♤

You? - Auston Matthews x F!Reader ♤ ♡

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Vince Dunn Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

You Got That Kinda Lovin' That Can Be So Smooth - Vince Dunn x F!Reader ✿ ♡

Desert Drifting - Vince Dunn x GN!Reader ☆

Hold Me Close, And Never Let Go - Vince Dunn x GN!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

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Arber Xhekaj Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

Disasterology - Arber Xhekaj x GN!Reader ♤

Ride Into The Sunset, Would I Lie To You? Well I've Got Somethin' To Say - Arber Xhekaj x F!Reader ♤ ♡

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Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

If I Drift Endlessly Among The Stars, Would You Join Me? - Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen x F!Reader ✿ ♡

Seeing The Smile On Your Face Makes Me Believe That You're A Saint - Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen x GN!Reader ✿ ♡

O Beautiful Saint, O Lovely Saint - Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen x F!Reader ✿ ♡

But Beware, Beware, Beware (And Take It Slow Tonight) - Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen x F!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

As We Grow, So Does Our Comfort - Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen x GN!Reader ✿ ♢

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Trent Frederic Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

Break Up With Your Crappy Boyfriend - Trent Frederic x F!Reader ♤ ♢

Tell Me A Lie, A Sweet Lie - Trent Frederic x F!Reader (part one) ✿ ♡

Citrus Sweetness - Trent Frederic x F!Reader (part two) ✿ ♡

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Mason Lohrei Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

As My Broken Heart Falls To My Feet, You Picked Up The Pieces Having Never Hurt Me Anyway - Mason Lohrei x F!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

You Paint The Skies So Beautifully, So Ethereally - Mason Lohrei x GN!Reader ✿ ♡

There Was Salt Rubbed Into My Wounds, And You Washed It Off With The Freshwater River - Mason Lohrei x GN!Reader ♤/✿ ♡

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Jeremy Swayman Masterlist

Key: Humor = ☆  Fluff = ✿  Romantic = ♡  Platonic = ♢  Angst = ♤

Verbatim - Jeremy Swayman x F!Reader ✿ ♡

You Glimmer Like City Lights Against The Sea Port - Jeremy Swayman x F!Reader ✿ ♡

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hi folks! i'll be updating/organizing my masterlists, so apologies for the spam. i love you all lots <3

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pspspsp hi kooch

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goodness gracious i love this!!

Snowstorm Secrets - Pyotr Kochetkov

a/n: this might not be the greatest writing for pyotr, but i tried my best! i know his english is improving and much better than it was, but i included some moments where it's not the best, so i hope it translates well! <3

prompt 8: "I don't want to be alone tonight."

word count: ~4.2k (longest fic i've written in a long time...i got carried away)

For the All-Star game break in Februrary, a few of the guys planned a little week-long getaway to a cabin in Maine near the coast. It was mainly Andrei’s idea, since he’s always talked about visiting the area during the winter. The weather was supposed to be cold and snowing all week, so it was sure to be a sight.

The cabin was was a pretty good-sized place, with five bedrooms and four bathrooms, it was gorgeous from the pictures that Andrei showed you. There was plenty of space for at least a dozen people, from what you figured out.

One bedroom had two full beds, so two of the guys were going to have to share. So, after asking around, the final group consisted of Andrei, Seth, Jack, Jesperi, Pyotr, and yourself. Seth and Jesperi’s girlfriends were also tagging along, bringing the total to eight.

When the time came, you packed up your warmest clothes and anything else you would need for the week, including a couple blankets in case there’s not enough in the cabin. On the day of your flight, you awake at five-thirty in the morning to get ready and make sure you have everything you could think of.

Soon, you hear Jack’s familiar car horn sound outside of your house, indicating that he was here and ready to pick you up.

“Morning,” he grins at you as you open your door for him. “Ready to go?”

“Yep,” you sigh. He takes your suitcase and brings it to his car, placing it in the trunk while you lock up the front door and make sure your garage is also locked. Once everything was set, you hop into the passenger seat with your backpack at your feet and buckle up.

Jack doesn’t live too far from the airport, so it’s not a terribly long drive, thankfully. But Jack being Jack, he has to be early for his flights and allow enough time for checking bags and getting through security.

“Do you know if the guys are planning on going into town one of the days?” You ask Jack as he makes his way through the airport and to the garage, where his car would be sitting for a week, not that he minded.

“I would assume so. I know KK and Jarvy have plans with their girlfriends for a couples night together one night or two, but I’m sure Andrei and Pyotr will be up for some tourist traps.” He chuckles and drifts his eyes back over at you for a moment. “I’m sure it’ll be the four of us for the most part of this trip.”

Your grin falters for a moment at his last comment, your mind reeling with thoughts. His words remind you of the secret you’ve been keeping from the guys, and while it was difficult to keep hidden, it was the best option for now.

You and Pyotr were dating, and have been for a few months, without telling any of his teammates, especially Andrei. It was mainly his idea, he didn’t want to be pandered by the guys and teased over this, but he also wanted to be sure this was a serious thing between the two of you, seeing that you were friends with the guys as well.

The last thing you wanted was for them to pick sides if you were to split; deep down, you knew they’d never do that, but things like that always tend to happen in minuscule ways. You didn’t want to come between him and his teammates, so it was best kept a secret until both of you were ready.

“(Y/N)?” Jack sings out, nudging your leg a bit. You break from your disassociated stare, so lost in your own mind that you didn’t hear him speak.

“Hm?” Jack can’t help but laugh, the dark space of the garage dimming the light in the car.

“We’re here,” he states. “You gonna get out or sit here until the others arrive?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just…thinking about something.” You step out of the car and pull your suitcase from the trunk, throwing your backpack over your shoulder.

The two of you are the first ones with your bags checked and through security, grabbing a quick breakfast at a stall near your gate. The airport was pretty busy for a Monday at seven in the morning, but something about it was peaceful, in a way.

The sun was still rising, casting a hazy yellow glow through the large windows, allowing the perfect view of planes taking off and landing in the distance. You stare out the window, eating your breakfast bagel, when a familiar voice greets Jack beside you.

Andrei and Pyotr were the next of the group to arrive, Andrei setting his backpack down and plopping into the seat beside Jack. Despite wanting to keep things secret, Pyotr walks over to you and gives you a small smile, taking a seat next to you.

“Hi,” he murmurs, his cheeks turning a light pink, his eyes dropping to the bottle of water in his hands. Jack and Andrei were lost in their own conversation, talking about the house that he had rented and how much he was looking forward to this and have some time off.

“So, we have separate rooms?” Pyotr confirms with a small frown on his face.

“Yeah. I think it’s good anyways, don’t want anyone to question anything,” you keep your voice low when speaking. “But you’re sharing a room with Andrei, so it won’t be terrible.”

Pyotr shrugs and looks back up at you. He quickly glances over at Andrei, who was now staring down at his phone, Jack missing from beside you as well.

“I guess so,” he grumbles. “I will miss having you in my arms when we sleep.”

Pyotr was so shy with his confession, trying not to draw any attention to himself, also slightly embarrassed over the fact that he was admitting this. You place your hand gently on his forearm, stroking the shirt covering his skin with your thumb.

“It’s only a week,” you whisper, though you can’t deny his words make your heart flutter inside of your chest.

“I know, but I like when you’re against my chest,” he continues, smiling a bit more at the memories of you falling asleep in his arms.

You didn’t live with each other yet, but you’ve spent countless nights together at each other’s houses, sometimes you fell asleep accidentally, but it was special every time, no matter what. He was definitely a cuddler, something you loved about him, and he never let you go if he has you in his arms.

Just as you were going to respond, Jack walks back over, patting Pyotr on the back since he didn’t say hi to him when he arrived. The two of you act like you weren’t talking about anything, you focus back on the last bites of your sandwich before getting up to throw your trash out.

Just then, Jesperi and Seth walk up to you, their girlfriends trailing behind them. Seth, who looked incredibly exhausted, immediately opens his arms up to offer you a hug, a smile spreading across his lips.

“Hey, how’s it going?” You hug him before moving to hug Jesperi.

“Tired as shit, if I had a choice I’d still be in bed,” Seth comments with a groan, rubbing his eyes that were still filled with sleep. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, shaking your head, knowing how truthful he was being.

“It must be so hard for you,” you tease him with a frown. He mocks a laugh back and rubs your back, a way of letting you know he was messing around, stepping over to greet his other teammates sitting around.

You take a seat and check the time, seeing that your flight wasn’t going to be boarding for another hour and a half. Just like Seth, you were exhausted, having woken up super early after not getting enough sleep.

“You can rest your head on shoulder,” Pyotr speaks up from beside you. Turning your head, you find him gazing at you lovingly, and deep down, you hoped no one noticed how lovesick he looks in this moment.

“You sure?” You question back, glancing around at the others standing by. He just nods and pats his right shoulder with his left hand.

“Of course.”

The others seemed to be lost in their own conversations, Andrei and Jack were talking with Seth about the loose itinerary for the trip, and Jesperi and his girlfriend walked off to find some food and drinks. So, you gently place your head on Pyotr’s shoulder, your heart pounding in your chest.

You hoped this didn’t appear to the others as anything more than a friendly little gesture, not particularly in the mood to draw any sort of teasing or attention to the two of you. Unfortunately, Jack notices, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he taps Andrei and points over to the two of you.

Pyotr plays around on his phone, his own head resting on yours, completely unaware of the world around the two of you.

“What’s going on there?” Andrei wonders with curiosity, raising his eyebrows. Jack chuckles and Seth can’t help but smirk at the sight, seeing how sweet his Russian teammate is.

“I think he likes her,” Seth comments, crossing his arms over his chest and staring over at the two of you. “He’s always staring at her and he lights up whenever she’s mentioned.”

“We should try and set them up on a date this week,” Andrei suggests. “Maybe say we have reservations at a restaurant and then when we show up, tell them it’s just for them two.”

“Oh yeah, I like that,” Seth agrees, Jack joining in to confirm the plans.

“That’s a great idea. There’s something between them, as much as they want to deny it. I’ve seen the way they look at each other, but they both don’t seem to notice.”

As they continue to connive and plan, you end up falling asleep for about fort-five minutes, cutting the time of your wait for boarding in half. Groaning, you slowly lift your head from Pyotr’s shoulder, the muscles in your neck tense from the way your head was laying for so long.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Jack teases from beside you.

“I blame you for booking such an early flight,” you shove him a little. He laughs and points to Andrei across from him.

“Blame him, he’s the one who planned this whole trip.”

“I distinctly remember you being the one to suggest an early flight so we could have as much time as possible.”

“Alright, I did suggest that. But I stand by it. Why waste a whole day flying in late?” He stands by his suggestion.

“We wouldn’t have been made to wake up before the sun was even in the sky,” Seth retaliates from his spot next to Jack, completely slouched in the chair, his hoodie over his face. You giggle and glance over at him, knowing he was hating this just as much as you.

However, once getting boarded on the plane, it was a smooth three-hour, non-stop flight that you spent the majority of laying on Andrei’s shoulder and holding Pyotr’s hand under the blanket that he had brought.

He wanted to be touching you in any way he could, and this was the best option to do so. Thankfully, Andrei doesn’t notice, despite sitting right next to you; you were confident you could get away with a few things for the week.

Finally, the plane lands and it’s a little after eleven in the morning, plenty of time to explore the city and get settled into the cabin for the night. Within the itinerary, Andrei needed to pick up the rental cars with Jack, deciding that two would be perfect if people want to split for the day’s events.

You grab a quick bite to eat at a local restaurant on the outskirts of the city, a perfect view of a lighthouse in the distance. Being here already felt so perfect, and you couldn’t wait to explore more of the city this week.

Once everything was ready and set for the cabin, groceries were bought, rental cars were picked up, and the keys to the cabin were secured, the eight of you drove through the wintery streets of Portland, Maine, gazing out the window in awe of how beautiful everything looked around you.

It wasn’t too far of a drive to get to the cabin located just on the edge of the woods, overlooking a large frozen lake, the trees surrounding it bare and covered in a light layer of snow from the previous snowfall. Andrei pulls into the driveway, Jesperi pulling up right next to him in the spacious area.

“Okay, Jack and (Y/N) have their own rooms, each with a queen bed, both are upstairs. KK and Jarvy, you guys will be in the rooms on the first floor down this hall, and Pyotr, you’re with me in the room with the two full beds,” Andrei explains to everyone once all the luggage and groceries were inside, the door shut, shielding you all from the freezing elements. “We’ll unpack anything we need to, put the food away, change, and go into town again to look around for a while.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jesperi nods, wrapping his arm around his girlfriend’s waist. The two of them trail down the hallway, followed by Seth and his girlfriend, chatting about which room they each wanted, despite being relatively the same.

Jack helps you carry your suitcase upstairs, pausing when he reaches the top with it.

“You’re more than welcome to pick out whichever room you want,” he tells you. “I’m gonna go help Pyotr and Svech put everything away.”

“Alright, thanks Jacko.”

He skips back down the steps and you roll your suitcase into the first room on the left. Immediately, you notice the large window, with a small bench beneath it, a picture perfect view of the lake, the bed not too far away from it.

There was a TV in the room, sitting atop the dresser, and the walls were painted a calming pine green with some random photos placed around; it was quite dark, but it was fitting for the scenic cabin, and a beautiful shade, nonetheless. Just as you were unpacking your things, placing them in the drawers and the closet, you hear a knock on your door.

“We’re leaving in about thirty minutes,” Andrei alerts from the other side.

“Okay!” You call back, putting a halt your organizing to change out of the clothes you wore on the plane, and into something a bit more casual, a pair of jeans and a thick sweater, with a beanie sitting atop your head to hide the hat hair from wearing one on the plane.

When everyone was ready, the same groups piled into the same cars as previously, you, Andrei, Jack, and Pyotr in one, and Seth, Jesperi, and their girlfriends in the other. Together, you drive back into town and find a quaint little seaside street, filled with bustling shops and cafes.

The two couples set off on their own, as expected, and you walk alongside Jack behind the two Russian hockey players, yapping away in their own language. Every now and then, you’d stop in a shop, meandering around, taking in what items they have, and even buying some goodies.

You couldn’t help yourself in the chocolate shops, buying some fudge and other treats, as well as small trinkets like a tiny replica of the Portland Head Light, Maine’s oldest lighthouse, and keychains and post cards for collecting.

Later that night at dinner, which was a laid-back bar and grill restaurant, the walls covered with different signs and posters, the air bustling with a pretty large crowd.

“It looks like there’s supposed to be a winter storm tonight,” Jesperi says, holding his phone out for everyone to see the weather app that was open. To accommodate for your large party, you were placed at a couple tables pushed together, Pyotr sitting right across from you, Jack beside him, Andrei to your right, and the two couples at the other table.

“How much is it supposed to snow?” Jack asks.

Beside him, Pyotr grumbles, which you catch and laugh at.

“Ruin your plans of skating on the lake?” You nudge his leg beneath the table with your foot, causing him to widen his eyes a little and blush.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he chuckles, but then he turns serious. “Don’t like snow storms. We got a lot in Russia and they were bad.”

A frown tugs at your lips, and as much as you want to reach over and take his hand in yours, you keep from doing so, knowing the others were alert and aware of things going on around them, so they’d absolutely see the action.

“I’m sure everything will be alright, PK.” Andrei glances over at his friend and nods. “From what it reads, it’s only a couple inches of snow with freezing temperatures, it won’t be anything like in Russia,” he adds.

“I remember there was this really bad one, the front door was covered all the way, we couldn’t get out for days,” Pyotr explains the memery he has. His eyes drop down to the table, messing with his hands. “My dad climbed out the window to finally clear it after four days of being stuck inside.”

“Four days?” You gasp at the bit of information within the story. “Damn, how much snow did you get?”

“A lot, like six feet in hours. It was the longest four days of my life. My brother and I fought from being stuck inside for so long,” Pyotr laughs and shakes his head little, then shrugs. “So if that happens, I’m crawling out the window.”

Andrei and Jack both chuckle along, but you can hear the fear in his voice, that showed he was being completely serious. Deep down, you hoped this storm wasn’t going to be like the ones he’s witnessed.

Because of the news of the incoming storm, everyone decided to head back to the cabin for the night, just in case the path changes and it hits earlier than it’s expected to. Filing into the house, everyone splits in their own directions, some going to their rooms, others going right to the living room to lounge for a while.

You head right for your room to shower and change into warmer, comfier clothes, before grabbing your favorite blanket from your suitcase and heading downstairs to find a snack and chill on the couch with Andrei and Pyotr for a bit.

They were talking to each other in Russian, but as soon as you take a seat, they stop. Just then, Seth and Jesperi step out of their rooms on their own, throwing themselves onto the couch with the three of you.

“Oh, by the way, (Y/N), I made reservations for a really nice steakhouse in the city for everyone on Thursday,” Andrei says. “I forgot to mention it.”

“Sounds good,” you nod, snuggling up underneath the cover. Pyotr smiles softly at the sight of you curled up, wanting nothing more than to scoot over to where you are and hold you in his arms, kissing you over and over again.

But he couldn’t. And it was starting to get harder and harder to pretend you weren’t his.

The wind outside was growing stronger by the hour, the temperature in the house dropping along with the temperature outside. Andrei had to turn the heat up some to battle it, but it was no use.

A couple hours later, the snow is finally falling in large flakes and a vast amount, coating the old patches of snow with fresh, fine powder, including the skinny branches on the trees all around you.

Everyone had resorted to their own rooms at this point, with it nearing midnight. Andrei had been asleep for a short while now, but Pyotr remained awake, staring out the window, watching the snow fall on the house. He had the TV on to distract him, though it was useless.

Just as the show comes back from a commercial, the screen goes blank and the house goes silent. He furrows his eyebrows and sits up in bed, looking towards the door, where there had been a light on in the hallway, filtering beneath the crack of the door.

That was no longer there. It was dark.

The power went out.

He could feel himself start to panic a little, the wind picking up some, the walls creaking as it does. He takes a deep breath in and his mind reels with thoughts of what to do. Should he wake up Andrei and attempt to get the power to come back on? Is anyone else awake to know?

His mind then lands on you, knowing you’d most likely still be up. As much as he didn’t want anyone to find out he was in your room, he was desperate for some comfort. So, quietly, he removes his covers and rises from his bed, tiptoeing over to the door, pausing the second he hears a creak in the floor. 

Glancing back at Andrei, who remains asleep, he carefully opens the door, twisting the knob as slowly as he can, darting out of the room quick. He gives the same treatment as before, shutting the door slowly so it doesn’t click or slam, and when he’s free, he strides a few feet down the hall, right to your door.

Just as he did to his, he opens your door, trying his best to prevent it from creaking, hoping that you weren’t asleep yet. Seeing him peak his head in, you sit up and squint your eyes to focus on him.

“Pyotr? What are you doing?” You whisper-yell, watching him close the door behind him and rush over to your bed the second it’s fully shut.

“The power is out,” he states, sitting on your bed.

“I know. I was watching a movie and it cut out.” Pyotr nods at your words and sighs, the room already growing colder without the heat on. “Are you okay?” Your question comes out rather concerned for your boyfriend.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” he whispers, moving closer to you just a little. Your heart aches in your chest and you wrap your arms around him tightly.

“Andrei’s in your room, isn’t he?”

“He’s sleeping. I want you,” he mumbles into your neck, curling into your body.

“Hold on a second, alright?” Raising from the bed, much to Pyotr’s dismay, you head over to your suitcase and grab the extra blankets that you brought, just for a situation like this.

You throw them over the already thick comforter, adding two more layers of warmth to you and your boyfriend. Pyotr opens his arms for you to fall into once again, and he instantly pulls you close to his body, sighing happily.

Silence hangs in the air for some minutes as you warm up with each other, though you were still shaking like a leaf. Pyotr laughs softly and kisses along your forehead.

“You know they planned a secret blind date for us,” he whispers against your hair. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and you raise your head a little to stare up at him.

“What?”

“Remember how Svech said he has reservations for restaurant? It’s just us two,” he smiles down at you, his hand coming up to tuck some of your hair behind your ear, resting his hand on your face afterwards.

“How do you know this?”

“In the airport back home, I heard Svech saying they could make reservations to set us up. They tell us it was for everyone but when we get there, it’s a reservation for two.”

“Really?” You scoff in confusion, shaking your head in disbelief. “Well, at least the fact that they think we’d be good together is comforting.”

“I know,” Pyotr chuckles, tracing along your face with his finger. “Should we tell them?”

You sit on his words for a few seconds, but shake your head in disagreement moments later.

“I say we let them think they’re setting us up, and we enjoy a nice dinner away from them for a couple hours,” you say with a smirk. Pyotr mirrors your expression, giddy over the thought of having you to himself for a while.

“I agree. And we get Svech to pay,” he adds.

“Hell yeah! I’ll ask him if he’s planning on paying while in the car since he suggested it. Then we can order all the things we want, get two desserts and everything. It’ll so be worth it.”

“I love you,” Pyotr replies in a hushed tone, cuddling you closer to him.

“I love you too, PK.” Your eyes flutter closed and you finally start to feel warmer, wrapped up in your lover’s arms.

In this moment, no one else mattered, you could be with one another without worrying about revealing anything. Eventually, you’d have to tell the guys that you and Pyotr are together, when they inevitably ask about your “blind date” they set up in a couple days.

However, you knew everything was going to be okay, and you couldn’t wait to finally get to show your love for Pyotr without having to hide it.

[snorky]

this is so sweet it got me giggling and kicking my feet instead of studying for my exams :3

Lover | Cale Makar

"My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue, All's well that ends well to end up with you, Swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover."

Summary: An old-school middle school pen-pal program may just lead you to the one...

Word Count: 6.4k

Pairing: Cale Makar x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some mentions of alcohol, other than that just teeth rotting fluff.

Notes:

here's my cale fic!

as i proof read i realized my excess of em dashes so i apologize

i'm really proud of this idea i think it's so unique! enjoy!

i love separating childhood friends to lovers tropes with ages so i did that here again

skips in large amounts of time will use the flower divider, short scene swaps will just use dashes.

11 years old

You don’t know why you hover so long over the list of cities — a glossy, laminated chart pinned crooked on the corkboard beside your classroom door, under the sharp yellow header that reads PEN PAL EXCHANGE: PICK YOUR PLACE! You’re supposed to pick one, just one, from a sea of possibilities, but your eyes dart around the names like they’re swarming ants. Paris? No — too French. Sydney? Beautiful, sure, but feels intimidating somehow, like the name alone carries too much mountain-and-ocean grandeur for a small-town Texas girl like you. New York? Everyone picks New York. You want to be different.

Then your gaze snags on Calgary, Alberta.

Calgary.

You mouth it once, twice. Alberta sounds like it belongs to a cowboy aunt. Calgary sounds... bold. You like the idea of writing to someone from another country, but you don’t want to be stuck Google Translating every letter. So you jot your name under the Calgary slot, feeling a fizz of anticipation, your pen pressing hard enough to leave a faint indent in the paper.

You, age eleven, sixth grade, from just outside Dallas — the self-declared NHL capital of your heart, even if you’ve never actually been to a real game — are about to write to a Canadian. And not just any Canadian. You’ll soon find out who it is.

The first letter comes to you with a neat, blocky handwriting that somehow seems too mature for someone still in elementary school. Because yeah, he’s still in elementary school.

Hi, I’m Cale Makar. I live in Calgary, Alberta, with my mom, dad, and my little brother. I like hockey (a lot). I’m in Grade 6 and I play defense."

You squint at that part, circling it three times with your pink glitter pen before uncapping your own notebook to reply. You feel... odd. You’re eleven, practically a grown-up (at least compared to a sixth grader stuck in elementary school), and here you are writing back to someone who sounds like he could still be on the jungle gym.

But you write anyway. And you’re funny about it, too.

Dear Cale, Wow, I didn’t know Grade 6 was still elementary in Canada! Over here, we’re already in middle school. Do you guys have lockers yet? Or are you still using cubbies? (No offense, just wondering.) I think it’s cool you play hockey. I like watching the NHL on TV, but I don’t know all the rules. Maybe you can teach me?

You sign off with a doodle of a little stick-figure girl and a lopsided maple leaf. You wonder if he’ll laugh at it or think it’s dumb.

A week later, his reply arrives.

Hahahahaha. Yeah, we still use cubbies (not lockers). But I can reach the top shelf, so it’s fine. What’s middle school like? Do you guys have to change classrooms every period? That sounds complicated. Also, don’t worry, I can explain hockey. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.

Your favorite part, though, is at the very end:

P.S. You asked what I look like — my mom says I have dirty blond hair and blue eyes, and my brother says I look like an alien. So, there you go.

You snort lemonade out your nose when you read that, pressing the paper flat against your desk as you giggle into your sweatshirt sleeve.

The letters start flowing fast after that.

You write about your little sister (annoying), your science project (lame), your crush on a boy named Ethan (who definitely doesn’t know you exist), and the time you accidentally fell off your bike and skinned both knees in the same spot you’d just scabbed over. He writes about hockey practice (so much), his younger brother, and how he’s dreaming of the NHL even though everyone keeps saying it’s impossible.

You write each other everything.

You tell him when you ace your history test. You tell him when your mom grounds you for sneaking extra screen time past bedtime. You tell him when Ethan finally talks to you, only to ask if you have gum. And when Cale’s letters arrive — always a bit longer, always a bit neater — you pore over every line like it’s a secret message just for you.

In one letter, he sends a blurry photo of himself, grinning with a mouth half-hidden by a helmet. He’s got the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, spiky little blond tufts sticking out from under the padding. Alien boy, you scrawl in your next letter, circling the photo with a dozen exclamation points.

His reply comes back with a doodle of a UFO beaming him up, and you laugh so hard your mom peeks into your room to check if you’re okay.

The months stretch, and your friendship settles into this golden rhythm, the kind only sixth graders know: silly and important all at once, filled with overthinking and under-explaining, with hours spent sitting cross-legged on your bedroom carpet just imagining what it would be like if you lived in the same place.

You tell your friends you have a pen pal, and they nod politely. You don’t tell them you save every letter under your bed in a shoe box, or that you sometimes reread them late at night, when the house is quiet and your world feels small.

You wonder if he ever thinks about you outside of the letters.

You wonder what it’s like to be a hockey kid, really a hockey kid, with early morning practices and skates slung over your shoulder like some kind of miniature pro. You wonder if he knows what it’s like to be just a little bit lonely, a little bit restless, dreaming of the big leagues when everyone else just wants to hang out at the mall.

And one day, when you’re bored in class and scribbling his name in the margins of your notebook — not in a crush way (definitely not), just in a wondering way — you realize that somehow, without meaning to, Cale Makar has become one of the most important people in your eleven-year-old life.

He doesn’t even know it.

But maybe, you think, maybe one day he will.

14 years old

You don’t know why you’re nervous. It’s not like you haven’t been writing to Cale for years. Not like you haven’t sent him pages and pages of your life, your school drama, your dumbest thoughts, your favorite inside jokes. But somehow, when you tuck the photo into the envelope — the glossy little snapshot you begged your sister to take in the backyard, sun on your shoulders, hair actually doing the right thing for once — your stomach clenches.

It’s not even a fancy picture. Just you, holding a peace sign, wearing your favorite jean jacket, squinting into the afternoon light. But still, it feels... different. Like you’re stepping over an invisible line.

You imagine him opening it on the other side of the border, in some cold Alberta kitchen with a dog barking in the background or his little brother yelling from upstairs. You imagine him holding it, looking at it, seeing you in a way letters never quite let him.

It makes your face hot just thinking about it.

You seal the envelope with a too-big lick (ugh, why) and drop it into the mailbox outside your high school. You tug your hoodie tight, trying to ignore the strange fizz of nerves under your skin. You’re fourteen now. You’re a high schooler. Cale’s still back in middle school — his system works differently, okay, you’ve Googled it three times — and even though you tease him about it relentlessly, there’s this tiny flicker of something in your chest whenever you remember that soon he’ll catch up, soon you’ll both be in high school, and then what? Will you still be writing letters at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen?

Part of you hopes so.

Part of you doesn’t even know what you’re hoping for.

—

The reply takes longer than usual. A whole extra week. You check the mailbox every afternoon, sometimes twice, sometimes three times (don’t tell your sister, she’ll never let you live it down). When it finally arrives, the envelope’s crinkled at the edges, like it’s been through a storm.

Inside, you find his usual lined paper, blocky handwriting marching across the page. But this time, the bottom half of the letter is overtaken by something else entirely: doodles. Dozens of them. Little cartoon hearts. A sketch of a smiley face with your hairstyle. The words "pretty" underlined twice, with a jagged, awkward arrow pointing back up toward your name.

Your heart somersaults in your chest.

You read the letter again, slower this time.

Hey, I got your photo. You look really cool in that jacket. You’re really pretty, too. I don’t know why but it made me smile a lot.

You slap a hand over your face, grinning into your palm like an idiot.

Also, is mailing photos allowed? My mom said it’s probably fine but like, is there a rule? Should I send you one back? (Not sure if you want a photo of me looking sweaty after practice but maybe I’ll try to find a good one.)

And then —

P.S. I was thinking, maybe you could give me your phone number? Not because I don’t want to write letters, but like, the stamps are expensive and you know, texting is faster? Just an idea.

You can almost hear his voice through the page, casual but not, relaxed but weirdly careful, like he’s poking at something without wanting to break it.

Your cheeks burn.

You stare at the letter for a long time, your fingers tracing over the little sketched hearts and the doodled alien head he’s drawn next to his name ("alien boy" will never die, apparently). You think about all the letters, the years of scribbled stories and shared secrets, the thousands of words you’ve thrown across miles like skipping stones. And now — now he wants your number.

Your brain is a mess.

Do you want this? Yes. Obviously. But also, ugh. You’re already spiraling, wondering if texting will change things, if you’ll lose the charm of the envelopes and stamps, if you’ll start talking too much or too little or if he’ll text you late at night and make your heart do weird little flippy things you’re not prepared for.

You flop backward onto your bed, the letter fluttering to the floor. You kick your legs in the air like some cartoon character, covering your face with a pillow and groaning into it.

Why does he have to make everything feel like a movie?

You sit up eventually, reaching for your phone. You tap your thumbs against the case. You glance at the letter again. You start drafting your reply in your head, the way you always do:

Dear Cale, So, texting, huh? You’re really moving up in the world. Fine, here’s my number, but you better promise to still send letters sometimes, okay? I’m not giving up my shoebox full of your bad hockey doodles just because you’ve suddenly decided to go all high-tech on me.

You’ll write it all out properly later, maybe add a photo of your dog or your messy desk or something else silly just to keep things light. But even as you pretend to play it cool, you know you’re smiling too wide, your heart doing that annoying-sweet dance it does when you let yourself admit — maybe, just maybe, this pen pal thing has become something you can’t imagine giving up.

And you’re not sure if you’re ready to know what that means.

—

The first text comes late in the evening, just after you’ve finished your homework but before you’ve gotten up to brush your teeth. Your phone buzzes on your nightstand, lighting up the dark corner of your room like a miniature lighthouse, pulsing once, twice, three times. You nearly trip over yourself lunging for it.

Unknown number: Hey, it’s Cale :D

You sit on your bed, staring at it, thumbs hovering over the screen like they’ve forgotten how to function. For all the years you’ve been writing letters, the instant-ness of this feels... weird. You can practically hear his voice (except you don’t know what his voice really sounds like yet, which makes your stomach do this ridiculous, swoopy thing).

You type back: omg alien boy finally went digital

You’re grinning so wide your cheeks ache. And that’s it — the beginning of the texting era.

—

You text. All. The. Time.

You text at lunch, sending pictures of your soggy cafeteria pizza with the caption fine dining. He texts you from the locker room, a blurry photo of his hockey bag, captioned smells like a swamp in here. You send selfies pulling dumb faces; he sends back photos of his hockey socks stuffed into skates, claiming they are cursed. You fall asleep with your phone buzzing on the pillow beside you, half-dreaming of blue text bubbles and his goofy little “:D” smiley face.

It’s when you finally call him, though, that things hit you.

You’d been joking about how he should actually explain hockey rules to you in real time (because reading about icing in a letter was getting you nowhere), and before you can think twice, you’re both on the phone, your heart thudding stupidly loud in your chest as you listen to the line click.

"Hey," he says, and — oh my god.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the laugh that bubbles up. Because yeah, there it is. The accent.

"Hey, are you laughing at me?" he asks, sounding confused but smiling, you can tell. "What’s so funny?"

"Oh my god, you sound so Canadian," you wheeze. "Say 'about' again. Say it."

"I am not a stereotype!" he protests, but you can hear the grin creeping in. "You’re such a brat."

You spend half the call teasing him about every word he says, soaking up the low, gentle rumble of his voice, and the other half listening to him try — and fail — to explain hockey penalties without getting distracted by your relentless jokes.

By the time you hang up, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your phone battery is nearly dead, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never been more aware of how much you like hearing someone’s voice just because it’s theirs.

—

Inevitably, you get grounded.

It’s over something stupid — maybe you stayed out too late with friends, maybe your mom caught you scrolling TikTok under the covers when you were supposed to be asleep — but the result is the same: no phone for a week.

At first, you’re frantic. How will Cale know you’re not ignoring him? Will he think you’re mad at him? Will he worry? You don’t want to be dramatic, but you can feel the anxiety buzzing under your skin, crawling up the back of your neck.

So you do the only thing that makes sense.

You write him a letter.

It feels weird, going back to paper after months of texting, but also... comforting. You curl up on your bed with your old glitter pen (you still have it, you’re not ashamed), scribbling out an explanation with little side notes and dumb doodles in the margins.

Dear Cale, I’m grounded. Don’t panic, I didn’t do anything that bad. I just can’t text for a bit, which is killing me because now I’m thinking of every stupid thing I want to tell you, and I can’t. So here’s this letter instead. Sorry if it’s cheesy. I guess I got used to always being able to talk to you. Anyway, I miss talking to you (ugh, gross, I know) and you better not forget about me while I’m stuck here, okay?

You fold it up, seal it, and drop it in the mailbox, heart thudding a little faster than you care to admit.

Of course, two days later, you get your phone back. Your mom decides the punishment was too harsh. You text Cale immediately: I’M FREE. LET’S NEVER SPEAK OF THIS.

You think that’s the end of it.

—

The next time he calls you, you’re lying on your bedroom floor, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, when your phone buzzes in your hand.

"Hey," you answer, casual.

"Hey," he says back, and you can hear the mischief in his voice.

You sit up, suspicious. "What?"

"I got your letter," he says innocently.

Oh no.

"Cale, no —"

"‘I miss talking to you,’" he recites dramatically, "‘ugh, gross, I know.’" He’s laughing now, full-out, the kind of laugh you can’t help but join in even as you groan and bury your face in your hands.

"You’re such a jerk," you whine, heat creeping up your neck. "Give it back."

"It’s a letter, genius, you mailed it to me," he teases. "It’s mine now."

You flop backward on the carpet, eyes squeezed shut, grinning so wide it’s probably a crime. There’s a warmth blooming in your chest, a softness you try to swallow down but can’t quite hide. Because yeah, maybe you do miss him when you don’t talk. Maybe you’ve been missing him for a long time, without really realizing what it meant.

You cover your face with a pillow, voice muffled. "I’m never living this down, am I?"

"Nope," he says cheerfully. "Not a chance."

And even through the embarrassment, even through your playful complaints, you know you wouldn’t want it any other way.

18 years old

The television screen flickers blue and gold in the darkened living room, casting strange shadows across the popcorn bowl you’re nervously picking at, kernel by kernel. You don’t even like popcorn that much, but your fingers keep moving, digging, twisting the salty pieces apart like it’s a nervous tic. You’re sprawled sideways on the couch, one knee hooked over the armrest, your phone clutched tightly in the other hand as the NHL draft plays on the flat-screen.

Your parents had long since gone to bed — it’s late, later than they care to stay up, especially for a draft where nobody expected anything big to happen in the first round outside the usual names. Not for Cale, anyway. You know this. He knows this. You’d both talked about it for weeks, rolling your eyes at the rankings, joking about how maybe he’d be picked up eventually, late in the game, and you could laugh about it years down the road.

And then —

“WITH THE FOURTH OVERALL PICK, THE COLORADO AVALANCHE SELECT... CALE MAKAR.”

Your mouth actually drops open. You lurch halfway upright, the popcorn bowl sliding off your lap, scattering across the carpet like confetti. For a second, you’re convinced you’ve misheard, that there’s been some mix-up, that this can’t possibly be right —

But there he is, on screen. Cale, in a fresh suit, standing up, eyes wide, smile shaky, walking toward the draft stage like someone in a dream.

You throw a pillow across the room.

“OH MY GOD,” you shriek to no one, heart hammering. “OH MY GOD, HE DID IT!”

And then you sit there.

For hours.

You pace the house, picking at the cold popcorn. You open your phone and stare at his name, but you don’t text — you know he’s busy, swept into that strange new current of media interviews, press conferences, team dinners, celebration photos, hands being shaken, shoulders clapped. His parents are probably over the moon. His brother’s probably jumping out of his skin. You check Instagram and see grainy videos of him on people’s stories — the stage, the handshake, that grin you know so well stretched wide under the hot lights.

You scroll endlessly, your thumb going numb, until you finally drop the phone facedown on your bed, your heart all twisted up in a knot you can’t name.

You drift in and out of sleep, still in your jeans, sprawled across your blankets, your room half-lit by the glow of your charging phone. You wake up twice, once at midnight and once at two, groggy and tense, fingers twitching toward your screen before you yank them back.

It’s almost three in the morning when the video call finally comes through.

Your phone buzzes, lighting up your dark room, and you fumble it up to your face, hair a mess, mascara smudged under your eyes. You don’t even care. You answer without thinking.

“Hey,” Cale says, voice raspier than usual, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. He’s propped up in some fancy hotel room, the glow of the city stretching faintly outside the window behind him. There’s a bottle of water on the nightstand, a crumpled suit jacket on the chair. He looks exhausted — and happier than you’ve ever seen him.

“OH MY GOD,” you whisper, barely able to keep your voice down in the sleeping house. “CALE. FOURTH. OVERALL. WHAT THE HELL?!”

He laughs, tipping his head back against the headboard. “Yeah, uh, kinda crazy, right?”

“Kinda crazy?! Kinda?!” You flail your hands at the camera, nearly dropping your phone. “You told me you’d be lucky to go late first round, if that. You liar. You absolute alien.”

“I didn’t know!” he protests, still grinning, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I swear. I thought I was gonna pass out when they called my name.”

You hug your knees to your chest, the relief and joy flooding through you like sunlight after a storm. And under it, tangled in the glow of the moment, there’s something deeper. A sharp tug you try to ignore.

“So what happens next?” you ask softly, voice catching just a little. “Are you just... moving to Denver?”

Cale’s eyes soften. He shakes his head, running a hand through his blond hair, making it stand on end. “Not yet. I can play college first. I’ve been thinking about committing to UMass. You know — University of Massachusetts, middle of nowhere, hockey program’s solid.”

You blink. “Massachusetts?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, smiling faintly. “Figured I’d give myself a couple more years to, I don’t know... be a kid? Before the big leagues.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the sudden, stupid prickle behind your eyes. Massachusetts. It’s far. Farther than it feels, even. And for the first time, you can hear the space stretching between you — all the years of letters and texts and phone calls, all the things you never said, the tiny careful balances you kept because it was easier that way.

But then, as if reading your mind, Cale leans a little closer to the camera, eyes warm, voice low.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping the back of your hand across your face, even though you’re not really crying. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

He smiles wider, the kind of grin you can feel in your chest even from miles away. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

And just like that, the air eases between you again, filling up with the old, familiar comfort, the one you’ve known since you were kids scribbling letters on lined paper, teasing each other about cubbies and lockers, aliens and hockey and all the things you never quite said but always meant.

You curl tighter under your blankets, eyes soft, smiling into the screen. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on it.”

You’re twenty-one now, and you swear the universe has a sick sense of humor.

It’s April, exam season, papers stacked high on your desk, empty coffee cups like little white trophies of suffering — and yet, when the news hits your phone, you nearly knock all of it to the ground.

CALE MAKAR CALLED UP TO THE AVALANCHE FOR PLAYOFFS.

You read it twice. Three times. You scramble for your phone, fingers fumbling on the screen.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, staring at the announcement, the press photo — his sharp, determined face, the Colorado jersey. Your heart sprints in your chest, hands shaking like you’ve had five too many espressos.

Your sister sticks her head into your room, raising an eyebrow. “Why are you gasping like you just saw God?”

“Cale,” you breathe. “He’s playing. Tonight. NHL playoffs.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait, seriously? Against who?”

“Calgary.” You let out a half-hysterical laugh. “Oh my god, his hometown. This is insane.”

Without thinking, you’re pulling up flight search apps, fingers flying. Dallas to Denver, tonight. There’s a flight. Barely. It cuts terrifyingly close with your exam, but if you can finish fast — if you can sprint out the door the second you turn in your paper, if your sister drives like her life depends on it — you can make it.

You text Cale: You are NOT doing this without me. I’m coming.

He sends back a panicked string of emojis: 😳😳😳 holy shit holy shit holy shit

You grin, your whole chest lit up like fireworks, and dive headfirst into planning mode.

—

By noon, you’re halfway through your exam, leg bouncing wildly under the table, heart jackhammering. Your professor gives you a sharp look, but you don’t care. You scribble down the last answers, triple-check your name at the top, and nearly topple your chair in your scramble to turn it in.

Your sister’s waiting in the car, engine running. “You ready?”

“GO GO GO!” you yell, throwing your bag into the backseat, diving in after it.

The Texas sun blazes down, heat shimmering off the asphalt. Your sister peels out of the university lot, blasting the air conditioning.

“We’ve got time,” she assures you. “It’s an hour to the airport.”

“An hour if Fort Worth traffic doesn’t eat us alive,” you mutter, eyes flicking nervously to your phone. You can already see the little red lines blooming across the GPS app, like warning signs.

Your sister glances over. “Hey, you okay?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I just — I told him I’d be there. I promised. This is his first NHL game. His first. I can’t miss this.”

She reaches over, squeezing your knee. “We’ll make it.”

Spoiler: you don’t.

It’s the traffic. Of course it’s the traffic.

Fort Worth, sprawling and unyielding, comes to a crawling, infuriating halt. You’re stuck behind a sea of brake lights, your hands twisted together in your lap, stomach roiling with nerves.

You check the time. Again. And again. Your heart plummets every time.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to the window. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Your sister’s fingers tap anxiously on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. You press your fists to your eyes, trying to swallow the knot in your throat. “I just — I should’ve left earlier. I should’ve —”

You can’t even finish the sentence. You’re already pulling out your phone, scrolling to Cale’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button.

You bite your lip hard, then press it.

The line rings twice. Three times.

“Hey,” Cale answers, breathless. You can hear the buzz of the arena behind him, the low roar of the crowd, the sharp chatter of his teammates. “Hey, what’s up?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Cale, I’m so sorry.”

There’s a pause, and then his voice softens. “What’s going on?”

“I’m stuck. Traffic. I’m not gonna make my flight.” You let out a shaky laugh, half-sobbing, half-hysterical. “I tried, I really did. I wanted to be there.”

He’s quiet for a second, then: “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Don’t — don’t cry, okay? Please.”

You sniff, wiping at your face. “I’m just — I wanted to be there. For you. You’re debuting, and it’s Calgary, and —”

“I know,” he says softly. You can hear the smile in his voice, even through the nerves. “I know. But you’re here, okay? You’re always here.”

You let out a watery laugh, pressing a hand to your chest. “You’re gonna kill it out there, alien boy.”

He chuckles. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” You swallow hard. “I’ll be watching from here. Screaming at the TV like a lunatic.”

“I’ll look for you in the stands,” he teases gently. “You’ll be the one waving frantically from Texas, right?”

You laugh, eyes squeezed shut, heart aching in the best, sharpest way. “Yeah. That’s me.”

There’s a pause, the background noise shifting, and you hear his voice soften even more.

“We’ll see each other real soon, okay?”

“Yeah.” You breathe out slowly, feeling the tension start to melt, just a little. “Yeah, we will.”

You hang up, cradling the phone to your chest, staring out at the sea of brake lights stretching ahead. And even though you’re stuck, even though you’re missing the biggest night of his life so far, you know — somehow, deep down — you’re still right where you’re supposed to be.

You should’ve known Cale would pull something like this.

You’re half-asleep in bed, scrolling lazily through Instagram stories, when your phone buzzes with a text that reads, "You actually have to come to this one." No hello, no how-are-you — just straight to the point, classic Cale. You blink, thumb hovering over the reply button, when another text drops through, this time a photo. It’s a screenshot of a glass ticket. Your eyes widen.

"No way," you murmur, sitting upright, heart kicking a little faster.

Before you can even start typing back, another message: "Don’t argue. Just come. I got it for you."

You collapse backward onto your pillows, groaning into the fabric. Of course he did. Of course, he’s pulling the NHL star card, making it impossible for you to refuse. And honestly? You’re not sure you want to.

—

The drive to Dallas feels both too long and too short. Your sister’s got the playlist on blast, windows rolled down, Texas wind tangling your hair into a mess. She’s chirping you the whole way — "Oh my god, you’re actually going to see him? Like, in person? Up close? NHL star boyfriend moment?" — and you keep swatting at her, cheeks burning even though you keep insisting, "We’re not dating! We’re just friends!"

(Yeah. Friends. Sure.)

You reach the arena, nerves a jittery swirl in your stomach. The parking lot is a sea of cars and jerseys, fans flooding in, the low rumble of excitement thrumming through the spring air. You tug your own jersey tighter around you — his jersey. You’d bought it in the off-season, pretending it was just to "support a friend," but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t smile every time you saw his name stitched across the back: MAKAR. 8.

Inside, the arena is loud and bright and freezing cold, the kind of cold that sinks through your jeans no matter how many times you shift from foot to foot. You clutch an overpriced beer you didn’t even really want — just something to keep your hands busy — and shuffle your way down, down, down to the glass.

Holy shit. You’re so close, the boards are right there. You can see the fresh scrape marks on the ice, the flecks of snow clinging to the corners. The world behind the glass feels unreal, hyper-clear, like you’ve stepped inside your own TV.

Your sister elbows you. "You’re blushing."

"I’m not," you hiss back, even as your face betrays you completely.

The arena lights dip slightly, the bass of the music kicks up, and suddenly the players are flooding out, skates flashing, sticks clattering, the whole team energy ratcheting up to a fever pitch. You can barely track who’s where at first, your eyes darting wildly over the avalanche of maroon and blue.

And then —

There he is.

Cale Makar.

Taller than you’d imagined, even in the jersey, even behind the glass. He’s got that half-serious, half-sunstruck look on his face, the one you know so well from grainy video chats and late-night calls. His cheeks are pink, flushed from the cold, his blond hair spiked messily under his helmet. Alien boy, you think fondly, grinning despite yourself.

And then — he finds you.

Like, actually finds you. His skates slow, his body shifting in that effortless, athletic way, and before you can fully process it, he’s standing right in front of you, separated only by the glass. His stick taps lightly against the boards as his eyes crinkle in a familiar grin.

Your breath catches.

You press a hand to the glass, just instinct, fingers splayed, heart thudding so loud you’re sure your sister can hear it. Cale leans forward slightly, eyes flicking over you, your jersey, your flushed face. He says something — you can’t hear it, not through the pounding music and the glass and the arena noise — but you think it’s, "I’m glad you’re here."

Your cheeks flame.

You mouth back, "You’re cute."

He laughs. You can see it in the crinkle of his eyes, the way his shoulders shake just a little, the tilt of his head. Then, with a swift flick of his stick, he nudges a puck toward the boards. A warmup puck. For you.

Your jaw drops. You watch, stunned, as the puck bounces lightly off the glass, right at your feet. Cale gives you a little salute — the absolute dork — before pushing off, skating backward to rejoin his team.

You stand there, staring at the puck like it’s made of gold.

Your sister leans in, smirking. "Well, that’s one way to mark your territory."

You elbow her without looking, face hot, heart doing somersaults. You pick up the puck, turning it over in your hands, feeling the cold, solid weight of it. It’s just a puck. It’s just a puck. And yet, somehow, it feels like the most precious thing you’ve ever been given.

As the warmups continue, you can’t stop watching him. The sharp turns, the bursts of speed, the easy, practiced grace. He’s in his element here, focused and dialed in, but every so often, you catch him glancing your way — just for a second, just enough to send your stomach swooping.

You sip your beer to hide your grin, toes bouncing in your shoes, jersey sleeves tugged nervously over your hands. You never thought you’d end up here, not really. Not all the years of letters, the awkward first phone calls, the texts and the video chats and the late-night talks. Not after missing his playoff debut, stuck in Fort Worth traffic, whispering encouragements across a crackling phone line.

And yet, here you are.

Here he is.

You clutch the puck tighter, eyes locked on the ice, heart brimming with something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

But maybe — just maybe — it’s time to start figuring it out.

—

The crowd is still pouring out of the arena, a restless, jubilant wave of fans spilling into the cool Dallas night, jerseys and hats and flags everywhere. You keep craning your neck, bouncing slightly on your toes, trying to spot him. Your heart’s still hammering, a leftover rhythm from the game, from the roar of the crowd, from seeing him on the ice — live, in person, not just pixelated on a screen or frozen in a grainy photo. You hug your souvenir puck tighter to your chest, fingers curling around the edges, nerves buzzing under your skin.

And then —

There he is.

Suit sharp and slightly wrinkled, tie a little loose, hair damp at the edges from a quick post-game shower. Cale Makar, in the flesh, walking toward you with a grin that stretches his whole face wide, eyes crinkled, mouth split open like he’s seeing something he’s been missing his whole life.

You barely have time to squeak out a breath before he wraps you up in a hug, sweeping you right off your feet, arms locked tight around your waist. You let out a surprised laugh, legs kicking slightly, the world tilting dizzy and golden and perfect.

“Oh my God,” you gasp into his shoulder, burying your face there for a second, just breathing him in — warm, clean, a little like cologne and a little like the crisp chill of the ice. “You’re actually here. I’m actually here. This is insane.”

He lets you down slowly, hands lingering at your waist, his face still lit up with that big, ridiculous smile. “You came,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it, like he hasn’t been the one blowing up your phone with texts all week.

“Of course I came,” you say, still half-laughing, half-shaking your head. “You literally sent me a guilt trip in the form of a VIP ticket, you dork.”

He laughs, eyes flicking over you, lingering just a second longer than they used to. “You look amazing.”

“Please, I look like I sprinted through a tornado,” you shoot back, self-conscious, tugging at your jersey. “You’re the one looking all fancy, Mr. NHL Star.”

He ducks his head a little, cheeks pinking — and you’re hit, all at once, with this rush of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocks you sideways. Alien boy, you think, heart twisting fondly. The same boy who used to doodle UFOs in the margins of his letters. The same boy who used to explain icing to you over crackly phone lines, who used to sign his texts with goofy little smiley faces.

The same boy who’s standing here now, taller and broader and impossibly real, looking at you like you hung the stars.

And then —

It happens.

A beat of quiet, the world slipping sideways, the crowd noise fading into a blur. His eyes meet yours, soft and sure, and without a word, without even thinking, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not deep. It’s not dramatic. It’s just a gentle, certain press of lips, a quiet little lock that sends your heart somersaulting clean out of your chest. Your eyes flutter shut for a second, your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his suit jacket, and for a moment, everything — all the years, all the miles, all the letters and texts and calls — condenses into this one tiny, perfect spark.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling like idiots.

“Wow,” you whisper, breathless, dizzy with something you can’t quite name but have maybe always known.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling again. “Wow.”

Neither of you says anything about what it means, because you both know. 

You’ve always known.

You slip your hand into his, fingers tangling easily, naturally, like they were made for this, and with a giddy little laugh, you tug him toward the parking lot. He squeezes your hand once, twice, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you weave through the thinning crowd.

Somewhere behind you, the arena lights glow, casting long shadows over the pavement, and somewhere ahead, the car waits, the road waits, the future waits.

You glance up at him, cheeks aching from smiling, heart so full it feels like it might float right out of you.

And as you skip off together, hand in hand, you think, 

Yeah. This is it. This is how the best stories always go.

[snorky]

hi lovelies and angels,

i missed you all dearly, and i’ve just been lurking around recently.

my masterlists are unorganized due to traded players and such, and so they won’t be organized for a few months.

i’ve been studying a lot recently, with exams and finals coming up, and so i haven’t had much time to write besides the few hours i sacrifice my sleep for.

i do have a post in mind that will be up (i promise) but keep in mind that if you are a minor, you will most likely not be able to see it, since i will implement a restriction due to its rather suggestive nature.

once the post comes out, i’ll give more detail on said post, but for now, goodbye my sweethearts <3 remember to take care of yourself!