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thewintersoldierdisaster · 3 months

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a/n: trade? what trade? brady’s a cane, always will be 😭 seriously tho, odds are pretty good that i just keep writing him as a cane bc i have no interest in having to learn the preds beyond beau and josi 🤷🏼‍♀️ had this written for a bit but never posted it bc i was yelled at during the playoffs for even thinking about the canes 🙄

tw: stomach flu, mentions of vomiting, mentions of dizziness

word count: 3.4k

summary: norovirus makes its way around the canes’ locker room and it finally takes you and brady down

Brady’s fingers are cool as they card through your hair, brushing gently against your temple and scratching lightly at your scalp. Your cheek is pressed against his thigh, smushed up so it interferes with your vision - not that you’re really focused on the TV. Comedy Central has a repeat of The Office on and above you, Brady chuckles faintly as Dwight complains about identity theft.

You roll your eyes back to cut your gaze at him and Brady’s head is resting against the back of the couch, his eyes partially shut. He’s mostly just listening to the TV.

Norovirus had swept through the Canes’ locker room, taking the players and their families out one by one - starting with Burnzie, which had led Jarvy to conclude that one of the Burns’ children had brought it home from school. As one player recovered, another was taken out. Last week had been Brett and Jordan, this week it’s yours and Brady’s turn to be down for the count. He’d come home from morning skate two days ago looking paler than usual, a greenish-grey tinge to his skin. You’d already dry heaved over breakfast that morning, thinking it was pre-period nausea.

Less than an hour later, you’d each retreated to separate bathrooms and hadn’t emerged until there was nothing left to purge. Brady had managed to text Rod, who was entirely unsurprised by the turn of events.

The next day and a half had been a blur of Instacarted Gatorade and crackers, the smell of Clorox and Lysol a permanent fixture in the house. Unfortunately, the smell of Clorox only triggered your gag reflex even more. Only this morning you’d managed to keep down more than a few spoonfuls of chicken broth.

Your stomach cramps a little and you curl your body into a tighter fetal position, turning your head to muffle your groan against Brady’s thigh. His fingers pause in your hair and he asks, “you okay, sweetheart? Need the bowl?”

“The bowl” is your combo popcorn/salad/vomit stainless steel bowl and it’s resting on the couch next to Brady, easily within arm’s reach just in case. The bowl has seen a lot of action the last two days and honestly, you’re contemplating tossing it out at the end of this. Or burning it, if stainless steel even burns. Hell, you’ll just throw it into the ocean at this point. You never want to see the bowl again.

“No,” you mumble against the fabric of his shorts, voice raspy and throat sore. “I think my stomach is eating itself.”

Brady nods his agreement and you can hear his stomach growl slightly behind your head. “Think we can manage more soup?” His fingers continue their work in your hair and it’s so soothing you find your eyelids fluttering, fighting to stay open.

“Honestly?” You nuzzle your face against his leg, tucking one hand under your cheek and the other underneath Brady’s thick thigh. “No, but you should try. You don’t want to be too weak when you get back to practicing.”

He hums and his fingers slow down, tangling gently in your hair. “Maybe ‘fter a nap,” he mumbles, head going back against the couch and body slouching a little deeper into the cushions. You can’t really argue with him - like clockwork, you’d both been with your heads in the toilet every thirty minutes. You don’t remember what a good night’s sleep feels like.

Brady falls asleep quickly, his hand covering the side of your head like a mask. The dogs pad into the den, semi left to their own devices the last two days and you feel bad about it. Reese settles on top of Brady’s feet, curling into a little ball and letting his tail swish along the floor while he looks up at you with big brown puppy eyes that bear a striking resemblance to your boyfriend’s.

“Sorry, pup,” you murmur, reaching out to scratch his head. “We’ve been bad pet parents, huh?”

He lets out a little whine that you take to be golden retriever for ‘yeah, mom, you guys suck lately.’

Sully hops up on the couch and wedges his body between your back and the back of the couch, a warm, solid presence. His nose presses against your shoulder and you wiggle forward a little to make more room for the big dog. Neither of them are supposed to be on the furniture, but you have no energy to shove him off.

“Just for today,” you warn him in a rasp. “Back to the floor with you tomorrow.”

Sully yawns, tongue lolling out of his mouth, showing just how much he cares about your proclamation.

With a soft scoff of your breath, you roll your eyes and keep them shut, pressing your face more solidly against Brady’s thigh. The muscle twitches under your cheek and you blink slowly. Soon enough, the combination of the low volume of the TV, Brady’s gentle snores, and the dogs’ soft breathing lulls you to sleep.

You wake with a jolt, your mouth filling with saliva and your stomach lurching. Sully’s draped over your legs and you don’t think, panic flooding your senses. Clamping your lips together tightly, you lunge over Brady’s lap and grab for the bowl, heaving into it. You empty the minimal contents of your stomach into the bowl, feeling Brady’s legs move under your torso. His hand fists in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail so it stays out of your way.

“Okay, there you go,” Brady’s voice is low and soothing, his other hand rubbing circles on your back as you spit into the bowl. After a moment, nothing is coming up anymore and you groan, easing back carefully onto your knees.

Brady squints at you. “You okay?”

“I love your teammates,” you groan. “But I could kill every single one of them.”

Your boyfriend laughs and then winces when his stomach muscles tense. “Fuck, this shit really is no joke,” he mutters, stretching his arms over his head.

Your mouth tastes disgusting and your entire body hurts from heaving. On shaky legs, you carefully step off the couch, snatching the bowl and padding slowly into the bathroom to get clean it out. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror over the sink and wince. Dark purple circles under your eyes highlight just how pale you look. Little red pinpricks of broken blood vessels are scattered over your cheeks like freckles and your hair is a matted, knotted mess in a limp bun on the side of your head.

“Ugh,” you mutter to your reflection, honestly surprised that you look so awful. You’d been avoiding mirrors as much as possible. You rinse out the bowl and douse it with Clorox, leaving it in the bathtub for now, before rinsing your mouth twice with Listerine and brushing your hair back into a semi-decent ponytail. This bathroom’s going to need a major disinfecting too.

Add it to the list.

Brady’s in the kitchen when you leave the bathroom, his body hidden behind the open fridge door. Both dogs are at his feet, circling his legs like he’s about to drop some food for them. He pulls back and shuts the door, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head and a wan look on his face.

“Nothing looks appetizing,” he explains, leaning a shoulder against the fridge.

You slump over the kitchen island, one arm folded between the granite and your chest. Reese lopes over to you, brushing his head against your thigh and you reach down to scratch behind his ears. “What, blue Gatorade and saltines lose their appeal on the third day?” You joke, tucking your chin into the stretched out neck of your ancient crewneck.

Brady’s lips twist up in a small smile. “I would kill for the ability to keep something else down,” he scrubs a hand over his face, dragging his skin down on the second pass.

“We could try the golden diet,” your head feels so heavy, so you prop your chin up on your palm and look over at Brady. He lifts an eyebrow and you continue, “plain boiled chicken breast and rice.”

Both dogs bark, excited, and you wince at the noise and how it feels like an ice pick in your brain.

“I’d rather not feel like one of the dogs,” Brady laughs faintly. Almost immediately, he clamps his lips together and freezes in place, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows harshly. He doesn’t make a move for the bathroom and you wait another moment before it passes and he frowns. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “thought I might have to make a run for it.”

“I could try and make some more soup,” you suggest, your stomach rumbling a little. You honestly have no idea if you’re actually hungry or if you’re going to have to run off again. Reese butts your thigh with his head and you sigh down at him. “I feel bad that these guys haven’t been getting as much outside time.”

“How do you feel about a short w-a-l-k?” Brady spells out the word because the dogs will go insane otherwise and it always makes you giggle a little.

You hum and skirt around the island so you can wrap your arms around Brady’s waist and bury your face into his chest. His arms come around your back, warm and strong. “Not great,” you mumble into the fabric of his sweatshirt. “But maybe some fresh air and sun will do us some good?”

He nods, chin bumping the top of your head. “A short one, like two blocks,” he suggests. “And then right back to the couch.”

Agreeing, you give Brady a little squeeze around the waist before reluctantly pulling away. You clap and grin down at the dogs, “okay, puppies, time for a little walk!”

Predictably, they go nuts, barking and jumping at you so that Brady holds his arms out to brace his hands at your lower back so you don’t fall over. He laughs a little in your ear before whistling to get the dogs to calm down. They stop barking, but they’re still bouncing around your legs and you laugh as you push past them, heading for the hall closet. It’s warm enough in Raleigh that you don’t have to change out of the thin sweats and crewneck, but you do pull on a plain black vest just so you have a pocket for your phone.

Brady clips the leashes onto both dogs’ collars and steps into a pair of slides, holding the leashes out to you so he can lock the front door. You let the dogs have some leeway with the leashes, watching them as they roll around together on the front lawn. It’s bright and sunny and you squint even behind your sunglasses.

“Has it been this bright out all week?” Brady asks, taking a leash in one hand and lacing his fingers with yours. He still has the hood up on his hoodie and when you look up at him, all you can see is the side profile of his nose and chin. His nose wrinkles up and you can’t help but mimic the expression.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you sigh, starting to walk down to the sidewalk. You feel like a baby deer, all wobbly legged and weak, but the breeze is nice and you have to admit that it feels good to not be breathing in Lysol scented air.

The dogs tug at their leashes and you give them more leeway, walking slowly down the sidewalk. Brady’s thumb rubs over the backs of your fingers, your linked hands swinging slightly between your bodies as you walk. It’s quiet in the neighborhood since it’s the middle of the day on a Wednesday and you savor the peace.

Your stomach cramps a little and you lean into Brady’s side as you walk, huffing a frustrated breath through your nose. “When I get my hands on Jagger…” you trail off the threat, ruining the effect with a little laugh. You’re on board with Jarvy’s theory about patient zero for the Great Norovirus Crisis.

Brady’s laugh wraps around you like a hug and trails off into a brief cough as he catches his breath. “You and Svechy, beefing with a middle schooler,” he shakes his head, sounding a little breathless.

“For valid reasons,” you grumble, stumbling a little when Reese pulls on his leash. Brady’s fingers tighten around yours and you manage to keep your footing, but your heart pounds in your chest and you suck in a startled breath. Your head spins a little and you close your eyes to stave off the lingering nausea from your stomach lurching.

Brady’s hand is warm in your own and he squeezes your fingers to draw your attention. “Ready to go back home?” He asks, a concerned frown turning his lips downward. You nod and Brady whistles for the dogs.

It’s been the world’s shortest walk, just two blocks away from the house, but your head is throbbing and you’re feeling lightheaded. Brady still looks pale too, his jaw tight as if he’s trying not to vomit. He rubs the tips of his index and middle fingers against the space between his eyebrows and you know he’s probably developing the same headache you’ve got pinching your brain.

“I think we pushed it enough for today,” you murmur, tugging on the leash so Reese will come back from where he’s sniffing at a patch of flowers at the base of a tree.

Brady nods and he looks a little better after his pause. He leans in and kisses your forehead, where you can feel his lips turn down in another frown. “You feel kind of warm, sweetheart,” he says.

You tug at the neck of your sweatshirt and shrug. “Probably just a little overheated,” you start back towards the house. “I’m going to put shorts on when we get back, I think.” Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you pull it out, reading the texts on the screen as Brady talks.

“I think we need some lunch too,” Brady says, digging his phone out of the pocket on his hoodie. “I’ll order something. Even if we can’t manage all of it, we probably need something with protein.”

“No need,” you laugh a little, waving your phone in his direction. “Amy felt bad we caught the plague from Brett, she dropped off chicken noodle soup and fresh sourdough.”

Brady grins and pumps his fist, making you laugh even more. “Oh hell yes. I think I’ll be able to manage that,” he unclips the leashes from the dogs’ collars and lets them into your backyard, closing the gate behind them before following you up to the front porch. You cradle the giant brown paper bag in your arms like a baby.

“It’s still warm,” you sigh happily, wiggling your shoulders a little. “I love Amy, god, she’s the best.”

You kick off your slides and head into the kitchen, getting lunch ready while Brady pulls open the back door so the dogs can traipse in and out of the house. They’re both barking up a storm while they roll around on the lawn, so you figure you might actually have a minute to eat in peace. Brady reaches around you to pick a piece of the crust off the loaf of bread, popping it into his mouth with a happy little noise. You laugh a little under your breath at how adorable he is and finish divvying up the soup into bowls.

“Bigger bowl is yours,” you tilt your head and Brady sets a glass of ginger ale in front of you, tugging lightly on the end of your ponytail as he withdraws his hand. You lean lightly back against his chest, bumping your head against his collarbone and Brady dips his chin to kiss your forehead.

“Still a little warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

You shrug, “I’ll take another Tylenol and sleep in the guest room, just in case.”

Brady snorts and drapes one arm over your shoulder to hold you in place since you’re leaning heavily into him. “Sweetheart, if you’ve got a fever, I’ve probably got a fever. The house is germ central,” he rips a piece of bread off the loaf with his other hand and tosses it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, he continues, “no use in separating now.”

You’re not about to argue with him because you’re feeling clingy and needy, desperate for the comfort of Brady at your side while you’re recovering. So you nod and reluctantly let him step to the side to eat.

Amy’s soup is probably magic because you both manage to polish off your bowls, with Brady going back for seconds, and a few hours later, nothing threatens to reappear.

You and Brady spend the rest of the afternoon lazing around, disinfecting the house, and just generally relaxing in preparation for return to normal. You’re planning on working remotely, easing back into your inbox after three days away. Brady will see how he’s feeling, if he’ll go to practice. But for now, Brady sits on the floor, his back against the couch, and tosses tennis balls for the dogs to chase after and fetch.

“Please don’t hit the glass,” you sigh, sprawled out on your side on the couch, one hand propped up under your head and the other working its way through Brady’s hair, a mirror of Brady’s actions earlier in the day. The salt and peppered strands are soft under your fingers and you can’t resist tugging gently, just to get a reaction out of your boyfriend.

He groans low in the back of his throat, the noise sending a little wave of heat through your body. “I was a quarterback, sweetheart,” Brady grumbles, affectionate teasing laced throughout his tone. “I never miss my target.”

Sully comes bounding back with the tennis ball clamped in his jaw and Brady wrestles it away from the dog with a laugh, sending the tennis ball flying through the air and out through the open French doors. You can see it land with a little bounce in the grass before Sully pounces on it. Reese jumps on his brother and they roll around in the grass for a bit.

“Cocky, former quarterback Brady is my favorite version of you,” you tease, scratching your nails against his scalp.

He laughs and reaches back to rub a hand over the top of your head. You curl up a little, bringing your knees closer to your chest and Brady’s head by default. He shifts, turning to the side so he can look at you and wedge his hand in between your knees, fingers curling around the back of your thigh. Your hand falls from his hair, coming down to rest on his shoulder, fingers dipping beneath the collar of his shirt to brush against warm skin.

Brady’s head tilts to the side, cheek coming to rest on the edge of the couch cushion, trapping your hand. You flutter your fingers against his collarbone, smiling softly. His lips curl up too, lifting his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Whatcha thinking, Mr. Skjei?” You ask quietly. “I can see your gears turning.”

“Nothing really,” he replies, tickling the back of your knee lightly. You squirm and press your knees together, squishing his fingers to try and get him to stop. “Just…been nice to relax with you.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, a skeptical smirk on your lips. “Norovirus was relaxing?”

“Well,” he snorts a laugh through his nose, “the last few hours were relaxing anyway.” He presses a kiss against the back of your wrist and brushes his nose against your skin.

A little shiver races down your spine, warm love for Brady flooding your entire body. He keeps his cheek pressed to the back of your hand and taps the back of your knee. “Think I can rejoin you in bed tonight?” He asks, breath warm against your skin.

“I’d really like that,” you grin, having missed his body curled around yours. Decamping to separate bedrooms had been a protective measure over the last few days since every time you heard Brady gag, you’d gone and puked.

The dogs traipse back inside and Brady shifts so he can stand and close the door, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth as he goes. Tomorrow the routine will go back to normal, but when Brady comes back and lifts your legs to sit on the couch next to you, your legs draped over his lap and your ass pressed against the outside of his thigh, you soak up the quiet moment in your little bubble.

#brady skjei #brady skjei x reader #brady skjei fic #brady skjei x you #nhl fic

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thewintersoldierdisaster · 2 months

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a/n: a little summery skjei family fic 🥰 nothing too crazy to talk about, but i’ve been having fun fleshing out all the little families and you’ll see the twins’ births at some point bc i had a fun idea for that! enjoy!

word count: 2k

tw: none

summary: it’s the first summer weekend in lakeville and brady just wants to grill, of course something always goes wrong

“Brady, I’m going to give the twins a bath,” you shout out, the wiggling almost one year olds trying their best to escape your grip. “Daph’s in the playroom.”

Your husband pokes his head back inside, grill tongs in one hand and a meat thermometer in the other. “Bath before dinner?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at the deviation from the usual schedule. You’ve been insistent on keeping the twins on a schedule, arguing it’s the only way to keep a little order in their first year of life. So the deviation is unusual.

Instead of answering, you turn so he can see the twins, completely covered in cocoa powder. They look like little Cockney chimney sweeps and Brady’s jaw drops slightly before he lets out a loud, unrestrained laugh.

“Bath before dinner,” you confirm wryly. You shift Millie up on your hip, heart lurching when she lunges for Brady with a cry of “Dada!” as if he’ll save her from her bath time fate. Easton’s more accepting of his fate, but he’s rubbing at the cocoa powder on his face and arms, getting you all dusty too. He grumbles when he licks at his fingers and realizes that the cocoa powder isn’t as tasty as actual chocolate.

“Definitely a good reason for the schedule change, sweetheart,” Brady grins, saluting you with the tongs. “I’ll keep an ear out for Daph.”

“I’ve got Bluey on in there,” you comment, tightening your hold on Millie as she fights you, legs kicking. “She should be good, but just so you’re aware.”

He nods and you traipse up the stairs, ready to do bath time battle with the twins.

Brady returns to the grill, the back door open so he can hear the faint sounds of Bluey and Daphne if she calls for him. It’s a gorgeous July night in Lakeville and you’re finally settled into summer mode after making the trek up from Raleigh. Brady’s been dying to get the new grill fired up, ready to start a summer of steaks and backyard get togethers with his family and your rotating crowd of guests. Unfortunately, it’s rained every day for the past week, making the entire Skjei household restless.

You’d given up yesterday, letting the three kids run wild around the backyard in the rain with the dogs. The mug and grass that had been tracked into the house was disgusting, but the big smiles on all the kids’ faces had been worth it.

Brady’s the last Skjei standing who hasn’t gotten to start his Minnesota summer checklist. You’d told him that he could grill in the rain if he really wanted to, but he’d complained that the first grill of the summer needs to be in sunny conditions.

Finally, thankfully, and just in time to save your marriage, the sun emerged on your fourth day in Lakeville and Brady had immediately packed up the kids to take them to the grocery store. They’d returned with steaks, a ton of veggies to grill, and of course, the makings of ice cream sundaes.

Seeing him so excited about the first summer grill had you excited too and you’d gotten ambitious, planning on making brownies from scratch for the sundaes. Of course, that’s when the Hurricane Twins got into everything and made a mess.

Brady’s happily humming to himself, settled on an Adirondack chair while he waits for the asparagus, onions, zucchini, and eggplant to grill. It’s the Fourth tomorrow, so he’s glad he got a chance to break in the grill before the big test, when you’re having the entire Skjei family over for a barbecue before heading down to the lake to watch the fireworks. The backyard is tidied up with all the kids’ toys organized and the tennis balls kicked into the designated dog toy bucket.

Speaking of the dogs, they’re both rolling around in the grass and are definitely going to need to be hosed down before being let back inside. Brady makes a mental note to handle that after dinner.

He gets the vegetables off the grill and into a disposable aluminum tray, covering them with tin foil to keep them warm while the steaks get carefully arranged on the grill with a satisfying sizzle. Brady grins at the immediate smell of cooking meat, flipping the lid of the grill down and tossing a stray tennis ball for Reese and Sully to chase.

It’s suburban quiet, the soft sounds of the neighbors in their own yards and the few cars going up and down the street providing a soundtrack to the July night.

Brady gets up and heads to the back door again, calling for Daphne. “Daph, baby, why don’t you come join me and the puppies?” He calls, making his way through the kitchen and into the playroom. It’s a mess, predictably, and Daphne is starfished on a fuzzy floor cushion, watching Bluey with slightly glazed over eyes. Her little bike shorts and Disney Princess shirt combo is covered in grass stains and a ketchup splotch from lunch. Brady grins at the sight of her, looking exactly like you when you’re exhausted and zoning out to a show.

He laughs and draws her attention. “Oh! Hi, Daddy,” she chirps. “Wanna watch Bluey me?”

Squatting down to ruffle her dark hair, Brady shakes his head. “I wish I could watch Bluey with you, but I have to finish making dinner. Do you want to come outside with me?” He asks, even as her attention is drawn back to the cartoon.

“No fank you, Daddy,” she replies absently, one bare foot kicking out in a stretch and clipping Brady’s knee. She lets her heel rest on his leg, wiggling her toes to the Bluey theme song. Brady laughs and pinches at her toes briefly before setting her foot back on the floor and standing up.

“You know where to find me if you need something, okay, Duck?”

“Mhm,” she hums in response, essentially dismissing Brady back to the yard.

“At least she’s polite,” he mutters to himself, heading back outside to the grill. He can hear the sounds of bath time upstairs, splashing punctuated by your shout of “Oh my god, Eastie! Don’t eat soap!”

With a wince and a silent thank you that he’s not in charge of bath time tonight, Brady slips back outside to man the grill. The back door shuts just slightly behind him.

The steaks are perfect, just a few minutes later and Brady loads them into the other disposable tray, ready to let them sit inside before cutting them up. He thinks about whistling for the dogs, to warn them not to follow him inside, but since they’re peacefully splayed out on the lawn, Brady figures it’s okay to try and sneak inside.

The door is fully shut when he reaches it, both disposable trays held on one arm. Brow furrowed, Brady tries the handle and mutters a curse under his breath when it doesn’t give.

Locked.

He leans his forehead against the glass pane, spotting Daphne right next to the door, one foot perched on the inside of her other knee, little fingers playing with PlayDoh on the countertop. Where the hell did she find PlayDoh?

It doesn’t matter, Brady shakes his head and knocks on the door. The sudden sound startles Daphne and she looks up, wide-eyed.

Brady smiles, just a little nervously, “hey, Daph. Baby, can you open the door for Daddy?”

She looks from his face to the door’s hardware as if it’s the first time she’s seeing it. Which is impossible, since she’s definitely the one who had to have flipped the lock to lock him out.

“How?” She asks, scrunching her fingers around the hot pink dough. Little pieces of it fall to the floor and Brady knows you’re going to flip when you see the mess. Especially when Daphne puts her foot down and steps right into it. He winces.

“See the lock, the gold piece,” he tries to point as best as he can with the glass in the way. “Flip that back the opposite way you did before.”

Daphne’s eyebrows scrunch together and her nose wrinkles. “I don’t know how!” She cries, starting to look nervous. “I didn’t do it!”

Brady sucks in a calming breath. The trays are hot against his forearm. “Okay, it’s okay. Can you go get Mommy and tell her I’m locked out?”

“Mommy’s with the babies,” Daphne shakes her head.

“I know,” Brady replies, shifting the pans on his arm. “It’s okay, go get Mommy. Or unlock the door, Daph.”

“I don’t know how!” She cries again and runs off, leaving Brady to thunk his head against the glass with a groan.

He puts the trays down on the table so his arm doesn’t burn and remembers that his phone is in the pocket of his shorts. He jabs at your contact information in the recent calls section and presses speakerphone, waiting for you to pick up.

Until he sees your phone on the kitchen island, vibrating across the counter.

“Fuuuuck,” Brady groans, ending the call and dialing the landline. He can hear it ring through the back door and when the line picks up, the squeaky little voice is too familiar.

“It’s Daphne, who calling?”

Brady barely manages to contain his groan. “Daph, honey, please put Mommy on the phone,” he says, making another mental note to have another conversation with Daphne about not answering the phone.

“Daddy!” She yelps delightedly. “How come on the phone?”

“Daddy’s stuck outside, remember?” He can’t help but laugh at the insanity of the situation. Through the glass, he can see Daphne skipping through the kitchen and disappear up the stairs while she chatters in his ear about nothing.

Brady leans against the side of the house, embracing the fact that he’s stuck outside and enjoying listening to Daphne chatter away. The next voice he hears is beyond welcome.

“Hello?”

“Sweetheart, oh thank god,” Brady breathes a laugh.

“Brady? Why are you on the phone?” Splashing and giggling echo down the line. “Mills, honey, please don’t splash Mommy.”

“Daph locked me out,” he replies, nearly drowned out by Millie’s shriek in the background.

You sound distracted when you ask, “she what?”

“Locked me out,” he confirms. “And couldn’t figure out how to unlock the door.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, voice getting distant when you say, “Daffy duck, did you lock Daddy outside?”

Brady can hear Daphne’s high pitched giggle and a smile subconsciously turns his lips upward. “Can you come down and let me in? Dinner’s going to get cold.”

“I have two soaped up toddlers,” you scoff. “Settle that cute butt of yours in a chair and get comfy, Mr. Skjei. I need at least fifteen minutes to finish up here and get them dressed.”

“Mommy, Eastie’s throwin’ toys,” Daphne pipes up in the background and Brady hears you sigh before you end the call.

Brady tucks the phone back in his pocket and takes your advice, getting settled in the Adirondack chair again, whistling for the dogs to play fetch. Twenty minutes later, he hears the back door open and he turns his head to see your smiling face, Easton clinging to your neck, his hair damp and curling slightly around his ears.

“We’re teaching her how to unlock doors asap,” you giggle, stepping to the side so Brady can come inside with the disposable trays. He ruffles Easton’s hair and kisses the toddler’s forehead as he passes.

“I still can’t believe she did that,” Brady shakes his head, getting the steaks on a cutting board so he can start slicing. You move around the kitchen to set the table, Easton still clinging to your side. His little face is buried in your neck, one hand curled into the neck of your shirt.

“I guess she sees us do it?” You shrug and sneak behind Brady to snag a fatty piece of steak off the cutting board. You hum happily. “Grilled to perfection, as usual.”

Brady laughs and turns his head to kiss your cheek. “Let the Lakeville summer officially begin,” he proclaims dramatically, getting a laugh out of Easton.

#brady skjei #brady skjei x reader #brady skjei x you #brady skjei fic #nhl fic

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