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comphy-and-cozy · 3 months

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the guy on the team - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f) - A Dream Come True universe

Word Count: 4.2K

Author’s Note: rediscovered the three paragraphs of filth i wrote after seeing this dude play (and score) in his first ever home game as a detroit red wing, then went buck wild writing about it. that's all you really need to know. 🎶 karma is the guy on the wings coming straight home to me... 🎶

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Unprotected sex, oral sex (f + m receiving), fingering (f receiving), brief masturbation (f), very minor spanking, creampie, me being a huge fucking simp series masterlist

October 2024

The goal horn—restored from the glory days at Joe Louis Arena, reminiscent of legends and lore and well-decorated history—blares through the arena, the sound nearly swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Don’t Stop Believing plays over the speakers, the “born and raised in South Detroit” chant almost deafening as 19,000 of Hockeytown’s finest pay a proud homage to the city.

The energy is palpable, infectious, and your eyes fall to the sea of red jerseys at center ice, sticks raised in appreciation and celebration of their first win and first home game of the season. They’re smiling, a few of them clapping each other on the back or tapping padded knees with their stick, circling around as they soak in the joy and promises of a strong season.

The 37 on his back stands out proudly, the bright white stark against the rich red. He offered to get you a jersey, identical to the one he’s wearing right now, but you’d declined and opted for an old sweatshirt from 2002; wearing his name still felt a little too cheeky. Your eyes follow his movements, almost subconsciously, and your gaze slides to the winged wheel embroidered on his chest when he circles around.

There’s a burn in your cheeks as you shamelessly check him out, anonymous in the sea of fans who are starting to make their way out of the arena. No one there knows you from any other admirer, that you know what he looks like beneath his pads and his gear, underneath the delicious slate gray suit that the Red Wings’ socials posted.

You’ve barely made it to your front door when the text buzzes your phone in your pocket.

[JT:] You free tonight? [JT:] Feel like celebrating [You:] Why, did something happen?

You don’t have to see his face to know he’s smirking at your comment. The text bubble pops back up, and you do your best to summon the chill, cool girl and not squeal when you see the response.

[JT:] You want to come over later?

Despite the effort, you can’t help the smile that emerges on your face. His next text informs you that he’s out getting post-game drinks and dinner with his family who came to town to see his debut in Detroit. You’re not offended that you didn’t receive an invite—just excited to have received a text. The status of your relationship is still up in the air, floating somewhere between casually dating and something with benefits. Meeting his family is far from your bucket list. At this point, anyway.

Though your makeup was already done for the game, you decide to reset in the shower. You exfoliate, shave, and take your time moisturizing until you’re squeaky clean and your skin is smooth. Your pre-dick appointment ritual is practiced, having perfected it in the last six weeks that you’ve been involved with JT Compher. He doesn’t expect perfection, has told you on multiple occasions in so many words, but the routine makes you feel like you’re worth his time, his affection, his attention—that’s something you’ll deal with in therapy, though.

After the body prep comes a quick blow dry, a light layer of fresh makeup (you learned your lesson with too much makeup after JT made sure that the entire sultry eye you’d worked so hard on ended up smeared all over the sheets), and then the undergarment selection. By no means do you have an expansive luxury lingerie collection, but you’ve found yourself glancing at the intimate wear section when you’re out, anticipating the reaction of a certain redhead as you run your fingers over the various pieces on display.

Tonight does feel special, you admit, with plenty to celebrate: a debut, a win, and two points for JT. The lacy red bralette feels fitting, perfect for a little ‘wow’ factor without feeling like you’re trying too hard—and, of course, a nod to his (and your) team. Cheeky red panties finish your look, hidden by a pair of yoga pants and a cropped zip-up hoodie: the quintessential dick appointment outfit.

By the time you’re spritzing on your perfume, the come over text comes through. Slinging a small overnight bag over your shoulder with a few essentials, you lock up your apartment and head on your way. Nerves flutter in your chest the way they always do, anticipation building as you pull into the parking lot of his apartment complex.

JT hasn’t changed out of his pregame suit, the takeout box sitting on the counter an indicator he hasn’t been home for long. Your heart flutters at the realization that he must’ve texted you before he’d even left dinner, that he was thinking of you even while sitting and celebrating with his family.

After closing the door behind you, he moves in to greet you with a kiss, and once his lips touch yours, it’s like the floodgates of desire have opened up and you lose all self control. Without warning, your hands tug at his neck to kiss him fervently, quickly pressing your body against his and sighing at the warmth.

He groans, returning the kiss with equal ardor as his hands find their home on your hips. As you’re turning your attention to his belt, pulling your lips away from him for a moment, he murmurs, “Not that I’m not really, really appreciating this welcome home, but is there a reason for the extra enthusiasm?”

Clink. The belt’s hit the floor, and you waste no time getting your mouth back on his. Your hand slinks up his thigh, palming the half-hard appendage in his slacks eagerly. Involuntarily, you feel a needy throb between your thighs, the low thrum in his chest adding fuel to the fire.

“Really liked you in that jersey,” you purr.

“Oh yeah?”

Your bottom lip slips between your teeth and you nod, glancing up at him. “Yeah.”

JT smirks, allowing his ego to inflate just a bit. He doesn’t say it, but you know it drives him wild how much of an impact he has on you. How little he has to work to have you desperate for him. “Anything else?”

“I really liked it when you scored,” you say, wistfully recalling the way it sounded hearing his name announced over the loudspeaker at Little Caesars Arena. “You should do that some more.”

“How much did you like it?”

With just one sentence, he’s managed to increase the temperature in the room by at least 20 degrees; the words themselves are innocent, but the rumble behind them offers a filthy, sinful promise. His gaze is hot, predatory even, following the movement of your hand as you unzip your hoodie in response to his question. You don’t miss the way his breath hitches at the peek of red lace, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat when you shrug off the fleece.

Tension is thick in the air as you stand before him, heart pulsing in your throat. With a blink, he seemingly regains his composure, though his eyes linger on your cleavage between the lace cups. “That much, huh?”

Another nod, shivering under the heated way he watches you sink to your knees in front of him. Breaking eye contact with him is difficult, but you’re met with an equally pleasing view of his firm length pressed against the rich material of his dress pants.

Your hand works at the zipper of his slacks, the other slipping between the metal teeth to press your palm against him. He’s throbbing under your touch, growing more and more solid as your hand strokes him through his boxer briefs.

Words aren’t necessary—or capable, for that matter—once you finally fish out his length and lap at the tip. The only thing exiting his mouth are strangled curses mingled with the sigh of your name, hand slipping into your hair when he slides further into the hot cavern of your mouth. He’s fully hard now, resting heavy on your tongue as you trace the vein that throbs on the underside of his shaft.

JT grunts, tilting his head down to watch the way his cock slides between your lips. Your hands hold yourself steady against his strong, muscular thighs—one of the more underrated parts of his body, in your opinion—as you bob your head back and forth, wetting every inch of him with your mouth. You wrap your fingers around the base, twisting and setting a cruel rhythm that earns a loud whine from his throat, followed quickly by a long, “Fuuuuuuuck.”

Nails scratch lightly at your scalp, like maybe he’s searching for purchase, his chest starting to heave a little more frantically the more you work him to a state of dizzy bliss. It’s the least you can do, you think, to congratulate him on his first ever home game in Detroit. And, maybe, there’s a little piece of you that wants to reward him, because you still haven’t quite thanked him thoroughly enough for selecting your city as his final destination in free agency. For coming home to you.

A wet, frothy mixture of spit and precum coats your chin when he finally tugs you back with a groan. His eyes are dark pools of umber, arousal seeping out of them as he drinks in the sight of you on your knees, lips shining with the lewd evidence of your worship.

“Bedroom,” he husks, helping you onto your feet and pressing his groin against the swell of your ass as he gently nudges you down the hall toward his room.

Falling forward onto the mattress, you glance at him over your shoulder and catch him admiring the view before his fingers are digging into the hem of your pants and tugging down. The sharp intake of breath tells you he likes your choice of panties, left as a sneaky surprise for him to unwrap as his reward. “Oh, she really likes it when I score goals.”

A wiggle of your hips earns a slap to your ass. Soon enough, you’re flipped onto your back, feeling the weight of him settled between your legs and his mouth slotting over yours. His lips are sure, certain, plush against yours, lazily commandeering control. Kissing him never gets old, not even when his erection is bumping against your lace-shrouded pelvis, silently begging for entry.

One of his hands runs over your neck, down your chest, palming your breast through the bralette. He toys with the scalloped hem, admiring the feel of it beneath his fingers. The low rumble of his hum vibrates against the spot on your jaw that he’s paused to mouth at while his hands explore, hot breath cascading down the sensitive skin of your neck. “Y’look so pretty, I almost don’t want to take it off.”

“You like me in red, too, hm?”

“I like you in anything,” he muses, allowing his tongue to trail along the thin strap that rests on your collarbone. It’s a sweet comment that you don’t have time to dwell on when his attention moves to the swell of your breast, then flicks at your taut nipple through the lace. “But red definitely suits you.”

JT punctuates his statement with a gentle nibble, tracing the floral pattern with the tip of his tongue until the fabric is damp with his saliva and your back is arched off of his sheets. Your fingers are threaded through his hair, knees pressed into his sides when your hips start to roll against his thigh that’s slotted between your legs.

“Can’t decide if I want to taste you or fuck you first,” he murmurs against your breast. A hand slinks down your body, eventually settling on the fabric between your thighs; a pleased hum leaves his throat, presumably at the moisture he finds there. The breath in your throat catches when he brings two fingers to his lips. “A taste can’t hurt, right?”

The sight of JT Compher gazing lustfully at you from between your legs is one you’ll never take for granted, nor is the feeling of his hot breath against the inside of your thighs. Even better than that is the sound of his groan when he tugs the lace panties down your legs, eyes never leaving the dripping heat in front of him.

His hand draws to the apex of your thighs, and you brace yourself to feel a finger slipping past your lips; instead, you only receive the ghost of his touch, drawing up the slick that’s dribbled out of you.

“J,” you whine, hips bucking impatiently. You’re not sure you’ll survive his teasing antics—not tonight.

“Jus’ wanna enjoy my treat,” he says, cheeky, popping the finger in his mouth with a groan. “I love when your pussy drools like this.”

Soft, pillowy lips press against your core, and you aren’t sure who moans louder: you, from the feeling of his mouth finally touching you where you need, or him, at the taste of you on his tongue. He sets to work, devouring your cunt with his usual practiced precision; long laves of his tongue paired perfectly with gentle sucking of your clit. It isn’t until he pauses for just a moment to wrap your legs around his head that you realize he’s grinding himself against the mattress.

“JT, let me—”

“No, baby,” he pants, barely parting his mouth from you, his voice muffled by your skin. “Y’taste way too fucking good.”

You’re in the process of wondering what you did to deserve a man who enjoys eating your pussy more than you do when his hand slips between your legs, joining his tongue to aid in his quest to bring you to climax. He alternates between dipping his finger into your heat and using it to circle your clit while his mouth continues its sinful magic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, spine peeling off the mattress when he curls his finger, striking at the spongy spot inside of you. The pleasure is blinding, radiating from the place where he strokes diligently. “Don’t stop.”

For being a man, JT is good at following instructions, especially when it comes to making you come. It doesn’t take long for your legs to quiver and a loud moan to rip from your throat; he hums in encouragement, fingers pumping relentlessly until you’re spent, slumped back against his pillow. You’re pretty sure your bones have disappeared and your body is now just a floating, ethereal being. You know, status quo with him.

“One for the assist,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips are glistening with your slick and his spit, coating the auburn whiskers of his beard, and you draw him up to taste it.

His contented hum that vibrates against your lips when you kiss him makes your heart warm, like he could kiss you all day and not get sick of it. The feeling is mutual, you think, savoring the way his mouth fits perfectly against yours along with the heady taste of you on his tongue. His hand moves to cup your jaw, thumb rubbing gently as he swallows your sighs and comedown whimpers eagerly.

“You gonna fuck me now?” you ask into his mouth, once you regain the ability to speak. Sometimes, he has a habit of kissing the thoughts straight out of your brain. You love it more each time.

JT’s smile curls up against your lips. “Greedy girl, aren’t you?”

The sense of satisfaction watching his smile falter when your hand reaches between your bodies to stroke his erection is unmatched. Anything to render him speechless, too; the guttural moan is just a bonus. “Been waiting for this since warmups, when I saw you skating around in the winged wheel.”

“That’s a long time,” he says smugly, sitting up with a grunt and urging you to follow. When you turn your back to him, he pushes you down onto your elbows playfully, then offers a slap on your ass. “Your poor, poor pussy. So deprived.”

Turning your head, you watch him discard the rest of his clothes before his fist wraps around his cock, dragging up and down a few times. It’s a struggle to resist the whimper that threatens to bubble up in your throat. He runs the tip through your folds, coating it in your slick with a tsk. “So pretty. Should I give her what she wants?”

Instead of giving in, begging him the way you know he wants you to, you lean forward, ensuring he has an even better view of everything you have to offer. Your hand slithers between your thighs, fingers flattening as they rub at your clit. You part your folds before allowing your finger to dip into your entrance.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice dripping with a mixture of desire and awe. You swear you can feel the heat from where his eyes are burning a hole in you, staring at the way you touch yourself. “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

Preening under his praise, your marriage joins your middle finger, moaning loudly when the two plunge into your heat. The sound of your slick is audible, harmonizing with your soft sighs and his deep, ragged breathing behind you. You muse, “I’ve always wanted to fuck a Red Wing. Doesn’t really matter who. Just want to say I did, you know?”

JT’s dark chuckle behind you sends shivers down your spine. He probes the head of his dick—still positioned at your entrance, waiting patiently for its turn—against your fingers, teasing you before nudging your hand out of the way. It falls to the mattress, and you return to leaning on both elbows. “You know how much I like making your dreams come true.”

The huffed laughter that falls out of your mouth is quickly usurped by a gasp when he pushes his hips forward. Pausing halfway, he hums at the way you squeeze him tightly before he sheaths himself completely. It’s a feeling you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to; so perfect and satisfying and full. Just the touch of his skin to yours is enough to ignite a flame deeper than you’ve ever experienced with anyone else—the intimate feeling of him inside of you is nothing short of euphoric.

You push yourself back onto him, body acting on its own and greedily taking what it wants. He makes a sound behind you, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt; whatever it is, it’s followed by a firm slap against your ass that has you moaning.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy. “Fuck yourself on it.”

As if to accentuate his point, his fingertips trail up your spine before his hand fists into the lace strings displayed on your back. Once his hold is firm, he uses the material to drag you back against him and set a rhythmic slapping of your ass against his hips.

JT fucks you until you’re a babbling, sweating mess, only capable of incoherent whimpers and crying out a semblance of his name. He’s steady and consistent, confidence rolling off of him even despite the way his voice falters when he’s murmuring filth in your ear, using your bralette to tug you backwards against his chest.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he whispers, beard scratching deliciously against the curve of your jaw. You nod, desperate, even your thoughts echoing the rhythm of his length driving in and out of you.

Teeth sink into the meat of your shoulder at the same time the universe explodes. Eyes squeezed shut, legs clenched tight, the air wrenched from your lungs as your body goes rigid in his arms. He hums lowly, working you through it, soft praises whispered against your skin.

“One for the goal,” he says, cheeky. You don’t have the brainpower to even roll your eyes at his hubris. Given the way your legs are still shaking, you’d say he has a right to be cocky.

Strong arms help you back down to your stomach, and you’re thankful for the soft mattress beneath you, no longer needing to hold yourself up; you’re not sure your limbs have the strength to. JT’s hands gently pull your hips back, lifting them up slightly to slide a pillow beneath them before he’s diving in face first with a groan. “Fucking love the way your cunt tastes after it’s been fucked.”

His tongue laps at you, and you squirm under his attention. Grabbing at your ass with both hands, he kneads the globes and offers a hearty smack that earns a squeal from you. “JT!”

“Sorry, baby,” he says, but the nip on your ass tells you he isn’t. You feel him shift before he’s helping to flip you over onto your back, and the sight of him smiling down at you makes your heart flutter. “Can’t help it.”

Something you’ve learned over the last few weeks with JT is that he is a thorough, meticulous lover. He worships at your altar until he’s completely absolved and your thoughts are wiped clean, pulling prayers from your throat with easy, intentional thrusts. With your legs resting in the crook of his elbows, he drives into you, solid, steady, watching the union of your bodies with a hunger that might intimidate you if it wasn’t the same one consuming you entirely.

“Look so good like this,” he murmurs, eyes roving over your body, admiring each curve as if he sculpted them himself. His gaze holds the sway of your breasts, testing the way you respond to different pulses of his hips. “Y’take dick like a fuckin’ pro, sweetheart. You know that?”

You hope the question is rhetorical, for when you go to attempt an answer, all that comes out is a garbled whimper. The praise makes your skin hot, heightens the flutter in your belly, and when he tells you to touch yourself, you blink dumbly at him. It garners a smile on his pretty lips—so fucking handsome—perhaps pleased with the way he’s fucked you stupid on his cock.

“Won’t last much longer,” he purrs. He swallows thickly, and if your brain wasn’t complete mush, you’d be very satisfied that he’s losing control, too. “Make yourself come for me. Jus’ one more, baby, please.”

And when he asks so nicely, how can you disobey?

Your hand snakes its way between your legs, rubbing at your tender clit; the action enhances the delicious, soul-altering feeling of JT’s dick delivering pleasure and promise. His eyes are glued to your movements, but your eyes are watching him.

JT Compher has always been beautiful. Handsome. Exquisite, even. But the sight of him, eyes shut, lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks, mouth open as his head falls back in ecstasy? No words. Truly, indescribable.

It’s enough that you try to stave off your own orgasm just to prolong your view—that is, until the force of it absorbs you and then shatters you, seizing every last cell and filling them with euphoria. When the fuzziness fades from your eyes, JT’s panting body is on top of you, planting kisses along your collarbone. “And finally, one for the win.”

A dreamy smile slides onto your face. Weakly, your arms wrap around him, grazing the skin on his back lightly. He feels good in your arms. Safe. Comfortable. Natural.

“Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?”

There’s a pause as you try to process what he said, sure that he fucked you so good, your hearing’s gone out, too. He nudges your jaw with his nose.

“B–breakfast?” Your voice comes out way shakier than you intended. You feel the short exhale from his huffed laugh against your skin.

“Don’t want you to think you’re just a booty call,” he says, like it’s obvious, like he’s not still half-hard buried inside of you, his cum seeping out onto the wrinkled sheets beneath you.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Can’t think about anything else about you or I’ll get hard again,” he admits wryly. The confession strokes your ego, something he manages to do without even trying. As you debate if you should, in fact, rouse a round two, your pussy flutters weakly in protest—dick too good. Need break.

JT’s hands never leave your body as he helps you walk to the bathroom, laughing at the way you waddle to avoid spilling cum all over his floor. Once you’re cleaned up, you slip on the t-shirt you packed, joining him at the sink to brush your teeth. He bumps your hip affectionately with his, and the domesticity of it all contrasted with the filthy aura from 5 minutes prior is astonishing—in a good way.

Back in his room, he eyes the bag that you place on the floor. “You can keep some things here, you know. I cleared out a drawer.”

It’s a simple statement, but one that strikes you hard; symbolic and heavy in its meaning: a place carved out for you in his home.

In his life.

JT sees you standing, gaping at him, and closes the gap between you before he’s tilting your jaw upward to look at him. His lips hover over yours, the ghost of his touch lingering in a way that makes your heart stop.

His voice is low, almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to burst the bubble surrounding you. “If I’m coming on too strong, let me know.”

“You aren’t,” you breathe, surprised that your voice even works. His lips curl into a smile against yours before he presses forward to kiss you. It’s slow, ardent, sweet. Dizzying.

“Let’s go to bed. You can fill the drawer tomorrow.”

Tag list: @somuchf4rstardust @tpwkstiles @smileysvech @senditcolton @robindrake13 @laurenairay

#jt compher fic #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #jt compher x reader #nhl fanfiction #hockey fanfiction #nhl smut #hockey smut

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bobby-r2d2-floyd · 11 months

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behind the glass part one | (tgm x nhl)

note: i've finally sat down long enough to actually write this and im so excited that it's finally here!

warnings: a few swear words, nothing too bad. not a lot of dialogue, mostly background stuff, time jumping, mentions of the covid-19 pandemic

beta'd by the lovely @sarahsmi13s

word count: 4.2k

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The first time your parents took you to a hockey game, it was 2008 and you were 13 years old. You remember it was glass seats, home-shoots-twice side right off to the left of the net for the Pittsburgh Penguins in Mellon Arena, affectionately named The Igloo for the white domed top and it being home to the Penguins.

Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin, the Penguins Two Headed Monster, had a combined 68 goals and 148 assists that season. They both racked up career 100 goals with Crosby earning his 200th career assist and 300th career point. Malkin earned the Art Ross trophy as well as the Conn Smythe trophy with a nod to the Hart Memorial trophy, whereas Crosby only received a nod for the Mark Messier Leadership Award.

The Penguins had a decent regular season that year as a team. 45 wins to their 37 losses (28 in regulation and 9 in overtime) but they went on to beat the Philadelphia Flyers, then the Washington Capitals, then the Hurricanes over in Raleigh before finally beating the Detroit Red Wings for the Stanley Cup at the Joe Louis Arena.

Your dad used to joke that you didn’t blink the entire time that you were there, not even during the intermissions between periods. From that moment forward, you were hooked. Hockey consumed your life, you begged your parents for the chance to go again, and again, and again. You went to every home game that took place on weekends. The glass seats were a gift as a back to school surprise, but you never minded sitting further back if it meant you had a better view of the ice.

Over the next 12 years you must have attended nearly 500 games (professional and college), and when you weren't at the games, you were watching them on TV. You, with the help of your parents and grandparents, cultivated your childhood around the sport. Games, practices, meet-the-players events… you attended as much as you could; you even played on a rec team for a bit.

In high school you convinced the head of the newspaper to let you write all four years instead of just your junior and senior years. You specialized in sports, aside from hockey, you were well educated with baseball and football. You graduated high school with a full ride to Penn State University where you double majored in digital journalism and telecommunications and received a certificate in sports journalism.

You thanked whatever god there was above that you managed to bag a position with the Penguins as an assistant photographer for the team. You became a permanent fixture on your favorite team during year one of their back-to-back Stanley Cups, one away at San Jose (2016) and the second one at Nashville (2017) and you were just as over the moon as the players were as you watched Sidney lift the cup for the third time in the last decade.

As you made your way onto the ice, you threw some of the Predators players condolences and “good game [insert player here]” as they worked their way off the ice.

You had developed a close bond with the Russian half of the Monster, and with his wife at home with their newborn son, you made sure to facetime her as Geno skated up to you with the cup, cheering to her in their native tongue. You leave him to talk to his wife while you go off and take pictures of the rest of the players and staff that made it out to Nashville while they’re still celebrating on the ice before moving into the locker room.

The summer of 2017 was a whirlwind event.

Between attending cup celebrations for the friends you made on the team and then almost immediately getting right back to it with pre-season at the Penguins practice facility, UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex, in Cranberry.

On a rare day off, you and fellow Penguins photographer Leland Hawkins were at PNC Park watching the Pirates play the Cubs when the news came through.

“Jesus Christ.” you mumble as you look at your phone screen.

“What?” Leland asks, eyes not leaving the field as she shovels popcorn into her mouth.

“San Diego just announced that they were approved for their own NHL team and they broke ground on an arena that’s expected to be complete prior to the start of the 2020-21 season,” you paraphrase aloud as you scan the article. “We just went through a draft with Vegas and now we need to go through it again?”

“You’re joking, right? We just lost Fleury and now we’re about to lose ANOTHER person? Unbelievable…” Lee mutters before taking your phone from you and reading the article for yourself.

You watch as Rizzo hits a line drive to left field to take first base and you smile a bit, he was your favorite player after all, but the Pirates were the home team. Either way you would be happy with the outcome.

Expansion drafts were never fun for anyone. You remember the hot coal feeling in your stomach as you watched Marc-Andre say his goodbyes to Sid, Geno, and Kris. Players he had known for his entire career to go somewhere completely new.

“I hope I never get asked to go somewhere new. I don’t think I could ever leave this view,” you say as you kick your feet up on the seat in front of you, stealing Leland’s popcorn as you look out past the outfield to the Allegheny River and the Pittsburgh Skyline. For it being Father’s Day, the park wasn’t that packed considering the weather was absolutely beautiful.

“Yeah I think I could. Isn’t there a Navy base in San Diego? All the hot seamen.”

“Is there even a market for another team there? There’s already three teams in California, two of them are not even three hours away.” you say before cheering as Rizzo crosses home plate, bringing the score to 3-0, Cubs.

“New York has two basically next door to each other and then there’s the New Jersey team, ALSO right there.” Leland tries to rationalize and you shake your head.

“Madison Square Garden is in Manhattan and the Barclays Center is in Brooklyn, there’s a forty-ish minute difference and the Prudential Center is an hour away from Madison,” you correct her before standing. “Want anything from concession?”

“Get me a beer please? And why do you know all that?”

“I make it my job to know!” you yell back as you walk away from her.

While in line, you scan through the article again. The old Pechanga Arena will be demolished and then rebuilt to become a new top of the line facility, not too much different from the newer Little Ceasar’s Arena in Detroit, and will only be a 15 minute highway drive from Petco Park.

You shake your head and slip your phone back into your pocket before ordering two beers and a couple of pretzels before pressing the thought of another expansion team to the back of your mind.

The rest of the game flies by and the Pirates lost the series 7-1 which you weren’t surprised by. Tthe Cubs are a good team who’re just coming off the tail end of winning the World Series only eight months prior.

The news of another expansion was the talk of the locker room the next time you were at the Sports Complex. You were sitting in the hallway leading up to the locker room taking pictures when a little blond boy came running up to you.

“Lens!” You hear and you have barely enough time to set your camera down before you’re being knocked over by Nikita Malkin.

“Nik! What are you doing here?” you laugh as you wrap your arms around him.

“Gonna skate with daddy,” he says, his English is good but you know that Anna and Geno speak Russian primarily at home.

“That’ll be fun, gonna score some goals on Muzz?” He nods and you smile, “Good, score one for me.” you say before he bounces off and you manage to get a few photos of him and Geno walking down the hallway.

During the first half of the 2017-18 season the Pens were 19-21 and 28-14 in the back half. They managed to take second in the metropolitan division and head into the playoffs, where, unfortunately they had a second round exit after losing to the Capitals in game six.

As sad as you were for the team to go early, you were thankful for the opportunity to take a bit of a break. You and Leland were able to travel around Europe for a few months before reporting back to Pennsylvania before the players were due to return.

You were taking some pictures of new players’ jerseys that were hanging up when you heard the door open. You look over and see the captain standing there and you give him a small smile.

“Hey Sid. Ready to be back?” you ask as you move over to the next stall.

“Oh yeah, hopefully we’ll make it past round two this year,” he says and he takes a seat and starts pulling stuff out of his duffle that he had slung around his shoulder.

“Well, you never know. I’m just glad Ovechkin can finally shut up now about not having a cup,” you say and he laughs. His rivalry with the Russian has always been a big thing on the ice, but off you knew that the two were friends.

“Right, happy for him though,” he says before looking over at you. “What happened to Leland? Doesn’t she usually do this?”

“She actually moved to Denver. So it’s just me now. Well, at least until my assistant gets here.” you say and he laughs.

“A promotion? Good for you. You always deserved it.” He hesitates, “No offense to Lee.”

You smile and nod, “I’m sure she wouldn’t take any offense, Sid. How was your off season?”

“It was good, Nate and I did a lot around Cole Harbour. Spent a lot of time relaxing at home, played a bit with Taylor while she was in town. What about you?”

“Went to a lot of Pirates games, helped Lee move, spent a lot of time outside with my younger siblings, hung out with some of the WAGs that stayed in town..” you say before taking a seat next to him. “Did you read that on top of the San Diego expansion, Seattle is getting a team now too? Making the even 32 teams and odd 33? Wonder who will be next.”

“Yeah I heard… It’s weird though, that Bettman has allowed so many expansions.”

“It’s Bettman, are you surprised? Why does he do half the shit he does?” You roll your eyes, your disdain for the NHL Commissioner very evident on your face.

“Don’t say that too loud, he might hear you,” he bumps your shoulder and you laugh.

“Right, the last thing I need is to be fired, or worse… transferred.”

“Hey, you work for Mario and he loves you. He won’t let you leave.” Sidney tells you and you can tell he’s being honest. Crosby may be many things, but a liar? Never.

You notice the proximity between the two of you and you take a deep breath, his cologne filling your senses before you clear your throat and stand up. “I uh.. I’ll leave you to change. See you on the ice, Cap.”

You shake the thought of being so close to him off, he’s Sidney Crosby and you’re just a photographer for the team.

You wait for Sid to take the ice before moving down to the bench so you can get pictures of him without the glass being in the way.

You remember the day that he got drafted to the Penguins in 2005, you remember all the things that everyone had said about him, “he was going to save the Penguins”. All the injuries he had, all the concussions, the year of missed games… He was one of the best skaters in the game after some of the legends. Watching him skate is the reason that you took up skating yourself, he was your on ice hero but you would never tell him that.

After taking some pictures of him skating, you make your way out from behind the bench so you can head up to your office and get started on picking what pictures to send to the digital media team.

Before you know it, the season is already ending with a first round exit, swept by the Islanders despite winning 44 games in the regular season.

By the time March of 2020 rolled around, the Penguins had 40 wins and 29 losses, a comeback that they needed.

Until everything came to a standstill.

Commissioner Bettman paused the season due to the threat of Covid-19. All non-essential positions were suspended due to the virus.

For the next four months you didn’t leave your home. All groceries were ordered from people who were brave enough to do Shipt, you taught yourself how to actually cook, spent a lot of time talking to your parents over Zoom, you started to write more, making mock articles to get back into the swing of the journalism aspect of your job again.

By the time that July had come around there were two hub cities named for the play-offs, Toronto and Edmonton. You traveled with the Penguins to Toronto for the modified tournament but left after the Canadiens knocked out the Penguins after three games.

September 28, 2020 the Lightning were crowned Stanley Cup Champions, and the 20-21 season began officially on January 13, 2021. Only 56 games would be played before the Cup would be returned to the Lightning again only a few short months later.

The San Diego expansion draft took place just after Stamkos raised the cup for the second time.

You watched as players got drafted to the San Diego Tomcats, shocked as some teams traded away some of their best skaters, knowing that they didn’t go lightly. Just like what happened with Vegas when Fleury left, you felt a sinking feeling in your chest.

You watched as the last six players were drafted: first was Bradley Bradshaw, center from the Capitals; Reuben Fitch, left defense from the Predators; Mickey Garcia, left wing from the Rangers; Jake Seresin, right wing from the Stars [you rolled your eyes at his name, good luck Tomcats]; Javy Machado, right defense from the Bruins; and the fortieth man drafted was Robert Floyd, goalie from the Blues.

Floyd and Bradshaw were the two you recognized the most between the six of them. Both were on cup winning teams in the last five years so you were surprised to see them there, but then again they weren’t the only Cup winners on the team, some guy named Brigham Lennox from the Lightning was also there. He was going to be a cocky asshole.

You were driving into PPG Paints the next morning when you got the phone call, it was a number you didn’t recognize so you were hesitant when you finally did answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Y/N Champaign?” a deep voice asked from the other side and you sucked in a breath before answering.

“This is.”

“My name is Beau Simpson, I’m calling to inform you that you’re being relocated to San Diego. You’ll need to be here when players report for training.” he says and you pull over to the side of the road.

“Sir I’m employed directly with the Penguins, not the NHL-”

“Oh I know. You’re being sent over by recommendation of Mario Lemieux.”

“Oh.”

“I know you’re comfortable with the Penguins, I know that you’re from Pittsburgh so it’ll be hard leaving home. But I’ve seen your work both on the ice and off, as well as behind the glass. You’re talented and as a new team, we could use some talent everywhere it counts.” he says, and you throw your head back against your seat.

“Of course, sir. I’ll be on a plane before the afternoon.” you tell him and you can hear the relief in his voice.

“Wonderful. Bradley Bradshaw will meet you at the gate, he was the first one here so he can get you to the facility.”

“I’m assuming this is an office phone, so I’ll email you the details of my flight.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mario already has them. I’ll pass your number along to Bradshaw.” he says before the line goes dead and you look at your phone as the line disconnects.

You pull back into the road and continue your drive, the last one to PPG Paints as a home team member.

Mario is in his office when you make your way upstairs. A gentle knock on the glass alerts him to your presence and he gives you a smile, “come in.”

“Beau Simpson called me while I was on my way over.” you tell him as you sit down across from him.

“Yeah, he called me last night. I’m sorry I didn’t-”

You hold your hand up and stop him, “don’t worry about it. It’s… okay. It’ll suck leaving the team and everyone behind but new opportunities, right? Plus it’ll be nice seeing the sun for longer than three out of twelve months.” you joke and he cracks a smile and laughs with you.

“You’ll be missed.”

“I know.”

He passes you an envelope and it has your last check as well as a flight itinerary and contract for the Tomcats for you to read through on the plane. “Well, I’m sure you have some owner stuff to do so I’m gonna go say bye to the team.”

He stands and pulls you in for a hug, you were close with everyone, players and staff, so it wasn’t surprising when he pulled you in gently. “I’m gonna miss you, kid.”

You pull away and give him a gentle squeeze on his arm before walking out of the office and down to the ice, stopping along the way to say goodbye to familiar faces in the hallways.

You take a look out to the ice, you watch as the team laughs and smiles, passing the pucks to each other as they all run their own drills. Coach Sullivan is the first person to notice you, skating over and leaning against the boards.

“No camera today?”

“No.. not today… or tomorrow… or next week.” you say and his smile drops.

“No, where to?”

“San Diego.”

“Well, they just got a great person added to their team, it sucks it comes at our loss.” he says before blowing his whistle, getting the attention of all the players. Sidney is the first to skate over to you, slowing down before hitting the boards.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m being relocated. So I just wanted to come by and say goodbye to the team.” you tell him with a sad smile. He opens the gate for you and you set down your paper work on the bench before taking his hand and stepping onto the ice.

One by one, all players new and old (mostly old) pull you in for a tight hug, ignoring the sting of the hard pads digging into you at odd angles. You laugh as Geno hauls you into the air before setting you back down on the ice, only slipping a little bit but he’s quick to steady you.

After wrapping up your goodbyes, you head back to your apartment and pack up just the necessities before meeting your mom downstairs.

“You ready sweetheart?” she asks, helping you with your camera bags and you sigh.

“As ready as I’ll ever be to move away from the two homes I’ve ever known.” you tell her and she gives you a small smile.

“You’re going to be just fine over there.”

“I know, it's just… this city means so much to me. It’ll suck only being back for a few games a season.”

“And holidays.” she says and you laugh.

“And holidays.” you confirm and she smiles.

The drive to the airport went too quick for your liking and before you knew it, you were in the air above the steel city, watching as the skyline and the yellow bridges fade into the distance.

Six hours later you were landing in Fightertown, USA. Stiff from the flight, you do your best to work out all the kinks and cracks that your body goes through as you walk over to baggage claim. It’s easy to find your gear bags due to the giant Penguins logo on the sides, and the small bright yellow suitcase came shortly after.

You turned your phone back on and the first notification that you get is from an unknown number and a text that reads

Waiting for you at the Starbucks in term. 2. See you soon! -Rooster

“Rooster? Who the fuck is that?” you mumble before making your way to the Starbucks. You do a quick scan of the area, you know what Bradley looks like, so you know that none of the people around you are him.

15 minutes go by when an out of breath, lanky brunette walks up to you.

“I am so sorry I’m late, I was here but then I had to go to the bathroom and then there was some kids that recognized me and-”

“Take a breath, I’m not mad.”

“Okay, give me a minute,” he takes a few deep breaths before holding out his hand, “I’m Bradley Bradshaw, or Rooster, if you want.”

“Rooster?” you ask, his palm large and warm against your own as you introduce yourself as well and you take the moment to take him in, his brown hair is already sun bleached at the front and he dons a pornstache that he somehow manages to pull off.

“Yeah, Ovi started calling me that when I joined the Caps so..”

“Oh trust me, I am well versed with Ovi nicknames. He used to call me chicken because my family had chickens a few years ago.. He’s the one who started calling me Lens, actually.” you say as you stand up and pull the handle up on your suitcase.

Bradley is taking the strap of your gear bag when you grab it from him and he looks at you wide eyed.

“Sorry it's just.. There’s a lot of expensive equipment and-”

“Hey, it’s okay. I get it. Would you rather carry it or…?”

“Yeah, sorry I know it's weird and I know everything is packed really well, but I know it was probably thrown around during loading and unloading.” you say and he gives you a small smile.

“Well, then I’m taking this.” he says as he takes the handle of your suitcase from you. “Welcome to San Diego, Lens.” he says as you make your way to the front where his Bronco is waiting for you.

You two make idle small talk as he makes the short drive from the airport to where the new Pechanga Arena is located.

“It’s going to be weird not seeing you in the Caps uniform anymore.” you say as you climb out of the car and he laughs.

“Yeah, but it’ll be nice to see you everyday now.” he says and you notice the flirty smile on his face and you roll your eyes.

“Just remember to smile for the camera, Bradshaw.” you chirp back to him as he opens the door for you.

Standing in the vestibule of the arena, you take everything in. The Navy timeline that wraps around the wall, the Top Gun memorabilia that's displayed behind glass. Bronze statues of the old San Diego Gulls members standing proudly. Bradley gives you a gentle nudge before looking up and you do the same, a replica F-14 Tomcat is hanging, wings in, right above your head.

“Wow… I’ve been to Little Caesars many times over the years, for various reasons, so I knew a little bit of what to expect but this is… Amazing.”

The two of you wander down into the bowl seating and you watch as the ice gets painted, the steel blue and slate gray of the logo is being carefully brushed onto the stark white ice. You follow him around the rest of the arena, a small tour of the locker room where there’s various players in a state of undress after a voluntary workout before going to the offices.

Your office was a bit bigger than the one at PPG, the only difference was the F-14 that was painted on the wall instead of the Penguin from the 90’s that you loved so much.

“Simpson, Coach Kazansky and the rest of the coaching staff are going to be waiting in the review room whenever you’re ready. It’s down the hall to the left, and then it's the third door on the right.” Bradley says before leaving you to settle in.

You pull out your phone and send a quick text to your mom that you landed just fine and were already settling into your new office before you put your hands on your hips and let out a sigh as you looked around, it’ll be a long road of making your office comfortable like it was back home, but you honestly couldn’t wait to see what this new city would bring you.

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