#Toronto Maple Leafs

[tangerwoll]

sens @ leafs round 1 game 5 | 04.29.25

[stayonmars]

LMAO WILLIAM REALLY SAID BTCH IDC 😭😭😭😭

william nylander on swedish talk show BIANCA | november 19th, 2023

[tufzy]

thnks fr th mmrs

[crow-talks-hockey]

oh and btw if the cats reach the final again this year it will have now been SIX. count that SIX straight years that a florida team has been in the final. reminder there's only two of them. anyway i will now just be tagging all of my teams that have been personally victimized in some way or another by this fact

[lightsoutmatthews]

can you write about william nylander realizing he’s found the girl he wants forever with? i am thinking of the song look after you by the fray (when i’m losing my control and the city spins around, you’re the only one who knows to slow it down / you’ve begun to feel like home). like when things feel out of control in toronto she is always there for him and he wants her there forever. lots of fluff hehe

Thank you for this request, you saved me from dying of boredom on this Monday evening 😂

The One – William Nylander

Toronto could be loud. Not just the noise, the car horns, the crowds, the constant buzz of the city, but the pressure that came with being one of the cities brightest stars.

It shined bright on the good nights, when goals were scored and the fans cheered so loudly the walls of Scotiabank Arena were shaking, but it turned cold just as quickly. One off game, a missed pass, a goal drought and the buzz that could be the exact opposite, pressuring and relentless.

William had learned to live with it. He had to if he wanted to survive in a hockey market like this one. Ride the highs, pretend the lows don´t bother too much. Be calm in the spotlight, unshaken when the media and fans came at him like sharks.

No one ever talks about how hard the balancing act actually was. How sometimes it wore him down in places he didn’t even imagine felling tired in.

He would never tell anyone that. Not his teammates, not coaches or staff. Not even his family, at least not to an extend in which it would make them worry.

But there was you. He never had to tell you. You just knew.

He didn’t know when it happened exactly. When you went from being the girl he was dating to the one his whole heart leaned towards like instinct. He guessed it had been somewhere in the quiet moments.

It was you sitting at his kitchen counter in the morning, yawning and sipping coffee from his favorite mug, the one you had claimed as yours early into the relationship. It was your sleepy voice murmuring “good luck today” before he headed to the arena. It was the texts you sent after tough games: I´m proud of you, no matter how it ended.

You weren’t one for the loud kind of support. You didn’t yell his name from the stands or flooded social media with photos of being at games or of your relationship. You were steady. A constant. The kind of presence that didn’t just show up on the good days but stayed close when everything felt like it was falling apart.

You didn´t care about the headlines. You didn´t care if he scored or ig he missed an empty net. You cared if he ate. If he had gotten any sleep. If he was taking care of himself.

He´d come home some nights, feeling like he was still skating even though he got off the ice hours ago, the adrenaline of the game lingering long after the final buzzer rang. His thoughts were racing with what-ifs and should-haves.

Then he opened the door and saw you. Curled up on the couch, his hoodie drowning your frame, the soft glow of the TV dancing on your face, the dogs curled up at your feet. That’s when something in him would just breathe freely again.

“Hey,” you said, tucking your legs under yourself as he dropped his bag by the door.

“Hey,” he replied, and it always felt like enough.

Sometimes he didn’t even need to say much. He sunk into the couch besides you, let you curl into his side and in that silence, embracing the comfort of your warmth, everything inside him would settle.

Like you were the only thing that made sense in a world that demanded too much from him sometimes.

You didn’t ask for the version of him the fans, the media and the team wanted. You just wanted him.

One night, after a string of losses and headlines that made even his stomach twist, he found himself on the balcony, looking down at the buzzing streets while the city lights blurred in the distance. The air was cold, but he barely felt it. He was too wrapped up in the chaos of his own thoughts.

Questioning what he could do better, worrying what would happen if they didn’t win a game any time soon.

Then you came out. Barefoot, wearing another one of his hoodies that fell halfway down your thigh. You didn’t say anything right away. Just stood beside him, your presence soft but grounding.

Eventually, you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

“I know it´s a lot right now,” you said quietly. “But you´re not alone.”

Those six words undid him more than anything else probably ever had. Because no one ever said that. Not really. At least not in a way that felt like they meant it. But you did.

He turned to you, heart too full and aching all at once, and whispered, “I don’t want to do any of this without you.” And he meant all of it.

The wins, the losses, the spotlight, the pressure, the future, his future, wherever that led him. He wanted you in every piece of it.

You looked up at him, surprised, but not uncertain. You gave him that smile, the one that always made his pulse slow, like you had the power to quiet even the worst storm.

“You won’t have to,” you said.

That night, the two of you sat out there for a long time. The city kept spinning, the wind kept rushing past, but it felt like you were in your own little world. Like time had paused to give you a moment that would live in your memories forever.

He didn’t need grand declarations. He didn’t need fireworks. What he needed was you.

Your calm, your laughter, your way of grounding him when he felt like he was flying to close to the sun.

You made him feel like it was okay to slow down. Like it was okay to just be.

And the more he saw it, the more he knew. You weren’t just the girl he loved.

You were home.

The kind of home that didn’t have four walls or a roof, but a heartbeat that matched his, a presence that pulled him back to himself. You were the only thing that felt steady in a world that asked him to be everything all at once.

Right there he realized he found the girl he wanted forever with.

Not because you made him better on the ice, but because you made him want to be better everywhere else. For you. For you together.

He would spend the rest of his life showing you that love.

Because you looked after him, every day.

And he was going to look after you.

Forever.

[kell9rs]

propaganda i am NOT falling for:

mitch leaving the leafs. quinn leaving vancouver for new jersey. p*nthers winning another cup. auston isn’t a good captain. brock and petey aren’t getting resigned.

[sohhh09]

benny straight up speaking for all of us

you're my joseph woll 🎵

[eyes-above--the-waves]

If the Leafs are the only team that manages to take Florida to 7 games this year and don't get credit for it, I will be so fucking mad.

[beenbaanbuun]

NHL players as random text posts i found

sorry i haven’t been active, my life is falling to pieces. BUT!!!! could a depressed person make these bad boys?!?

the answer is yes. a depressed person did make them

[stlbluesleafsfan]

Also found these and he looks so cute all smiley. The crinkle by his eyes are just perfect *chefs kiss*

[tonyspep]

this chapter was really intense but more light hearted than i expected with the teasing of jack between him and ellie. i thought you wrote that really well just like her interaction with steph really gave us a different understanding of her, which i really liked. what i really would like to see is lena. i'm really intrigued by her and i know this isn't her story but i would like to see something from her perspective since this effects her too. i loved her reunions with each of her brothers and jim and ellen.

Right Where You Left Me

Hey lovelies ✨

Chapter 4 is finally here! Not gonna lie, this one’s a bit heavier and slower, but I really wanted to take my time building up all the feels and the backstory before things get even more intense.

Thanks so much for sticking with me through this slow burn!

Enjoy the read!

Themes/Warnings: Hannah Elise Hughes x William Nylander, grief and loss, coma, emotional struggle, hospital setting, mention of divorce, some grammar mistakes as I’m not a native speaker

Chapters: 01, 02, 03, 04

Chapter 4: A Life Moved On

The hospital room was quiet, with just your and Jack’s steady breathing filling the still air. You sat up in the bed, propped against pillows, trying to make sense of the past few hours — the doctors’ hurried visits, the overwhelming flood of information, and the dizzying realization that five years had slipped by without you.

Jack stood by the window, arms crossed, the light catching the edges of his face. He hadn’t said much since you woke up, just that gentle, familiar smile tugging at his lips — the same boyish grin you remembered from childhood, the one that always made you laugh even when things were hard. It was a smile full of warmth and a little sadness, like he was trying to hold together too many feelings all at once.

It’s him. Your little brother. But he’s not quite the Jack you remember. He looks older—not in a way that hits you all at once, but in quiet details you can’t ignore. His jaw is sharper, his shoulders broader, and there are faint lines on his face you’ve never seen before. His hair is longer, swept back like he’s stopped bothering to keep it neat. He’s more grown-up, more solid—like the boy you knew has somehow stepped aside for a man you barely recognize. And it stings, realizing he’s changed without you there to see it.

You catch yourself wondering about the others. Does William still flash that crooked grin when he’s teasing? Has Luke grown into his curls, or do they still bounce like they used to? Does Quinn smell the same—like cedar and lemons, his quiet signature? Is your mom’s hair starting to silver at the temples, or is she still the same? And your dad—does his hug still hold that steady, comforting weight, like the world’s still okay no matter what?

You want to believe some things never change. But you’re not sure anymore.

You cleared your throat. “Jack… how is everyone? How are they all doing?”

He turned toward you, his smile softening even more. “They’re... good. They’re managing.”

You studied him carefully. There was no hesitation in his voice, but something about the way he avoided looking you directly in the eyes made your chest tighten.

“Tell me about Luke,” you said, eager for something normal, something solid. “I want to know everything.”

Jack’s grin widened, and for a moment, the old Jack was back — the loud, cocky, frat-boy hockey player you teased endlessly.

“Luke’s on the Devils now. Playing with me. It’s pretty wild, honestly,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Brothers on the same team? It rarely happens. I’m happy I can actually be there for him.”

A dull ache bloomed in your chest, the reality of all the missed years and memories settling over you like a heavy blanket.

“Your first few years were rough, huh?” you asked softly, your voice almost a whisper.

Jack nodded, his eyes clouding over for a moment, like he was reliving it all. “Yeah. The league’s... brutal. You only saw the beginning, Eli. But those first few seasons? I was barely holding on. Pressure from every side, your accident hanging over me like a shadow. I didn’t know if I could do it. Sometimes it still feels like a fever dream I can’t quite wake up from.” His voice cracked just a little.

You reached out without thinking, and he took your hand gently. His smile softened, warm and familiar. Without hesitation, he sat on the edge of your bed and wrapped his fingers around yours. Jack had always loved touch—always needed it to feel connected—and after everything, after waking up from five years in a coma, you felt a quiet relief knowing that at least this hadn’t changed. 

“But Luke...” Jack’s smile shifted, a bit lighter, but still tired. “He’s killing it. Loving the league. He’s living with me now, though honestly, he drives me crazy El. He leaves socks everywhere and still eats the grossest stuff. Clearly doesn’t care about the elite athlete diet.”

You laughed quietly, sharing a warm smile. “That’s Lukey through and through.”

Jack shook his head, laughing softly with you. “I call him a gremlin sometimes. Last Christmas, I got him a sweater that said, ‘Protein shakes aren’t meals, and socks belong in the hamper.’ Thought maybe it’d guilt him into being less of a disaster. Didn’t work. He wore it proudly and left three pairs of socks under the tree. He’s still just Lukey. Same chaos, same heart.”

His voice softened as his eyes settled on you. He reached over, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way he used to when you were both younger. That familiar, easy gesture made your throat tighten.

“He’s going to lose it when he sees you, Eli bug,” he said, and just like yours, his eyes turned a little watery.

Your chest ached in that bittersweet way only family can make you feel—full of love, nostalgia, and a quiet knot of nerves. You were so ready to see him, to feel that familiar energy again… but a small part of you still wondered: would it all feel the same?

“And Quinn?” you asked, your heart picking up pace. You weren’t sure if it was hope, nerves, or both. Talking was easier than letting yourself feel everything all at once.

Jack gave you a proud smile. “Quinn’s a captain now. Can you believe it? The youngest in the Vancouver Canucks history!”

You chuckled, trying to play it cool. “Well, he had plenty of practice bossing around hockey players—with you and Luke as his test subjects.”

The joke landed, but the warmth in your chest said more than words could. Hearing that your oldest brother was thriving…it meant everything. If anyone deserved that title, it was Quinn.

“And what about his love life? Has he finally settled down?” 

Jack bursts out laughing. “Settle down? No way. Quinn’s still a total mess. Ever since you went into that coma, he’s been bugging me for advice.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Which is hilarious, because I’m about as qualified to give love advice as a squirrel is to drive a car.”

“That figures, pretty boy. You were always terrible at that stuff. You were a ladies’ man, sure, but you knew how to have fun with them—not how to keep them.”

Jack whips his head around, that ridiculously big, cocky smile already stretching across his face.

“What now?!” you say, surprised but laughing.

He leans in, grinning like a maniac. “You called me pretty boy.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, I did, you idiot! You're pretty Jacky, and you know it.”

His grin spreads even wider—practically gleaming. “No one’s called me that in five years, HanHan. It’s good to be back in business. Luke and Quinn better watch out—time for them to remember who runs this family.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re nuts.”

Jack winks. “Nuts, sure—but also the family’s prince charming. Honestly, those boys don’t give my good looks enough credit.”

You burst out laughing. “Poor thing, it must be torture having an ego that big and no one constantly feeding it.”

Jack folds his arms, smirking like he just won an invisible award. “Anyway, now that you’re back, I’m handing your emotional support sibling title right back. I’m wiped out. Quinn’s been moaning for years about wanting to settle down, but dude’s the problem. He just doesn’t get it.”

“Oh yeah? Since when did you become Mr. Relationship Expert?”

“After five years of listening to Quinn screw up his shitty love life, I’ve got a pretty good idea where he’s going wrong. I’m no expert, but damn, the guy needs therapy—or maybe just you yelling at him. Honestly, therapy might be easier. You get pretty scary when you’re in your element, Eli.”

You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made Jack’s eyes light up. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles across your skin.

“Anyway, enough about Mr. Loverboy,”Jack chuckled.“Mom and Dad are still in Michigan, still obsessed with hockey. Mom landed a role with the women’s Olympic development team, and Dad’s finally retired. Now he just watches our games and spends his days on the golf course.”

Your chest tightened again, but this time with a comforting relief. “It’s good to know they’re okay. Makes me happy.”

Then you cleared your throat, heart pounding, and finally asked the question that had been on your mind the moment you opened your eyes. “And William?” you whispered, barely daring to speak.

Jack’s face shifted, his smile fading just a bit.

“He’s holding up, but it wasn’t easy,” Jack said, his voice quieter now, weighed down with something deeper. “Honestly, he was really broken for a long time—just like the rest of us. But losing you hit him in a way no one else could understand. He blamed himself... for a long, long time.”

Jack cleared his throat before he continued. “But he fought through it. His family, his friends and us didn’t let him fall apart. Steph made sure there was always warm food in his fridge. Auston stuck by him so he wouldn’t be alone, and when he moved out, Alex moved right in. We made sure he was included—every birthday, every family dinner. Mom never missed a week without calling him.”

Jack looked down briefly, then met your eyes again. His grip on your hand tightened, just slightly. “He can’t wait to see you,” he said softly. “He booked the first flight he could. You know he always heads back to Sweden in the off-season... He’s coming as fast as he can, but it’ll still be a couple of days.”

You nod slowly, your heart heavy, stretched between gratitude and something too deep to name. Everything feels surreal—like you’ve slipped through time and landed somewhere you don’t fully recognize. For you, it was just yesterday—his hand in yours, his voice low and familiar in your ear. You can still feel the warmth of that moment, still hear the way he said your name. But for him… it’s been five years.

You don’t know what his life looks like now. What scars he carries. What versions of himself were built in your absence. The thought of it makes your chest ache in a way that feels older than your body. You have so many questions—too many to ask. So many fears crawling beneath your skin. What if he’s different? What if you are?

But for now, you bury the panic. You shove the grief and guilt down into the dark, and you hold on to the one thing that still feels real:

You just want to see him. Look into those blue eyes and know that he’s there. Feel his hands on your skin, his arms around you. Rest your head on his chest and breathe in something familiar. Pretend, for just a little while, that time didn’t win.

Jack glanced away for a moment, then back again—his eyes glassy, his shoulders trembling like he was holding something in and losing the fight.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice low and cracking.

You tilted your head. “For what?”

“For all the time you missed. For not being here more. I should’ve come more, Eli. I should’ve—” He swallowed hard, words slipping through guilt.

You give his hand a  firm, reassuring squeeze.

“Oh, Jacky.” Your voice was soft but steady. “I was basically sleeping for five years. Nothing you did or didn’t do could’ve changed that. And you’re here now—that’s what matters.”

He let out a shaky breath, and a single tear traced down his cheek before he quickly wiped it away. He cleared his throat like he hated being caught in the act of feeling too much.

“Damn it, pretty boy,” you teased gently. “You even cry handsomely.”

He snorted, half-laughing through his sandness. “Yeah, well… lethal face card, remember?”

“Come here, you ridiculous Adonis.”

You didn’t wait—you just opened your arms and tugged him close, your fingers curling around his shoulders like they used to when he was small. He didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Jack climbed into the narrow hospital bed beside you without a word, awkward limbs and all, and pressed his face into your shoulder like he used to when thunder rattled the windows and he’d sneak into your room, scared and too proud to admit it.

He clung to you—tight, desperate. Like if he let go, something might break in him for good.

You held him just as tightly. One arm wrapped around his back, the other stroking slowly through his hair. He was trembling—quiet, choked sobs rising from somewhere deep, from a place only siblings ever seem to reach in each other.

So you did what you always did. You hummed his lullaby. The one he made you sing a hundred times too many. The one that always made him pretend he wasn’t listening, even as he leaned closer.

And right then, the world outside faded. He wasn’t the tough, 24-year-old hockey star everyone else saw. He wasn’t the charming “pretty boy” with the lethal face card.

He was just Jack. Your Jack. Curled up in your arms like a kid again. Safe. Small. Loved.

And he let himself fall apart—because you were finally there to catch him.

—

You’d heard the footsteps before you saw them. A dozen rushed steps down the sterile hallway, muffled by rubber soles and panic. The door burst open, and there they were.

Luke was first.

He crashed into the room like a storm—wild-eyed and breathless. His curls were longer now, a mess under his backwards cap, and his shoulders had broadened in a way that didn’t belong to the teenage boy you remembered. He was tall. So tall he had to duck slightly to get through the doorway. All shoulders and muscle and momentum. His voice cracked into the air before you could even breathe.

And then—like a dam giving way—he dropped his bag, crossed the room in three giant steps, and pulled you into the tightest hug you’d ever felt.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Holy shit, Eli. You’re here. You’re really here.”

You felt him trembling against you, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid you'd vanish if he let go. He pulled back for a moment, cupping your face in both hands, scanning you like he didn’t quite trust his own eyes. He was trying not to cry. And failing miserably.

“You look older,” you whispered.

He let out a shaky laugh, already crying. “So do you, HanHan. Not gonna lie, this hospital gown is not doing you any favors.”

You chuckled and tugged him back into a hug. He squeezed tighter, practically suffocating you, and then—suddenly—pulled you into a full-standing hug, lifting you off the bed like you weighed nothing. That’s when you really felt it—how much taller he was now. How big. How grown.

You smiled into his hoodie, tears sliding freely down your face. “You’re huge.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well… pro athlete and stuff. You know?!”

You rolled your eyes at the cocky answer. Living with Jack had clearly rubbed off on him. You made a quiet mental note to humble him later. This family could only handle one cocky bastard, and Jack had that role down to perfection.

Then, in the doorway behind Luke, you spotted another figure.

Quinn.

He didn’t rush. He moved slowly, his posture stiff, like every step toward you was heavier than the last. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel it—the crack forming just beneath the surface. Quinn had always been the composed one. The protector. The eldest son.

He stopped a few feet away, fists clenched at his sides.

You looked at him. Really looked.

He hadn’t changed much—not physically. Still clean lines, still quiet eyes. But there was more weight in his stare now. Like the years had pressed down on him and he’d just… let them. He looked at you like you were a ghost. A miracle.

“Hey,” you said softly, untangling yourself from Luke’s arms.

Quinn opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Then he closed the distance in one motion. He wrapped you in a fierce, bone-crushing hug, his arms shaking around you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and then his whole body just collapsed against yours. A slow, silent surrender.

You felt the first sob before you heard it.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry, Eli…”

“Oh, Quinny,” you whispered, holding him tighter. “You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to say sorry, you silly boy.”

Your fingers slipped into his chestnut waves, rubbing his back with one hand and petting his head with the other, the way you used to when you were kids and he couldn’t sleep after watching a scary movie. The way only you could comfort him.

He nodded into your shoulder, not letting go. And neither did you.

Because this was Quinn. The one who made pancakes for you at midnight. The one who stood between you and the world. The one who never cried—until now.

Then, the door creaked open again.

Your parents stepped in.

Together.

Your dad’s arm was wrapped tight around your mom’s shoulders. And your mom—your always-stylish, always-composed, effortlessly cool mom—was a mess. Her hands were clutched together, trembling. Her lips were tight. Her mascara had run halfway down her cheeks. Your dad looked like a man trying not to fall apart—his jaw locked, eyes wide, locked on you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You stood in the middle of your brothers, still wrapped in Quinn’s arms, when your mom saw you—and just crumbled.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed. “My girl. My baby girl.”

She rushed forward, gently pulling you from your brother’s arms, and pressed kiss after kiss to your forehead, cheeks, hair—anywhere she could reach.

“Oh, baby,” she cried. “My baby. My girl. You’re awake. You’re here.”

Your dad followed behind her, slower, quieter. When he reached you, he placed both hands gently on your face, then pressed his forehead to yours.

“Eli,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “My God.”

You’d never seen him cry like that. Not once in your life. He kissed your hair, your temple, your cheekbone, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

You let them hold you. Just stood there like a little girl again, letting your parents wrap you in the kind of warmth that only they could give.

Then—just as the room began to quiet, as your parents’ touch softened and your brothers held you like you might slip away again—

Jack’s voice cut through the room.

“Okay, okay,” he said, stepping forward with his hands up in mock surrender. “How about a family hug before I start feeling left out?”

Everyone turned to him—still crying, still sniffling—but already shifting, reaching, laughing through the tears.

And just like that, it happened.

Arms wrapped around arms. Heads bumped. Bodies tangled.

Luke’s laugh turned into a hiccup. Your mom buried her face in your hair again. Quinn let out one of those tight, watery chuckles that sounded like a release. Even your dad—stoic, steady—wrapped an arm around Jack and pulled him into the chaos.

It was messy. Loud. Too many arms, too many feelings. And absolutely perfect.

You were in the middle of it—pressed into your family like a heartbeat—and you didn’t even care that you couldn’t breathe properly.

Then Jack’s voice piped up again, muffled somewhere behind you.

“By the way,” he said, “Eli called me a pretty boy yesterday. Just putting that out there. For, you know, historical record.”

A chorus of groans filled the room.

Your dad rolled his eyes. Luke groaned louder than anyone. Your mom laughed through her tears and gave Jack a swat on the arm—the same way she used to when he got too full of himself. Quinn muttered, “Seriously, Eli? Feeding his ego right after waking up from a coma?”

“You can’t deny it, Quinn. He is pretty. He cried and still looked good. Only models pull that off.”

Jack beamed. “Oh, this is a new high. I’m a model now, guys.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, snorting. “Yeah, well, you’re still the most annoying person I’ve ever loved.”

“I think I can live with that, Eli bug.”

Laughter rippled through the room again. Someone pulled you into a hug. Someone kissed your hair. You were home.

—

The hospital room feels too warm—summer showed up early in Toronto this year. You tug at the soft cotton dress your mom brought, the fabric light against your skin, its faded floral print offering a small kind of comfort in a place that’s never felt like home. You run your fingers through your hair, catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. There’s something like hope stirring in your chest. Today, finally, you get to leave. To go back to William. Back to your bed. To Banksy and Pablo curled at your feet, their quiet breathing the kind of peace you’ve dreamed of every night since you woke up.

You peek into the hallway, looking for your family. You expect smiles, maybe even a gentle escort, but the corridor is quiet except for a low voice coming from around the corner.

Luke’s voice.

You step closer, heart fluttering with relief — until you hear what he’s saying.

“This is not a good plan, man. We’re going to a hotel right now, but we have to explain why she can’t come back to your apartment. She knows we have keys.”

You freeze. Your breath catches. The words don’t quite sink in, but the tone — the hesitation, the tension — sets off alarms in your chest.

“No, I didn’t tell her...” Luke’s voice is tight, strained, trembling with something fierce. “Look, I don’t want to break her heart. She doesn’t know you divorced her while she was in a coma... and married someone else just a few months ago.”

The words hit you like a gunshot. Divorce? Married someone else? What the hell is Luke talking about? 

“What do you want me to say, Will?” Luke snaps, voice rough and bitter. “Oh, sorry sis, I know you just woke up after five years in a coma, but yeah, we figured it’d be super helpful to drop the news that your husband’s got a new wife now. And we were all at their damn wedding, supporting him like it was the right thing to do. Sorry if that’s news to you. Sorry we all thought you were as good as dead.”

You stare at the wall, feeling it close in, breath shallow and quick. The ground beneath you feels like it’s crumbling away, piece by piece. Divorced. Married again. 

While you were fighting for your life.

While you were unconscious.

The shock doesn’t come in one big wave. It’s slower, colder—like the heat has been drained from your body and everything inside you has gone still.

You blink. Then again. Like maybe the world will make sense the next time your eyes open. It doesn’t.

William... married someone else. Your family knew. And no one told you.

The house you built together isn’t yours anymore. Your bed. Your kitchen. Your dogs. Someone else is living your life.

You try to breathe, but something tightens in your chest. You lean against the wall, suddenly lightheaded.

You remember his voice—soft and steady—telling you he’d wait forever. That he didn’t care how long it took. That you were it for him. You remember how safe you felt with him. How sure.

And now he’s gone.

No. Not just gone. He left. He moved on.

And everyone let him.

You feel like a fool. Worse than that, you feel erased. Like you died and no one bothered to grieve.

Tears burn your eyes, but they don’t fall. You just stand there, frozen.

You can’t stay.

You don’t think—you just move. Out of the hallway. Down the stairs. Through the sliding glass doors and into the warm blur of summer air. The sun is too bright, the sidewalk too loud. It all feels far away.

You raise your hand for a taxi without knowing where you’re going. The driver looks at you in the mirror, waiting.

Your voice barely comes out. “Can you take me to North York? I’ll tell you the address on the way.”

You sit back, still shaking, staring out the window. The city flies past but you can’t follow it. All you can do is hold onto one thought:

I need to see Steph.

—

You stand on Steph’s porch, your breath hitching, the sharp heat of the Toronto afternoon clinging to your skin. The air buzzes faintly — bees drifting lazily between blooms — but the world itself feels unnaturally still. Like it's holding its breath with you.

The taxi had barely stopped before you climbed out. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

Beside the front steps, the garden spills over in color and memory — roses, lavender, foxglove. The ones you and Steph had planted years ago, long before life had found ways to unmake itself. You remember the day like it happened this morning: both of you in tank tops and cutoffs, knees in the dirt, hands stained and laughing so hard your stomachs hurt. Steph argued that lavender would bring peace to the house. You swore it wouldn’t survive a Toronto winter.

William had watched from the porch, barefoot, a popsicle melting down his wrist, pretending to be unimpressed. “I’ll never understand why you two would rather dig holes in the ground than jump in the pool,” he’d called, tossing a tennis ball to Mitch.

You’d looked up at him, your hair stuck to your damp forehead, and smiled like he was the only thing in the world that made sense.

That memory used to feel golden. Now it tastes like ash and betrayal. 

The front door opens before you can lift your hand to knock.

Steph stands in the doorway, barefoot, hair in a messy bun, wearing one of Mitch’s oversized T-shirts. 

She doesn’t move. She just stares at you like her brain is trying to catch up with her eyes.

You manage a breath, part sob, part exhale. “Hey...”

But before you can say another word, she screams and slams the door in your face.

You flinch. Just stand there, stunned. You’d come here desperate for something solid, something familiar — and you’d forgotten what it must look like to her. She didn’t know. You never called. No warning. You just showed up, alive and broken.

Of course she thought you were dead. Or worse — something between.

You knock again, softer this time.

The door creaks open, slower now. Steph peers out, her eyes wide, scared in a way you’ve never seen. “…Are you a ghost?” she whispers.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaky but real, and shake your head. “No,” you murmur. “I woke up two days ago.”

For a heartbeat, she just stares at you — as if you’ve cracked open a fault line in the world. Then, without a word, she reaches for your wrist and pulls you into her arms.

You don’t fight it. You sink into her, bury your face into the soft cotton of her shoulder, breathing her in like oxygen. Her hand comes up to cradle the back of your head like she’s anchoring you there, keeping you from floating off into whatever terrible place you’ve been these past few years.

You want to stay like this. You want to fall apart completely. But your pride won’t let you—not yet. You step back, wiping your face with your hand.

“I—I left the hospital,” you manage. “I didn’t have anything. No wallet. No phone. I just... I didn’t know where else to go. Could you—can you pay the cab?”

Steph blinks like she’s waking up from a dream. “Oh my God, yes. Of course.” She brushes a strand of hair behind your ear gently. “Just wait here.”

She runs to the street, taps her phone to the cab’s card reader, and thanks the driver softly for getting you here safely. When she comes back, her face is flushed — with shock, with love, with something wordless.

She studies your face, like she suddenly sees everything. “Oh honey,” she breathes. “You know.”

That’s all she says. That’s all she needs to.

Because it’s written across your face — the grief, the disbelief, the deep, breath-stealing hurt of betrayal. She sees it. She feels it. She doesn’t ask how or why or what happened.

She just opens her arms again.

And this time, you let go.

You fall into her chest, your body shaking as the tears come hard and fast. It feels like you’re still in that hospital hallway, like those words—your husband has a new wife—are still echoing in your head, and you don’t know how to hold yourself up under them.

You don’t know how long you stand there. It doesn’t matter.

Eventually, Steph presses her cheek to your hair, sways a little like she’s rocking you without even realizing it, and whispers, “Come in, Eli.”

You step inside Stephanie’s house, the door clicking softly shut behind you. The air is warm, thick with the comforting scent of roses and lavender drifting in on a gentle breeze. The windows are open, and so is the back porch door, letting summer spill freely into the room. It feels familiar—like stepping into a memory.

Your eyes drift to the couch, where a tiny figure stirs. A baby boy lies curled beneath a soft blanket, his chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. He has Mitch’s thick dark brown hair and the same gentle crease between his brows, the same pout on his lips when he sleeps. For a long moment, you just stare, frozen in place.

Stephanie follows your gaze and gives a small, tired smile. “That’s Miles,” she says softly. “Miles Daniel Marner. Just a few months old. I had him not long after... well, after William got married again.”

“So you and Mitch… you guys are…?” you manage to whisper, your voice brittle.

“Yeah, we got married in 2023, Eli.” Her eyes glisten, a flicker of sadness hidden beneath the smile.

“Wow. That’s good. I’m happy for you guys,” you say, forcing a smile even though your chest tightens with a strange ache. You’ve always believed there was no more perfect match than Mitch and Steph. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a quiet grief settles — maybe because you planned to be there on her wedding day, to share that moment, to stand beside your best friend. Maybe because you missed her pregnancy, her journey into motherhood. Or maybe because, for once, you want to be selfish and feel the loss of time you can never get back.

Your eyes blink rapidly, unable to look away from the infant. You try to piece together the timeline, the years you lost pressing in around you like a weight. The baby, so new and perfect—and here you are, stepping out of a past that no longer exists.

Stephanie moves closer, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same gentle affection she always showed. “Can I get you something? Water? Juice? Coffee? Anything?”

Your throat feels dry, your voice barely a whisper. “Could you… let my family know I’m here? Tell them I’m safe, but I’m not ready to talk to them yet.”

Without hesitation, Stephanie nods and pulls out her phone, fingers already typing. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

You take a deep, uneven breath, gripping the fabric of your dress as you steel yourself for what’s next. After a brief pause, you ask the question that has burned inside you since you left the hospital. “Stephanie… I need to know. What happened? While I was... gone. The last five years.”

Her face darken with the weight of memories. She breathes slowly, steadying herself before she speaks.

“After your accident…well…William… he was shattered. I’ve never seen him like that before. It was like he lost a part of himself.” Her voice wavers. “I tried to be there for him, but it was so hard. He shut most of us out.”

Steph doesn’t continue right away.

Instead, she lowers herself onto the arm of the couch and, with practiced tenderness, lifts Miles into her arms. Her hand lingers on his back, almost like she’s holding onto a piece of calm. Her fingers tremble slightly, but when she speaks, her voice is steady—measured and honest.

“It was bad, Eli.”

You stay silent.

“After the accident… William fell into this really dark place. Completely shut down. He stopped eating, barely slept. At first, Mitch and I tried to stay with him, but it was like he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t even look at us—just sat in silence, lost. Some days, he’d spend hours at your bedside and never say a word. Just… staring. Like if he looked long enough, maybe you’d wake up.”

You press a hand against your chest. It hurts to imagine. It hurts even more to know you weren’t really gone, just unreachable. Frozen in time while everything around you crumbled.

“There was a stretch,” Steph says softly, “when we thought we might lose him too.”

Your head jerks up. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes meet yours — steady, serious. “Auston found him one night. It was the anniversary of your accident. Will was in the kitchen… and there was a knife on the counter. Aus said maybe it was just for food. But the look in William’s eyes? Scared the hell out of him.”

The air leaves your lungs all at once. The room blurs slightly at the edges. You don’t want to hear this—you can’t picture William like that.

Steph’s voice softens, almost like she’s slipping into a memory. “After that night, we made a plan. Took shifts. Mitch, Auston, his mom—even his sisters flew in. Someone was always with him. We just… couldn’t leave him alone.”

She lets out a quiet breath, her gaze distant. “And it helped. Not right away, but little by little… he started to come back. Piece by piece, he found his way through it.”

“And after that…” your voice is raw, unsteady, “he divorced me.”

Steph flinches. “Yeah. It wasn’t immediate. It took a while. Years, actually. His mom said he kept hoping. But the doctors weren’t giving him hope anymore.”

You close your eyes.

“He stopped visiting you for a bit,” she continues, voice quieter now. “He said it was too painful. Said he couldn’t keep grieving someone who wasn’t allowed to die.”

The words land like a blow — sharp, deep, quiet. You feel something crack in your chest, an invisible fracture splitting wider.

“And her new wife?” you ask, not looking at her. 

Part of you never wants to hear about this woman — but another part aches to know everything. It’s a strange, maddening feeling you can’t shake.

Steph exhales slowly. The baby stirs, sighs, but stays asleep.

“Her name’s Lena. And honestly? She’s not who I expected.” Steph’s voice tightens, a flicker of frustration slipping through. “She’s… too polished. Too perfect. The kind of person who only speaks if she’s sure it sounds beautiful. Like she’s playing a part.” She crinkles her nose, a hint of contempt curling her lips. “She’s a former model, Swedish and works in fashion. They met at some charity for trauma recovery.”

“Trauma recovery?”

Steph lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. She lost her fiancé, apparently. William was drawn to her — like they shared the same language: grief and guilt.”

She shakes her head again, but now with disapproval. “Around her, William isn’t... himself. Everyone else seems to like her — they’re polite, they smile — but me? I’m not buying it.”

Steph leans in a bit, her voice soft like she’s letting you in on something personal. “Showed up in all black at their wedding, by the way. Thought it’d be funny. Almost wore a veil too, but Mitch talked me out of it.”

A sad laugh bubbles up from your throat.

You love her for standing up for you — for both of you. Even if it’s messy, even if it hurts. Somehow, that fierce loyalty feels like a lifeline.

A quiet falls, deep and still.

You can’t tell if your tears are hot or cold anymore. They just are, slipping silently down your face as you stare at your best friend, this baby, this house filled with a life that passed you by.

“I missed everything,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath. “Every single moment.”

Without hesitation, Steph wraps one arm around you, holding you gently but firmly, while cradling little Miles in her other. You lean into her carefully, conscious of the tiny life resting against her chest.

Steph shifts Miles slightly and, with a soft smile, lifts him toward you. “Here, Eli. Hold him.”

You blink, caught off guard for a moment, but still gently take Miles into your arms. Warmth radiating from his tiny body. At first glance, Miles looks just like Mitch—the same dark hair, the same peaceful expression. But as you look closer, you notice the delicate curve of his nose, the shape of his ears—little features that belong to Stephanie.

Your heart twists with a strange mix of joy and sadness as you hold this tiny life, so full of promise, so full of meaning.

“You didn’t choose this,” Steph murmurs, her voice tender. “You didn’t leave us. The world just… kept going, Eli. I know it’s hard, but you still have so much time.”

She chuckles softly and adds, “Sure, you missed my wedding and all that, and yeah, you didn’t get to hold my hair while I was throwing up in the first trimester like we joked about—but hey, you’re here now.”

You manage a small laugh, the heaviness easing just a little.

Steph’s eyes glisten as she leans in, gently resting her forehead against yours. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it wraps around you like a blanket.

“It breaks my heart that you missed all of it,” she says, her breath shaky. “But you’re here, Eli. You’re holding Miles. You can still be the godmother we always dreamed about, remember? The one who spoils him rotten and teaches him how to sneak cookies before dinner.”

You let out a soft, watery laugh.

“You’ll be there when he takes his first steps. When he says his first word. You’ll be the one he runs to with scraped knees and messy drawings. You haven’t lost everything, Eli. There’s still so much waiting for you. So much life left to live.”

You pull back slightly, eyes meeting hers. “But it’s so hard not to look back.”

She brushes your hair away from your face. “I know. But you can’t live in the past. You have a future too, Eli. And there’s so much good waiting for you. Right here, right now.”

[kell9rs]

[literally-irreverent]

Okay so. You're Mitch Marner.

You’re Mitch Marner. Drafted 4th overall by your hometown team— the Toronto maple leafs. An original six team, in the city where hockey is the biggest deal in the world. Hockey players get drafted everywhere, it’s super rare to get to stay where you grew up.

You and Auston Matthews were drafted top 5 back to back years and lauded as the saviors of a team that hadn’t gotten a cup in over 50 years. A team with the most intense, most dedicated fans. You’re friends right away. In his first practice, you send him a pass that he sends into the glass behind the goal, shattering it.

In your rookie year you sing along to Livin’ on a Prayer while on the bench together between play. Bon Jovi tweets about it. You’re a big fucking deal.

You’re gonna save this team! You’re the golden boys of hockey; you’re the best players this team has ever had. The fans love you!

Until, of course, they don’t.

You ask for the max value at salary negotiations. You don’t take a “hometown discount,” you ask for what you’re worth. Fans throw garbage on your lawn, golf balls, merchandise of another team. They call you a traitor, they say you’re dragging the team down. You re-sign with the Leafs, you get what you want, but the city doesn’t forgive you.

Toronto fans are the most intense hockey fans in the world. Fans who cheer you when you win. Fans that boo their native son when you make a mistake: missed shot, turnover, flubbed pass. Toronto media loudly, every day questions whether you should be traded. Whether they’re spending too much money on you. Whether you’re dragging your team down.

You live your dream and every day they try to kill your spirit, make you question yourself. Am I enough? Am I worth it? Am I destroying the thing I love most in the world?

You can’t make it past round one of the playoffs. You win one series in 9 consecutive years of playoff appearances. You don’t put up many goals, you don’t put up enough points.

You become an an Assistant Captain. You don’t win. Auston is named Captain. You don’t win.

It’s been a decade. A decade and nothing to show for it. You’re the happiest guy on the ice, you have a smile that splits your face in half. You’re the golden boy. You’re the sacrificial lamb.

(You and Auston draw smiley faces on your gloves before every game. You remind yourself that this is supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be fun.)

And then, 2025. You’re top of the division in the regular season. You're coming off a fantastic regular season and a Four Nations victory, and your contract is ending. You want to stay—you expect to stay.

You go to the playoffs and win round one in six games; one of those is a terrible loss—an embarrassing 4-0 shutout at home—but you win. You are booed by your own fans, again. You don’t score all series. But your team makes it to the second round.

You win thee first two games against the reigning Stanley Cup Champions; finally, this is it, you think. The Leafs are living up to expectations. A broadcaster starts planning your cup parade on live television. (This is your last chance. Do you know that?)

With the final stretch in sight, your team falls apart. The Florida Panthers trample you; they win the next three. You're booed at home, again in a game 5 loss. You take it back on the road, away from your fans and your building, and you win game 6, decisively. You go home with the taste of victory in your mouth.

Game 7 is the worst game 7 of any team in recent memory. After the 2nd period, you are down 3-0 (this is not a death knell, you have 20 minutes of hockey left). The fans begin to boo. You’re a mess on the ice, all of you. A player on your team payed just over a 5th what you are scores your only goal; the other team scores another within seconds. The booing gets louder. Fans start leaving. There are ten minutes left in the game—anything can happen in ten minutes of playoff hockey. You yell at your team to wake the fuck up.

Then, something happens. A fan throws something on the ice during a stoppage in play, it’s not clear what it is. A ref cleans it up. The dam is broken. A jersey is thrown, then a second, this time during play. Play isn’t stopped, which is a hazard and a mercy. Someone throws a full beer. It stains a third of the defensive zone. Every time you touch the puck, they boo. Loudly. These are your fans. This is your ice in your city and they hate you. They hate you.

(You love them.)

You end the season with your head in your hands. Your coach hasn’t put you on the ice in over five minutes—why would he? It’s not like you were making a difference.

If you leave, you can go anywhere you want— you’re the highest profile player on the free market this year, a generational play-maker. If you leave, they have $10 million dollars to spend on other players next year. Players who can step up when Auston and the rest of the core fall down, instead of falling with them.

You want to stay.

You love Auston—the two of you are still close like you were when you were 19 and carpooling from your parents' houses to practice. He was in your wedding, and he's your Captain. How can you leave him?

You love your team—you have three of the greatest hockey players of all time on the ice with you. How can you leave them?

You can’t imagine living anywhere else, playing for anyone else. This isn’t just your dream, it’s The Dream for every boy that played hockey at any point in the GTA, and that’s most of them. How can you leave?

You think it would be selfish to go, to leave behind the city, the people, that built you, that taught you to dream.

But.

Wouldn't it also be selfish to stay? Taking up all of that cap space, shining in the regular season and dull every moment of the post-season?

You want more than anything to bring the Stanley cup to Toronto— Toronto tells you won’t. They tell you you’re the thing in the way. It's getting hard not to listen.

You’re Mitch Marner, and it’s time to go.

[tonyspep]

IT FINALLY HAPPENED!!! AFTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTERS THEY'RE TOGETHER!!! IM SMILING SO GOOFILY AT MY PHONE AND GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET!!! this was totally worth the wait!!! the way everything blew up and she and auston had to face reality not only with what they did but the reality of them falling for each other and it being real ALL OF THAT WAS WRITTEN SO WELL!!! i absolutely died reading the scene of her having to confess to the wags was so intense and i love how you could feel the energy shift as soon as she walked in. you did such a good job of making us feel that change without describing it too much the dialog said it all. BUT OMG WHEN SHE SEES AUSTON AFTER HE GETS HIT PLEASE AND HOW EVERYONE SAW THE KISS AND THEY KNEW IT WAS REAL JUST SHOOT ME!! but omg omg omg i will absolutely lose it when we find out who the benchwarmer is. again i think it's maya but idk gaaaaaahhhhhhh!!

What's up buttercups ♥️

We’re almost there—the second final chapter of the series. And really, what says true love more than a little cross-checking? Sometimes, a good hit is exactly what it takes to knock sense into our favourite couple 😉

As always, I hope you enjoy the chaos, the emotions, and everything in between. Happy reading, darlings ♥️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language

Word count: 7.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen; Chapter fifteen; Chapter sixteen ; Chapter seventeen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter eighteen: Checkmate

::

“Dearest Toronto,

Did you really think I wouldn’t see it?

That I’d miss the flick of his gaze at the gala? October 20th—mark it, frame it, tattoo it across your chest. The beginning of the greatest performance this city’s seen since 1967.

He touched her waist like they’d rehearsed it. She leaned in like she’d practised the smile. The camera flash caught everything—but so did I. Hidden in the blur of velvet gowns and highball glasses. Just out of sight. Just in reach.

The Queen dressed to impress. The Ice King with his mask of profession. The pose too perfect. The kiss too close. And suddenly, poof—a couple born, headlines drafted, narratives spun tighter than Auston Matthews’ top line.

You didn’t see me then. You never do. But I’ve always been here. Watching. Waiting. Connecting the dots, you tried so hard to keep apart.

Like the physio room kiss—yes, that kiss. Tiled walls. Locker room echo. One jersey sleeve half-off. The air so thick with tension I nearly choked on it through a wall. You think security cameras miss things? I don’t. I see everything.

Or that morning she left his building in a hoodie three sizes too big—for those playing along. You really think that kind of domesticity hides well behind tinted windows?

There’s a pattern here, Toronto. A pulse.

From the first dog walk. Felix leading, Auston trailing, our Queen looking a little too comfortable for someone “new” to his life. No paps, no press. Just one woman—me—with a long lens and an excellent sense of timing. Oh, and my little songbirds of course. They never fail me. Feeding me with just enough content to continue the saga. 

Then the first game night. WAG suite. Pink lipstick. One laugh too loud when the Leafs scored. Auston on the ice, but eyes in the crowd. Don’t believe me? Zoom in on Getty Image #374920. Third row. That look? It’s not part of the playbook.

Next one? She meets the team. Post-game hallway banter. Mitch chirping. Nylander watching too closely. A brushed knuckle here. A muttered “you did good” there. The play was still on. But so was something else.

Moving on – The first kiss. In his car after that dinner in Ossington. Fogged windows. Fingers twisted. A moment too raw to be scripted. And yet—they both kept pretending.

Pretending so well it became real. That’s the cruel twist, isn’t it?

They thought they were playing me. Or you. Or maybe just the media. A neat little PR stunt to distract from October losses and career plateaus. One well-timed gala appearance, and suddenly she’s the face in every crowd shot, every recap.

But it was me who made people look at you. Me who whispered into inboxes, stirred the speculation, sharpened the angles. You’re welcome.

Because without me? She’s just a ghost in corporate heels. He’s just a player riding a streak. Together? They’re a story. My story.

You think the photos leaked themselves? You think the sauna scene—the record—just magically found its way onto gossip threads? No, darling. That was surveillance. And not the government kind.

There was the family dinner—hers. The stiff posture at the table. Her mother dissecting Auston like he was under lab glass. The moment she touched his thigh beneath the tablecloth. You think love looks like roses and violins? No. It looks like fear and fire under flickering chandelier light.

His low games. Her first viral photo with another man—Ryan. Coincidence? Maybe. But Auston’s post-game stats dropped harder than his jaw in that parking garage.

The charity event aftermath. Her hands shaking when she thought no one was looking. His fingers brushing hers like they were still on stage. The kiss they shared behind the curtains when the crowd clapped for someone else.

And now? Now the illusion fractures.

Because someone finally asked: what’s real and what’s marketing? Was it ever love—or was it leverage?

Well, let me ask you this:

If the kiss in the tunnel wasn’t real…

If the breakfast with Ema wasn’t real…

If the sauna, the physio room, the car kiss, the hallway breakdown, the post-game tension, the WAG suite laughter, the ice-pack apology, the bruised-knuckle defence, the borrowed hoodie, the crying-in-the-dark honesty—if all of that wasn’t real…

Then why did he punch a man in front of his teammates to protect her?

Why did she keep coming to the rink like her heart had forgotten what fake meant?

You can’t rehearse that kind of reaction.

You can’t PR-spin a bloodied lip and a whispered thank you’s.

And yet, despite it all—they should be thanking me.

I gave them the audience. The stage. The lights. I curated the myth and fed it just enough truth to keep you salivating. They basked in the glow of the fire I started.

And now they’re crying about the burn. Poor unfortunate souls…

Every queen’s gambit leads to one final play.

And this? This is Checkmate.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

_

Wednesday –

You woke to the sound of chaos—not a fire alarm or sirens, but the insistent, endless thrill of your phone buzzing against the nightstand like it was possessed.

6:41 a.m.

You blinked against the pale morning light; body tangled in sheets you didn’t remember curling into. For a split second, everything was still normal. Quiet. Warm. Then you rolled over, picked up your phone, and saw the screen:

91 unread messages. 84 missed calls. 321 app notifications.

Twitter. Instagram. X. Threads. Slack. Even LinkedIn.

Your heart skipped once. Then twice. Then dropped.

The first text was from Jess.

Jess: Call me. Now.

The second from Maya.

Maya: Um. Holy shit. Are you okay??

The third—

Unknown Number: You’re trending. And not in a good way.

You didn’t have to ask why. Your thumb hovered over Safari, over Instagram. But in the end, it was the Twitter feed—no, X feed now, whatever—that gave you the truth.

#Fakemance

#MatthewsPRGirlfriend

#TheBenchwarmerWasRight

There were screenshots everywhere. Blurry photos. Grainy captures. Comment sections filled with popcorn emojis and armchair analysts combing through your life like it was an unsolved crime.

📸 Gala: You in that outfit. Auston’s hand on your waist. That smile.

📸 WAG Suite: You laughing too hard at something Stephanie said. Auston glancing up at you mid-shift.

📸 Physio Room Rumour: A shot from the side of a hallway. Half a doorframe. Half a jersey. A knowing caption.

“She wasn’t even trying to hide it lmao.”

“He’s definitely in on it. Look at the hand placement.”

“They think we’re blind??”

 And then the ones that weren’t supposed to exist.

One of you slipping out of Auston’s condo. Hoodie-draped. Sleep-flattened hair.

One of the sauna, the corner of your leg—pixelated, cropped, and horrifyingly recognisable.

One of the tunnel, the kiss after Utah. 

Your stomach twisted so violently you sat straight up.

The captions were merciless.

“Staged? Or the worst PR move in hockey history?”

“I love a fake dating trope as much as the next girl, but this ain’t Wattpad.”

“Hope it was worth it. What a loser.”

Instagram comment sections beneath your last work post had turned toxic overnight. Threads dissected your entire timeline, quoting articles, cross-referencing dates. People had matched your outfits to game days, linked you to Auston’s road schedule, theorised about “strategic PDA” and “media manipulation.”

The most viral thread?

A side-by-side of your gala photo and a still of Auston defending you against Chase. The caption read:

“From fake to fists. You can’t write this shit.”

You stood abruptly, nearly knocking over your water glass. The room blurred. Your breathing went shallow.

This wasn’t a rumour anymore. This wasn’t Benchwarmer snark. This was blood in the water—and you were the headline.

So, naturally, you called in sick.

Voice hoarse. Apology half-mumbled. You didn’t even fake a cough. Just said, “Something’s come up,” and hung up before they could ask questions. You barely made it to the bathroom before the nausea hit.

You sat on the cold tile floor, clutching your phone, watching your own life implode in 144-character bursts. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was certain. And worst of all—someone had seen things they should never have seen.

How did they know about the physio room?

The sauna? The goddamn hallway after the event?

That angle from Auston’s parking garage… how—

Your thoughts spiralled faster than you could control them.

It wasn’t just that the relationship had become complicated. It was that someone had been watching from the start.

Someone who knew where you’d be. When. With whom. Someone who hadn’t just guessed. They’d followed. Your name wasn’t just trending. It was dissected.

Every decision. Every outfit. Every word. Your professionalism was called into question. Your ethics. Your reputation.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes. You blinked them away. Fast. Fierce. You couldn’t cry. Not yet.

Instead, you crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over your head like they could shield you from the noise, and let yourself whisper the one question you were afraid to ask out loud:

“How long have they been there?”

And the even worse one:

“What do they want next?”

Because this wasn’t a ripple anymore. It was a flood. And you were drowning in it.

_

You almost didn’t show up.

You’d stared at your phone for hours, Jess’s texts unread, the group chat with Aryne, Stephanie, and Estelle hovering like a loaded gun. The last message had been Aryne’s.

Aryne: Some of us are in the lounge before the guys fly out. Thought you might want to say something…

No exclamation mark. No emojis. Just that.

So, you came.

The lounge was quieter than usual—muted televisions droning over SportsCentre highlights, the low hum of conversation trailing off the moment the door clicked shut behind you. You stepped in slowly, every pair of eyes lifting and turning.

Burning.

The room smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and leftover coffee. Light pooled through the skylight above the velvet sofas, casting long shadows on the tile. Sanna sat on the arm of a chair, Stephanie perched upright across from her, Aryne leaning against the counter by the kitchenette. Tessa held her baby tighter than usual, and Estelle didn’t look up at all.

Silence spread like fire.

You opened your mouth, but then closed it again.

But then Stephanie stood with arms crossed, heels clicking against the wooden floor. Her tone was cold. Almost too level. “How long were you going to lie to us?”

Your throat tightened. “I wasn’t lying. I just… didn’t know how to explain. It started out as—”

“A PR stunt,” Tessa cut in, arms folded. “Yeah. We read the blogs.”

Her eyes were sharp, but there was hurt there, too. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just betrayal—sharp-edged and quiet.

“You made us look stupid,” she said flatly. “We defended you. Every time someone said something shitty online. Every time a rumour came up. We backed you.”

Aryne’s jaw was tight. She didn’t speak. Just sipped her water and looked away.

You stepped forward, hands shaking slightly at your sides. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far. I didn’t plan for it to be… whatever it turned into. We both thought it would be short-term. Strategic. Nothing personal.”

“But it did turn personal,” Stephanie said, still standing, still studying you like she was watching something crack open. “Didn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. So, you just nodded.

“It became a mess,” you whispered. “And by then… it was already too late.”

A heavy beat passed before Estelle stood and tucked her phone into her bag. She didn’t say a word as she simply walked out.

Then Aryne. She hesitated just long enough to give you a look—not cruel, not cutting. Just exhausted.

“I liked you,” she murmured. “Still do. But you broke the rule.”

Your brows furrowed. “What rule?”

She gestured around the room. “This. The trust. You don’t fake your way into it. You earn it. And if you don’t… you leave the rest of us exposed.”

Then she followed Estelle out, slow and deliberate.

Tessa leaned back and exhaled through her nose. “You know what hurts the most?”

You waited.

“I wanted you to be different.”

And just like that, one by one, the others drifted off—Sanna with a soft shake of her head, a few awkward murmurs from newer girlfriends you barely knew. Only Stephanie remained.

She studied you for a long moment, expression unreadable, before she said, “The worst part is it’s not even the fake dating. He’s done that tons of times. It’s that you didn’t trust us enough to say something.”

“I didn’t trust myself,” you said quietly. “It all got… so real so fast, and I didn’t want to screw it up.”

Stephanie’s laugh was hollow. “Too late.”

You nodded. “I know.”

She finally turned toward the door but paused just before leaving. “You might win him in the end. That happens in stories like this.”

Then she looked back at you, eyes colder than before.

“But don’t expect all of us to clap when you do.”

And then she was gone.

You were left alone in the lounge, standing in the fading light, the silence settling around you like ash.

It wasn’t the words that broke your heart. It was the absence.

The women you’d once joked with. Sat beside. Shared nail colours and spa drinks and side-line whispers with. You’d been one of them—or at least, it had started to feel that way.

But now? The door had closed.

And for the first time since all this began, you weren’t sure if it would open again.

_

The Panther’s training rink was empty.

Just the echo of pucks ricocheting off iron and the dull thud of Auston’s stick against the ice. He hadn’t counted how many shots he’d taken—just knew that the more he fired, the less it hurt. Until it didn’t work anymore. Until his breath came fast and hot in his throat and his knuckles ached from clenching the stick too tight.

He was the last one off the ice. By design.

Skates still in, shoulders heavy, jersey sticking to his skin, as he shoved open the door into the locker room expecting silence.

But he didn’t get it.

Waiting just inside the locker room were Mitch, John, William, and Morgan.

No gear. No smiles. No banter.

Just four teammates with crossed arms and tired eyes. There were no jokes. No chirps. Just the heaviness of something none of them wanted to say—but all of them needed to.

Auston slowed, skates echoing against the floor. “If this is about practice, I stayed late to prep for the game. That’s all.”

“It’s not about that,” Mitch said, flat and cold, before William added 

“We saw it, man. All of it.”

Morgan gave a low whistle. “You’re trending higher than the team account.”

John didn’t crack a smile. “Is it true?”

Auston’s shoulders twitched. “Which part?”

“That it was fake,” John said, voice even. “That the whole relationship was a stunt.”

Mitch stepped forward. “Because we’ve been out here defending you. To reporters. To the partners. Telling everyone this wasn’t some PR bullshit again. That this time—it was real.”

There was an edge in Mitch’s voice Auston hadn’t heard in a long time. Not since juniors.

“You really let her use you like that?” William said, quieter. But sharper. Like it hurt to ask.

The words stung like a slap, causing Auston to blink. “What?”

“You think we don’t know how this looks?” Morgan asked. “She got headlines. Press. A nice little career glow-up. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

Auston’s chest ignited, breath flaring sharp through his nose.

“You think she used me?” His voice pitched higher. Rough, almost wounded.

Mitch raised his palms. “Look, it looks bad. Especially after today. People think you got played.”

Auston rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?” He took a step forward. “You really think I didn’t know?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, with a breath like a match-strike:

“It was my fucking idea!”

The words dropped like a puck in overtime. No one moved.

He ran a hand through his damp curls, throat tight. “After the gala—I pitched it. I planned it. I asked her to act. Not the other way around.”

John blinked. “You’re saying—”

“I started it,” Auston said. “I needed to clean up the headlines. She was just trying to help. One week. Maybe two. Then… things changed.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you just tell us, man?” Mitch asked confused. 

“Because I was fucking embarrassed,” Auston snapped. “Another fake relationship? I just couldn’t. Didn’t know how… cause this time, I lost control. And I didn’t know how to fix it without breaking everything.”

“But,” William let out a long breath. “You’ve done this before. We all have.”

Auston shook his head. “Not like this.”

Then John’s voice cut through. “Because she’s different.”

And Auston didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. He just swallowed; throat thick. “Yeah. She is.”

The room held still. No one sat. Even the fluorescent lights seemed to wait.

Then Morgan crossed his arms tighter. “Then say it.”

Auston blinked. “Say what?”

“That you’re in love with her,” William said almost with a light chuckle. 

But Auston looked away.

“Hey, we saw it,” John continued. “How you looked at her. At games. In the hallway. Believe me, it stopped being fake for you a long time ago.”

Mitch nodded. “And it sure as hell wasn’t fake when you threw a punch for her.”

Auston’s voice cracked. “I didn’t think. Chase cornered her. He humiliated her. And I just snapped.”

“No,” John said quietly. “You told the truth.”

Auston’s mouth opened, then closed again. He sat, elbows on knees, head bowed.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said, voice hollow. “It was supposed to be easy. Some PR fix. But then she started showing up. Asking questions, I wasn’t used to answering. Talking to my mom. And… then she wasn’t just part of the plan anymore. She was the plan.”

He paused and swallowed hard.

“She made me feel like more than a headline. More than the ‘Ice King.’ And I didn’t know how to go back.”

There was a moment of silence again.

Then Mitch stepped closer. “Hey, we’re not mad you caught feelings, man.”

“We’re mad you didn’t trust us with it,” Morgan added.

“You’re our captain,” John said. “We cover your blind side. On the ice. And off it, too.”

“And when the story blew up, it looked like you left us behind,” Morgan said. “Like we were just side characters in your next little PR drama.”

Auston looked up, eyes rimmed red. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“We know,” Mitch said, as they all nodded. Like they’d already forgiven him a long time ago. 

But then William spoke again. “So… what now?”

Auston exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. She’s not answering. Everyone’s pissed. The media’s killing her.”

He stood. Slow and heavy. “I don’t want it to be like that for her.”

Mitch arched a brow, his voice dry but with a flicker of his usual charm. “So… you are in love with her?”

Auston didn’t answer. Just breathed in hard through his nose.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t need to. Because his silence said it all.

“Damn,” Mitch muttered. “That bad, eh?”

“Like, bad-bad,” William said with a deep chuckle.

“Shit,” Morgan breathed, laughing lightly. 

But it was John who held his gaze. Calm and direct. The way former leaders speak to each other when the noise falls away.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said. “We already know.”

Auston blinked, throat closing as he nodded gently.

“But the problem is,” John added, “I’m not sure if she does.”

_

The hotel room was too quiet.

Muted city lights leaked in through the curtains. The hum of the HVAC unit filled the silence, but it did nothing to drown out the noise in Auston’s head. He sat on the edge of the bed, still in his team sweats, muscles aching from practice, film review, and the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

Dinner with the guys had been quick. Awkward. No one brought up the blogs or the kiss or the fight in the hallway—but he could feel it hovering there, just behind the laughter, between bites of steak and stats talk. A presence. Like smoke.

Now he was back in his room, alone, slippers on his feet, laptop balanced on his thighs as the screen glowed against his tired face.

A video call rang once. Twice. Then connected.

“Hola, mijo.”

Ema’s face filled the screen, soft lighting behind her. She was in the kitchen back in Arizona, cardigan sleeves pushed up, a tea towel draped over one shoulder. Brian stood behind her, arms folded, eyes serious. Bree leaned into frame from the edge, chin propped on her hand, phone forgotten beside her.

“You look tired,” Ema said gently.

Auston ran a hand over his jaw. “I am.”

There was a pause before Brian spoke. “We read everything, son. We saw the video of the punch. And… The comments...”

“Yeah.” Auston looked down at his feet. “I figured.”

“You going to explain it to us,” Ema asked, “or do we have to guess like everyone else?”

He exhaled, long and low. “It just started as a lie,” he admitted. “After the gala. I pitched the whole thing to her. PR clean-up. Nothing real. Just a distraction for the media.”

Ema didn’t say anything. Neither did Brian. But Bree raised her eyebrows. “And now?”

“Now it’s a disaster I can’t walk away from,” Auston muttered.

Ema’s tone was softer. “You care about her.”

“Yeah.”

Bree sat up a little straighter. Her voice was quiet, but clear. “Was any of it real?”

The question hit harder than he expected. Auston blinked, his chest tightening.

“All of it,” he said. “I just didn’t realise how real until I’d already messed it up.”

On screen, Ema moved into view a little more, closer to the camera. “You lied to your team. To the press. To us.”

“I know.”

“And to yourself.”

“Well…” His voice was rough. “Yeah…”

Bree leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “So what now?”

“I don’t know if she’ll talk to me again.”

“Then don’t talk,” Ema said simply. “Show her.”

Auston looked up at the screen. “How?”

Ema smiled faintly. “You’ve always known how to make people watch, mijo. But this time—make her feel it too.”

He swallowed hard. Nodded once.

The video feed flickered slightly as Bree sat back again. “The whole internet knows you’re in love with her,” she said. “Except the one person who actually matters.”

“I don’t have a playbook for this,” Auston said quietly.

“Then stop playing,” Brian said. 

Auston stared at them. His family, tired but still showing up, even through a screen.

And for the first time in days, he felt something shift—not clarity, not yet. But a direction. Because maybe it wasn’t about fixing the mess anymore. Maybe it was about proving that even when it started with a lie—what came after didn’t have to be.

_

Thursday –

The office felt colder than usual. Not in temperature—though the AC was humming, as always—but in the way people looked at you when the lift doors opened, and you stepped out.

Or rather, the way they didn’t.

No one made eye contact. No one greeted you. Not even the usual half-hearted nods from reception or the tight-lipped smile from Lisa, who always offered you a second coffee when hers brewed.

Today? She didn’t even glance up from her screen.

The open-plan layout felt like a minefield—eyes flicking up and away just as fast, hushed whispers trailing behind you as you walked the corridor towards your desk. You kept your shoulders square, your chin lifted, even as your skin burned with awareness.

Your badge didn’t beep right away at the glass security door. It stalled. Finally clicked open on the third try.

Figures.

You made it halfway through the bullpen before a voice called your name.

“Conference room. Now.”

You didn’t need to turn to know it was Mr. Mansion. You just followed.

The door shut behind you with a weighty click. Mr. Mansion stood by the window, arms folded, back rigid. His usually flushed face was pale with controlled fury.

He didn’t offer a seat.

“You’ve put shame on this company.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I didn’t intend—” you started.

“Intent doesn’t matter. Outcome does.” He turned then, eyes blazing behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Your name is trending again. But not for a campaign win. Not for a media scoop. But because of an orchestrated relationship with one of the most high-profile clients we’ve ever represented!”

“It wasn’t supposed to be—”

He cut you off with a raised hand. “It doesn’t matter what it was supposed to be. The optics are disastrous. For you. For him. And most importantly—for us.”

You stood straighter. “I’ve still done my job. I’ve delivered on every brief. Every pitch.”

He laughed, cold and humourless. “Oh, trust me, you’re not being fired. The optics of that would be even worse. No, you’ll keep your title. Keep your badge. But you’re off every major account effective immediately.”

“What?” Your voice cracked.

“You’ll move to a support role. Internal content and copy. Desk-bound.”

“But—”

“And you’ll keep your head down,” he said, voice tightening. “No media. No statements. No further ‘appearances.’ Understood?”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded.

It had all backfired… big time.

He turned back to the window, dismissing you with a flick of his wrist. “Close the door on your way out.”

You walked back through the bullpen like a ghost, numb and weightless. And when you reached your desk, you found a small stack of folders with your name scrawled in pen. A sticky note read: Internal transfer begins Monday. New seat: 4B.

You were being shuffled. Quietly exiled.

And of course—of course—Chase was waiting. Propped against the partition with that smug, unbothered smirk. One foot crossed over the other. A fresh suit. A phone in his hand, already buzzing.

“Rough morning?” he asked innocently.

You didn’t answer. You were too busy holding back tears.

He grinned wider. “I’m doing a piece with The Star this afternoon. They want my ‘perspective on professional boundaries in PR.’ Isn’t that rich?”

You clenched your fists.

“Don’t worry,” he said, tapping his phone. “I’ll make sure your name isn’t technically mentioned. Just enough breadcrumbs for people to know.”

You stared at him. “Why are you doing this?”

He tilted his head. “Because you got the story. And the guy. And then you thought no one would notice.”

He walked away before you could reply. But he was wrong. They had noticed. All of them.

And the cost was just beginning.

_

The following days you stopped answering texts.

The group chats dulled into silence on your end—threads that once buzzed with hockey and girl gossip, outfit photos, and inside jokes now sat unopened at the top of your screen. Jess messaged you four times a day. Then twice. Then once. Then not at all.

You left her on read every time.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to her. You did. Desperately. But what could you even say?

Sorry I faked a relationship.Sorry it stopped being fake.Sorry it became real and ruined everything.

So instead, you disappeared.

You stopped walking past mirrors. The sight of yourself—drained, dull-eyed, and shadowed by shame—was harder to face than the headlines. You dressed in oversized hoodies and leggings, hair unwashed, makeup untouched. Dishes piled in the sink. Laundry remained in the basket. The curtains stayed drawn.

Your only companions were the muted hum of the fridge and the flicker of late-night sports recaps playing quietly on the television. Because you watched the games.

Of course, you did.

Auston was on the road—two away games, back-to-back in Florida.

And he played like a man possessed.

He didn’t smile when he scored. Didn’t fist bump his linemates. Didn’t even glance toward the bench after a clean assist. Just skated through the motions like they were the only things keeping him standing.

He looked like you felt.

Empty. Cold. Unravelling by inches.

You sat curled up on the sofa, a blanket pulled to your chin, fingers tight around a mug that had long gone cold. The game played on, volume low, Auston’s face flickering across the screen like a ghost.

And in the dark, you whispered the truth you hadn’t said out loud.

“I miss you.”

_

“Hiding in the dark while he bleeds on the road?

I thought you were stronger than that.

Or has the Queen fallen completely—and it’s only the King still standing?

You’re making this game almost too easy.” – The Benchwarmer”

_

Jess showed up on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

No warning. No text. Just three sharp knocks on the door until you cracked it open in your hoodie and joggers, your face pale, bare, and puffy from sleep—or crying.

She stood in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, rain still clinging to the ends of her curls.

“You look like shit,” she said flatly.

You simply looked at her. “Thanks. It’s a new fashion trend.”

Jess pushed past you into the flat, boots squeaking slightly on the floor. “You hiding doesn’t make this shit better.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are. You ghosted every person who gave a damn, work from home, and haven’t left your flat in what—four days?”

You sighed. “Jess—”

“No.” She turned on you, arms folded. “Do you even know what people are saying about you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit. You care more than anyone I know.”

You moved past her and sat heavily on the edge of the couch. Jess studied you for a moment, then crossed the room and dropped onto the coffee table in front of you.

“I read the new Benchwarmer post,” Jess then said.

Your stomach knotted. “I thought they’d stopped.”

“They had,” she replied. “Until this morning.”

You looked up, throat tightening. “What did it say?”

Jess hesitated. “Nothing new, technically. But… it felt different. Less snarky, more personal. Like the writer knows you.”

A cold weight settled in your chest. “What do you mean—knows me?”

“I mean they know you,” she said softly. “Your background, your work stuff, family stuff. Little things—memories, habits, insecurities. Stuff that feels… intimate. As if you’d told them yourself.”

You sucked in a breath. “But why would someone do that?”

Jess shrugged. “Maybe jealousy. Maybe resentment. Maybe they think you got something they deserved. Or maybe they just thought it was fun.” 

Your thoughts churned, trying to make sense of it. “Still… how would they know about all of it? All the details, like literally everything. Things I’ve only told…well…”

Jess’s gaze drifted around the room, scanning the clutter. But then her eyes paused on your everyday handbag, slouched by the couch. And her expression shifted. Then she stood and crossed the room.

“Wait,” she murmured, reaching into the side zip.

She leaned down, searched the bag for a few minutes before she unzipped the side pouch, and pulled something small and silver from the lining.

“What the fuck is this?”

You blinked. “What?”

Jess held it up. A tiny microphone.

Your blood ran cold.

“I’ve seen this bag everywhere with you,” she said slowly. “Arena. Work. Games. That girls’ night last month.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t put that in there,” you said, throat dry.

“Me neither,” Jess looked at you sharply. “But someone planted it.”

You nodded.

“Fuck,” she said sharply, though her expression remained taut. She set the mic down gently, like it might explode.

You both stared at it.

Jess exhaled. “So, this is bigger than we thought.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Fuck… I need to figure this shit out somehow.”

“Well, you don’t figure it out by spiralling alone,” she said. “You start by remembering who the fuck you are.”

—

Saturday -

You showed up late.

The elevator ride had been silent but suffocating, each floor ding echoing louder than your heartbeat. You could already hear it—muffled roars from the lower bowl, rising in waves that rattled through the concrete foundation of Scotiabank Arena. It wasn’t a game anymore—it was a battlefield.

And you were walking in like an intruder.

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile hiss, revealing the private suite cloaked in blue and white shadows. The hum of anticipation filled the air, thick with tension and unspoken things. You stepped forward, slow and unsure, your breath shallow, nerves scraping raw. The door clicked shut behind you with a soft, unforgiving finality.

And every head turned.

Estelle. Aryne. Stephanie. Sanna. Tessa. Alice. 

All seated in a loose row near the glass, drinks forgotten, backs straight. Like queens in a quiet tribunal. Their eyes weren’t on the ice anymore. They were on you.

Judging. Watching. Yet waiting.

You’d dressed your best tonight. The kind of outfit and make-up that felt good. Made you feel good. Confidence even. 

You took a few slow steps forward, throat tight, the suite lights suddenly too harsh, your coat suddenly too warm. You offered the smallest smile—a pale, worn-out thing. A peace offering. A white flag.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, voice thin, cracking at the edges.

No one answered at first.

It was Tessa who spoke, bouncing her baby slightly on her lap without looking at you. Her voice was quiet—low and sharp, like a knife slid carefully between ribs. “Better late than never.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak yet. Not trusting them to listen.

“I know,” you said softly, humbly. “And… again, I’m really sorry. About everything.”

Tessa shifted the baby to one arm and looked up. Really looked at you. Her eyes weren’t cruel, but they were tired. Tired in the way people get when they’ve defended someone, they wish they hadn’t.

“We know,” she said. “We just need you to suffer a bit more.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You swallowed the apology sitting behind your teeth. You’d already said it enough. Anymore and it would sound rehearsed.

So instead, you stayed silent.

The air between you thickened. A single beat passed. Then another.

Stephanie finally turned slightly; eyes unreadable. Her voice was neutral, almost too smooth. “Come on. The game’s about to begin.”

She gestured to the open seat in the second row near the back, just one step removed from the group. Still close—but not quite with them.

You nodded once and slipped into the chair, legs trembling beneath you. Jess was there right behind you, her coat still on, her hands folded tight in her lap. And as you sat, her arm brushed against yours.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She just reached out and gave your hand a soft squeeze.

A quiet thaw.

Then the puck dropped.

The game started hard—no warmup, no easing into it. Washington came out swinging, aggressive from the first shift. Bodies slammed against boards. Blades carved into the ice like knives. Passes were fast and brutal. The kind of hockey that didn’t breathe. It roared.

The Leafs struggled to settle, their rhythm off. Missed passes. Mistimed hits. Tension coiled tighter with every line change.

And by the end of the second period, they were down by two.

Still, no one in the suite spoke. Not really. They watched in silence. Sipped their drinks, arms folded. Eyes flitting from the ice to the jumbotron to their phones and back again. Every time Auston hit the ice, the suite seemed to collectively hold its breath.

You did too.

He was skating hard. Sharp. Like he had something to prove. Like the only way to outrun the headlines was to leave them in his wake.

And then—third period. 7:12 on the clock.

You felt it before you saw it. Some shift in the air. A ripple of unease, like the ice itself knew what was coming.

Auston picked up speed through the neutral zone, cutting left, weaving through defenders like smoke. The puck stuck to his blade like it belonged there.

Then—

Crack.

The hit came from behind.

Blindside. Elbow high. Shoulder first. Full force into the numbers.

You didn’t process it at first. Just a blur of movement—a shape colliding with Auston, and then…

The sound hit a second later—a sickening crack against the boards that vibrated through the glass and up into your chest.

Then he crumpled. And your heart stopped.

The arena erupted. Screams. Gasps. A thousand voices raised in chaos. Two rows down, someone knocked over a full beer, the cup tumbling and rolling like a forgotten afterthought.

The whistle blew, sharp and urgent, and the ref’s arm shot up. Ten-minute major for game misconduct.

But Auston didn’t get up. He didn’t move at all.

The jumbotron cut to a close-up—his helmet slightly askew, mouthguard half-out. His body twisted in a way that nobody should bend. Motionless.

And then… nothing.

No sound. No movement. The air drained from the building, sucked out in one collective breath that never came back.

It was like someone had muted the world. Everything came in slow motion, like a Hollywood movie in motion. 

Even the baby in Tessa’s arms stopped fussing.

You could feel it in your teeth. In your skin. That kind of cold buzz that comes right before grief. 

The seconds stretched as trainers ran onto the ice.

Still, he didn’t move.

You felt your blood boiling. Your heart suddenly pounded fast and hard in your chest. Tears were pressing on as it became harder and harder to breathe. 

It wasn’t just Auston Matthews, the athlete, the captain, the headline, lying there anymore.

It was him. Yours. 

Whether you were ready to admit it or not.

Your fingers dug into the armrest of your seat; knuckles bone white. You couldn’t feel your legs. Couldn’t hear the crowd anymore. Only the blood rushing in your ears, and Jess whispering your name.

“He’s okay,” she said. Barely a whisper. “He’s okay.”

But you couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think.

Your stomach twisted so violently it felt like it might rise in your throat. Panic licked at the edges of your vision. You wanted to scream but you couldn’t.

Then the stretcher came out. They were already strapping him down—neck brace, leg stabilised, arms secured. And then—his glove twitched.

Just once. A breath. A heartbeat. A sign.

But it wasn’t enough.

That was the moment something in you snapped.

You didn’t think, you just moved.

The seat scraped behind you. The door to the suite opened with a hard click, and you stepped through before anyone could stop you.

You didn’t look back. Didn’t see Aryne blink and stare at her drink. Didn’t see Stephanie sit forward, her nails tapping the armrest. Didn’t see the way Tessa leaned into Estelle, murmuring a soft, “Fuck.”

You didn’t see Jess stand a beat later, her eyes locked on the exit.

You just ran. Down the hallway. Past the catering table. Past the press box, the VIP signs, the branded corridors you once walked.

Now, it was just you.

You. And the tunnel. And the sickening fear that you were about to lose someone that mattered most.

_

The world spun—quietly, slowly—on an axis that had nothing to do with gravity and everything to do with the man in front of you.

The room was too bright. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a soft, relentless hum. The scent of menthol, sweat, and metal filled the space—sharp and sterile, but beneath it… something else. Something aching. Something like heartbreak, hanging thick in the air.

Auston lied on the medical table, half in his gear, half stripped down. His jersey hung off one shoulder, sweat-soaked and wrinkled, clinging to him in patches. One sock was still bunched around his ankle, and a bruise was already blooming ugly and purple across his torso. A shallow cut sliced across his cheekbone, the skin-tight around it from the swelling.

But the real damage wasn’t in the bruises or the ice packs.

It was in his posture.

Rigid. Guarded. Like one wrong breath would crack the armour he was holding together with sheer force of will.

He noticed you the same moment you saw him. But his gaze didn’t soften. His body didn’t ease. He just blinked once, slow and unreadable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and rough, just staring into the ceiling.

You stood in the doorway, still gripping the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the floor. “You’re hurt.”

He scoffed under his breath, jaw tightening. “So?” His eyes flicked toward the wall. “Just, please go. I look like shit.”

“I don’t care,” you said, the words steadier than you felt. “I needed to see for myself. Make sure you’re okay.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t answer for a beat, then said, quieter—but not kinder, “Why do you even care?”

He looked at you now. Sharp and tired. “The deal’s over, right?”

You flinched.

He didn’t apologise.

“Look,” he said again, slightly lifting his hands as if he wanted to express something more. “Just go. This isn’t how I want you to see me. Not like this.” His voice cracked a little. “Beaten up. Pathetic.”

But you stepped forward anyway, shoes soft against the tile. “You think I care about how you look?” You stopped just shy of him. “You’re lying here with a target on your back and a concussion protocol waiting—and you’re worried about how you look?”

“I’m worried about you seeing me like this,” he snapped.

There it was. The edge. The heat beneath everything else.

You stared at him, but then he continued.  

“Why did you come down here?” he asked, quieter this time. “Why come now, after ignoring me all week?”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

So instead, you walked closer. Sat down beside him, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Like if you moved too fast, he might shatter.

For a moment, he didn’t move. But then, you reached for his hand. And he didn’t pull away.

You laced your fingers with his, felt the tension in his grip—the way his hand trembled slightly against yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For all of it. Ignoring you. Ryan. Chase. The distance. The fucking mess.”

Silence bloomed thick between you. You felt the tears pressing on, allowed one to roll down your cheek, but held back the flood. 

Then he exhaled, the sound sharp and bitter.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “All of it. The lies. The headlines. The way it went so far and out of control.”

You nodded, looking anywhere else but directly at him, as another tear ran down your face . “Me too.”

His jaw clenched. “I’ve been trying not to think about you. Trying to focus. Trying to be the guy everyone still believes I am.”

You looked down at your hands, still threaded together. “And how’s that working out?”

He laughed—just once. A hollow, broken sound. “Terribly.”

His voice dropped. “You’re in everything. The playlist I drive to. The hallway outside the locker room. My apartment. My bed. You’re everywhere.”

He turned his head slightly. “I close my eyes, and I see you. I feel you. I want to kiss you so fucking bad it hurts.”

The words struck something inside you, raw and aching.

“And how do you think I feel?” you asked, barely louder than a breath as your eyes then returned to him. “Watching you get torn apart on every screen, every thread. People thinking, I used you—like it was all just my play.”

He looked at you again. Really looked. And something broke open behind his eyes. Something that had been sealed too tight for too long.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I know. I never meant for it to—”

You stopped. Let the moment stretch. But then, you knew you could keep it in any more. Couldn’t choke it down. You had to say it. 

“I never meant to fall in love with you.”

The words rang out between you like a bell in an empty cathedral.

Auston didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “But you did?” he asked, voice catching.

You nodded again. “Yeah.”

His face softened. Just slightly. “Good,” he simply murmured.

You blinked again. “Good?”

“Yeah…” he said with a deep breath. “Because I don’t think I can keep pretending anymore. I’ve been trying to play it cool. Trying to act like I’m still in control of this. But I’m not.”

He looked down. Then back up.

“I’m fucking crazy about you. And I don’t want to make that smaller just because it’s inconvenient.”

Your throat closed. Words were stuck as your mind went 100 miles an hour. All you could do was to give in to instincts. To allow your gut and emotions to guide you. So, you leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t scripted. It was soft, slightly desperate, and it was real.

Your hands sliding into his hair, his finding the back of your neck like muscle memory. The salt on his lips. The heat beneath your skin. The ache in both of you—finally, finally let out.

And when you pulled away, the world stayed still.

Your foreheads rested together; breaths caught between your mouths. His hand intertwined with your hair. Yours clutched the hem of his jersey like letting go would make this moment less real.

It was a moment with no words yet filled with everything unspoken. 

You didn’t even hear the footsteps. Didn’t notice the hush that had fallen just outside the doorway.

You just stayed right there—in the warmth of Auston’s touch, in the shaky rhythm of a kiss that had undone everything you were pretending not to feel.

You stayed in the moment. With him.

But they had seen it all. All of them.

Mitch. William. Morgan. John. Stephanie. Aryne. Tessa.

Standing just far enough to be polite, just close enough to witness everything. The way your bodies leaned together like you belonged. The rawness in Auston’s eyes. The way he didn’t flinch when you rested his forehead against his again.

They didn’t need to speak. They didn’t need to guess. Because they saw the truth. And then—of course—Mitch broke the silence with a scoff and a crooked grin.

“Finally.”

A few of them chuckled under their breath. Aryne blinked slowly, like she’d been holding back emotions. William folded his arms, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to grin or groan. Stephanie didn’t smile—but she didn’t walk away either.

None of them did. They stayed there in the hall. Watching and realising that everything between you and Auston truly was real. 

And for the first time since everything fell apart, you didn’t feel like a fraud.

[hockey-disaster-bi]

He just looks so cosy