#brock boeser x reader

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: i’m almost shocked at how fast this fic got written?? thanks to anon who indulged my fun little request for a new hockey to write about (inspired by @wyattjohnston ‘s post earlier about how there’s only fics for certain hockeys in the nhl fic tag and also bc i have so much fun writing for new guys in the fic exchanges!!)- how could i resist vancouver’s own prince charming? hope you guys enjoy because i had fun writing! ☺️

word count: 2.7k

tw: single dad!brock, nanny!reader, dirty talk, minor daddy kink, fingering (f receiving), handjob, dirty talk, nipple play

summary: you’re nothing but the nanny for brock’s daughter, until one night all the lines get blurred

Kya snuggles closer to you in her sleep, blonde hair tickling the underside of your chin. Her cheek is pressed up against your collarbone and her little body is hot, making you feel all sweaty where she’s connected to you.

The TV casts the room in a faint blue light, the low volume serving as white noise along with Kya’s little puffed air snores.

You think about moving her to her bed, but she’s so soft and cuddly when she hasn’t been lately and you can’t find it in your heart to get up. Unfortunately, the four-year-old has your heart in a vice-like grip and you’d do anything for her. Including being a human mattress.

So you stay on the couch, stroking her back and humming softly when she stirs briefly. Eventually, the clock ticks over to the eleven o’clock hour and you know it’s only a matter of time before Brock’s home and your shift is over. Not that you have to go very far to get home - your pool house turned bachelorette nanny pad is practically spitting distance from the back door. If you tilted to the left a bit and angled your neck, you’d be able to see the little planter with multicolored flowers that Kya had helped you plant last week.

And by help, you mean crushed a few daisies in her little fists and ate a mouthful of dirt before you could stop her.

A+ nannying for sure.

You’re still thinking about it when a familiar voice startles you from your thoughts.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Brock’s voice rumbles through the dark room, laughter around the edges.

Without thinking, you reply, “just thinking about the handful of dirt I let Kya eat last week.” Then you wince, wondering why Brock’s presence always makes you say the stupidest things.

He laughs fully now, stepping around the couch and dropping into the armchair. He’s in his post-game look - rumpled suit pants and button down with the sleeves rolled up, bare feet with his loafers kicked off in a pile at the front door, and blonde hair darkened from his shower. His palm rasps over the few days’ worth of stubble growing on his chin and his face splits into one of those smiles that makes Twitter (and you) swoon.

“She’s gotta get vitamins and minerals from somewhere, right?” He teases and your cheeks heat.

This.

This is why he makes you say the stupidest things. Because he’s a real-life Prince Charming with the personality to match.

You smile back at him, a reflex. “There are some leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry and want to get in your own vitamins and minerals,” you joke back, shifting Kya on your chest when she starts to slip.

Brock shakes his head. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll take Princess Ky upstairs and you can get some rest,” he stands, arms out to grab Kya.

Weirdly, you shift and hold her closer. “It’s, um, I don’t mind. She’s been really snuggly today and it’s nice,” you shrug one shoulder. “She watched a little bit of the first.”

“Yeah?” Brock’s face lights up. He loves it when you bring Kya to games and he gets to wave at her during warmups.

“Mhm,” you smirk, “she was obsessed with Quinn.”

Brock narrows his eyes at you, scrunching his nose in disgust. “Real nice,” he shakes his head, “making fun of the guy that your best friend over there belongs to.”

Your cheeks lift in a smile, your arms holding Kya comfortably. “Don’t be jealous of my bond with Ky. Daddy’s still her favorite.”

Something flickers across Brock’s face, there and gone before you can analyze it. He chuckles, says, “I better be since I pay for all those chicken nuggets she inhales like a freaking vacuum,” and excuses himself upstairs to change.

You watch him leave, chewing at your lower lip while you study the curve of his ass in his slacks, feeling awful even as you’re appreciating his form. Kya mumbles in her sleep, nonsense words and a ‘Daddy’ and your name, eyelids twitching as she dreams.

Brock’s back a few minutes later, comfortable in sweats and a threadbare t-shirt. Still barefoot, now he smells like mint toothpaste in addition to the locker room soap. “Sure you don’t want me to take her?” He asks, sitting down on the couch with you, a cushion’s worth of space between your bodies. “Feels like I should let you off the clock and hold my kid now that I’m home.”

“I really don’t mind,” you promise him. “Kya’s…she’s exactly what I want my own daughter to be one day.” You think maybe you’re over sharing, but it’s late and Brock just looks so domestic and comfortable. It’s easy to pretend when he looks like this. His eyes soften as he studies you and the way you’re holding Kya.

“She’s a pretty cool little girl,” he agrees warmly, reaching out to run a hand over her head. His palm

makes her hair staticky, fine strands lifted into the air. You blow at them gently, giggling when they stick to your face even after you try smoothing them back with a hand.

“You know,” he says too casually after a comfortable pause, “she, the other day when you were off, she said that she never wants you to leave.”

A little piece of your heart breaks with his words because you know one day you’ll have to leave. It’s easy right now, nannying for Kya while you get your Master’s, but what happens next year when you’re finished with school and you have to find a real

job.

Your face must show your distress, because Brock coughs slightly and rushes to say, stumbling over his words, “I didn’t mean, she’s four. You know, they say stuff all the time. When you do have to leave, it’ll be okay. She’ll be okay.”

He means well, you know that, but it doesn’t help and to your horror, your nose starts to burn and tears well in your eyes. You don’t really want to cry in front of Brock, not over something that’s at least a year away, but you feel the dam starting to break.

“Um, I do think I’ll head out for the night,” you say quietly, trying to not let your voice crack. You shift Kya in your arms and transfer her to Brock’s, making sure she stays asleep. “She really should be out for the night. So, um, I’ll see you in the morning.”

He takes her easily, arms practiced with adjusting her weight against his chest and her head on his shoulder. You jump up from the couch and wave over your shoulder, heading for the back door, ignoring Brock’s whispered shout of your name.

It’s so silly, to get so emotional about Kya outgrowing her need for a nanny, her need for you. But you’re more attached to Ky and Brock than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

Right now, your best option is to play your sad music playlist and cry, just to get it out of your system before getting back to normal in the morning.

The music helps. The crying helps more. The two glasses of wine help the most.

And then there’s a knock on the door, scaring the ever living shit out of you. It’s so late your visitor can only be one person.

“Brock?” His name is a question on your lips when you open the door, your brow furrowed.

“Hi,” he looks upset and your brain works sluggishly to figure out what could be bothering him. “Can I-?”

He gestures a little and you nod, stepping back automatically. “Yeah, of course. It’s your pool house,” you say. “Is Kya asleep?”

He nods, holds up the baby monitor. You can see Kya’s little body sprawled out on her bed and a smile curls your lips - she sleeps like a starfish, arms and legs akimbo. “She’s done for the night,” he replies quietly, setting the monitor on the little table you have next to the door for your keys.

Brock’s been in the pool house before, a million and one times. But this time, the air crackles like it does before a thunderstorm, your nerves on edge.

“What are -“

“I’m sorry.”

You and Brock speak over each other, words getting jumbled in the air. You giggle a little and Brock smiles, his shoulders relaxing.

“I’ll go,” he says, still smiling. His hands run through his hair, the strands flopping over his forehead before getting pushed back into place. “I’m sorry, for what I said. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Oh,” you aren’t expecting the apology and you start to excuse him, “I didn’t -“

“You did,” Brock cuts you off. “Your eyes are all red and I’m so sorry. I just thought, Ky loves you so much, that you’d want to hear what she said about you. I wasn’t thinking about - about you leaving.”

“I’ll have to eventually,” you shrug, the wine dulling the sharper edges of your emotions.

Brock’s jaw works and you wait for him to speak, patient like he’s Kya. A few seconds go by and he scratches at the back of his neck. “I’m not good at - I want you here, as long as you want to be here. I don’t care if Kya is a grown woman with her own kids, I’d want you here.” He pauses and his words sink in, battering at the boundary you’d built around your heart.

“What?” You whisper, hands fluttering at your sides. You suddenly don’t know what to do with them.

“I…I think, no, I am. I am definitely falling for you,” Brock says, tone firm and eyes soft, crinkled at the corners. Those damn blue eyes that have starred in a fantasy or two of yours. He reads your silence as negative, apparently, because he frowns and continues, “if I just made this uncomfortable, we can forget it ever happened.”

“No!” You nearly yelp, Brock’s eyes widening at your sudden increase in volume. “No,” you repeat quieter. “I don’t want to forget this happened. I’m just … surprised. I didn’t think you thought of me as anything but Ky’s nanny.”

His smile is contagious and you’re both grinning like idiots at each other.

“You haven’t been Ky’s nanny in my head for a long time,” he confesses. “Just been hoping you felt the same way.”

“Definitely feel the same way,” you giggle, feeling hysterical.

“Can I -?” He steps forward, into your space, and you nod, knowing what he’s asking. And then all you know is Brock’s mouth on yours, his hands warm on your waist, his hair soft under your fingertips. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, teeth nipping at your bottom lip when you open your mouth. A groan fills the air and you’re not sure if it’s yours or his.

Your chest crushes against Brock’s, bodies flush against each other. His cock is prominent against your thigh, hard and hot through the layers of fabric separating the two of you. For months, you’ve fantasised about this, wondered what it would feel like to get your hands on Brock and it’s better than you ever imagined. Hot and hard, his lips soft against yours, his hands gripping at your ass, dragging you closer and closer. Your hips chase his, involuntarily moving for relief.

“Brock,” you whine his name, surprising yourself with the neediness that colors your tone. He growls against your jaw and lifts you, arms braced under your ass, settling you on the countertop in your tiny kitchenette. He steps into the space created by your spread legs, your thighs at his hips, ankles locked at his lower back.

“Shit, wanted to do this for months,” he mumbles against your skin. His lips mark a hot trail down your neck and over the heated skin of your chest. His hands are down the back of your shorts, kneading at your ass.

His cock presses against your heated core and you moan, loudly and unashamed. Brock’s laugh is clearly delighted and he presses himself against you harder, drawing a strangled moan from your throat.

“Making such pretty noises for me,” he croons, dragging one hand up your side to grope at your breast, rolling your nipple until it’s a stiff peak. “What other noises are you going to make for Daddy?”

“Oh my god,” you keen, arousal flooding your panties. “Brock, oh my god, I need you to touch me.”

“What’s the magic word?” He replies, ducking his head to suck at your nipple over your shirt. The scrape of his teeth and the wet fabric makes you shiver, clit throbbing.

“Please,” you wail, grinding your hips against his.

“Please…?” He trails off and your heart pounds in your chest, pleasure coiling low in your stomach.

You sigh, a shaky exhale. “Please, Daddy, touch me. Please make me come,” you whisper the words in his ear, nipping at his earlobe.

Brock whips your shirt off, tossing the fabric to the floor. You’re not wearing a bra and normally you’d be self-conscious, but Brock’s staring at you like you’re the first woman he’s ever seen and you’ve never felt hotter. “Christ,” he mutters, palming your breasts and kneading them tenderly. “So fucking gorgeous. Just, just fucking stay with me forever, please?”

You nod, agreeing. “Yours, I’m all yours, I promise,” you cradle his face in your hands and kiss him deeply, leaning in as close as you can.

Somehow, his shirt ends up on the floor with yours and your fingers can trace each muscle on his chest and stomach. You drag a nail over his nipple and his skin erupts in goosebumps, so you do it again, skimming your nails over his skin and scratching at his biceps.

“Mark me up,” Brock encourages you, lifting your ass off the counter with one hand so he can tug at your shorts and panties. “Make sure everyone knows I’m yours.”

He’s certainly doing the same, sucking bruises onto your skin. There’s a bite mark over your breast and it feels like his fingers dug bruises into the flesh of your ass.

“Just want you,” you blink away a sudden rush of tears, still in disbelief that this is happening. “Been thinking about you for so long, Brock.”

Your fingers dance down to the waist of his sweats, pushing at them until his cock springs free and you can get a good look at it. It’s just as perfect as his face, thick and long and hard as steel.

“Come on, honey,” his fingers swipe at your clit, making you inhale sharply and arch your back. “Put your hands on me. Touch me.”

You obey, wrapping your hands around his cock and stroking him. Softly at first until Brock grunts and wraps his hand around yours to increase the pressure and speed. “Like that,” he instructs you, leaving his hand in place and using the other to smear your arousal over your clit and inner thighs.

“I don’t have any condoms!” You gasp, Brock’s index finger teasing at your entrance. The thought hits suddenly, annoyingly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, kissing the moan from your mouth when he plunges his fingers into your cunt. “I’ll make you feel good just like this.”

Brock’s a man of his word.

He makes you come twice, once on his fingers and one on his tongue. The first time you make a mess of the counter, dripping all over the place. The second time he’s got you laid out on the couch, his stomach splattered with his own come from the handjob you’d given him.

And then he cuddles.

Wipes between your legs with a towel and wraps

you in his arms under a throw blanket. Kisses the crown of your head and tells you all the filthy things he’s thought about doing to you.

“Hey,” you pipe up, amusement bubbling in your chest, “do I get a bonus for every blowjob I provide?”

Brock’s surprised laughter vibrates at your back, shaking your entire body. His arms wrap around your chest and squeeze. “No,” he deadpans, sounding like he’s struggling to hold back his laughter, “but we probably should talk about your job.”

“Tomorrow,” you insist. “I love taking care of Ky. So we’ll work on a transition.”

The transition from Ky’s nanny to Brock’s wife and Ky’s mom takes about six months less than you anticipated.

“Best job promotion ever,” you tease Brock at the altar, Kya practically glued to your side and shouting her excitement when you kiss for the first time as husband and wife.

[gisellaaa]

i look at you wondering where your mind is at; you’re the first choice in my heart always

bb6 | being selected as a celebrity captain along side your brothers for the nhl all stars games was a situation you never thought of. leading up to the games, you made jack and quinn promise that brock would be the first pick. but after a small fight the morning of the games, you decide otherwise.

a/n this was fun to write and i love brock so much so if you guys want more bb6, please send some requests!! i’ll write a more smutty part two at the request of you guys :)

There were many things you loved that you had to give up due to your brother’s successful hockey careers. Your parents were already stressed out with three boys who all loved hockey, but you added stress on top of that. All your life, you never really enjoyed playing hockey. You played one year, just to prove to your mom you didn’t enjoy it. Ellen took the news with a heavy heart, but decided to give you options of what to pursue next. That’s when the entire Hughes family pinpointed your special talent. It wasn’t hockey, or volleyball, or golf even. It was singing.

After the realization, Ellen quickly found the best talent coach in Michigan for you. Moira, your singing coach, helped you develop the skills necessary for being the next big pop star. Fast forward to now, 20 years old, and you were jumping the charts. After opening on the Era’s tour for Taylor Swift, then the release of your first album Emails I Can’t Send, you were the next big thing. The media loved it all, they ate the news for breakfast.

Every single Hughes child was successful. Ellen and Jim got tons of recognition for raising successful children.

Currently, you resided in Vancouver with your older brother Quinn. Throughout the past years of living with him, you grew to adore his teammate Brock. What started as a friendship between two people who would confide in each other during tough times, blossomed into the dream healthy romantic relationship.

When you received the invitation to be a celebrity coach for the NHL All Stars game, you quickly accepted under one circumstance. That you’d coach alongside your brothers. Of course when the news was released, everyone went wild. On top of that, you got to join one of your close friends Tate as a coach. Tate had reached out one drunken night, asking for either your brother or Brock to fight Cole during a Canucks vs. Blue Jackets game. Since then, your friendship with her was as thick as thieves.

The morning of the All Stars draft had been going smoothly. You made Quinn and Jack to promise to pick Brock first, and they listened. You knew of their planning schemes with some of the other coaches, practically planning the draft before it happened.

You sat on the hotel bed, shoving cereal into your mouth. Brock was showering, getting prepared for the red carpet he had to attend before the draft. He came out, dressed in black pants and a white sweater. You furrowed your eyebrows at him, a curious look forming.

“What happened to your other outfit?” You asked, setting the cereal down on the bed side table. Brock quickly looked up at you, then looked back in the mirror. “Decided not to wear it.” Brock nonchalantly answered.

“Oh?”

“Don’t be like that, doll. It’s not anything crazy. Just figured I’d look more professional.” Brock explained, walking to sit on the bed. You scooted further away from him, a glare settling on your face. “So your first outfit wasn’t professional?” You asked, eyebrows raised.

“Why are you making it a big deal?” Brock’s voice came across aggressive, causing you to scoff. “Because it was your idea? And I was excited to see you wear it.” You stated, quickly getting off the bed.

Brock watched as you gathered your makeup bag and other things needed to get ready for the entire day. You started to head towards the door when you heard his voice again. “Where are you going?”

Your hand clasped the door handle, pulling to door open. “To my brother’s room. I don’t want to deal with you or this right now. Just know you upset me and I’m angry.” You stated, leaving the room quickly.

Quinn and Olivia’s room was a few doors down and you were convinced you’d enjoy being around them more than Brock right now. You knocked loudly, hearing some shuffling before Quinn opened the door. Before he got a chance to speak, you shoved past him, setting your things down.

“What are you doing?” Quinn asked, shutting the door behind him. “Or do I even want to know?”

“Brock made me upset and I don’t want to be around him. I figured Olivia would enjoy having a friend to get ready with.” You answered, looking around for her. The bathroom door quickly opened, Olivia standing in a robe with curlers in her hair. “Y/N!” Olivia smiled.

“Hi Olivia, Brock made me mad. Now I’m here.” You greeted her, a smile on your face. Olivia gasped, crossing her arms. “What did he do?” Olivia questioned. You glanced up at Quinn, who was definitely more curious than Olivia.

“He changed his outfit, so now he isn’t wearing his special shirt.” You stated, shrugging. Olivia’s eyes widened, a scoff falling from her lips. “You mean the shirt he paid like $80 for? The shirt that has your face on it? The one he specifically bought for this?” Questions quickly fell from Olivia’s mouth as disbelief spilled through her tone.

“I’m going to Jack’s. You guys have fun.” Quinn left the room, hearing enough from the story. “Yes that shirt! He said he wanted to be more professional.” You exclaimed, a sad look forming on your face.

“What an asshole!”

You and Olivia finished getting ready, but you had to be at the Scotia Bank Area sooner than her since you were a coach. When you arrived, you were immediately swarmed and overwhelmed by the girls wanting pictures and autographs. You tried your best to speak to everyone and at least hold a conversation with them. Your agent, Thalia, stayed close by. She ensured you were making good time. For one moment she stepped away for a phone call.

“They want you for interviews now, sweet heart.” Thalia informed, ushering you forward. You were led to a room filled with reporters, players, the other celebrity coaches and captains. Once you were spotted by Tate, she quickly ran over to you.

“Oh my gosh! You look so good.” Tate gushed, pulling you into a hug. You smiled, quickly reciprocating the gesture. “Thank you, you look great yourself.” You replied, pulling away.

“I was surprised when Brock was brought back here without you. Are you guys okay?” Tate asked, her voice quiet as reporters were currently interviewing Auston, Morgan, and Justin.

“Got in an argument this morning, so I’m not speaking to him.” You shrugged, ignoring his stares from across the room. “Guess he should be reminded that even though the draft is planned, I can still have a little fun.” You added, a devious smirk on your face.

“You are evil. I love it.” Tate giggled, pinching your shoulder softly. “Oops, gotta go, it’s my turn.” Tate waved, walking over to Cale and Nate. You moved over to your brothers and Elias.

“Pst. Can we wait till after we draft the last Goalie to pick Brock?” You whispered, the plan already forming in your head. Quinn, already knowing of the argument, rolled his eyes. “They got in an argument over his shirt.” Quinn quickly explained.

Elias had a confused look on his face, but let out a sigh. “I guess, but don’t you think that’s mean?” He asked, his eyebrows pinched together. “Mean? Sure, but I could be writing a song about him so what’s a little harmless fun?” You answered.

All four boys stared at you, then looked at each other. “If you don’t do it, I’m going to tell mom.” You spoke harshly, staring directly at your brothers. “You know how upset she gets when her brothers don’t listen to her only little princess,”

“Fine, fine. He will go after the goalies. Just don’t tell mom.” Quinn shook his head, slightly annoyed at his sister’s antics. “She’s got a point. Shouldn’t we be sticking up for our sister?” Jack agreed, gesturing towards you.

The rest of the interviews went well, except for when a reporter requested for you to do an interview with Brock. The interaction was tense, only short answers given from the both of you. You were sure the clips would quickly be on Twitter from your fan base, but oh well.

The draft started quicker than ever, the Hughes team getting the chance to pick the first player. You already told Brock that he was the intended first pick, but after deliberating with your brothers and Elias, Nikita Kucherov was going to be your first selection. You requested to be the person to announce it, just to see the look on Brock’s face.

“Team Hughes, are you ready for your first pick?” Jamie asked, looking at the group of four. Everyone nodded, agreeing on their final selection. You took a small step forward, a smile on your face as some fans cheered. “We chose Nikita Kucherov from the Tampa Bay Lightening,” You announced, eyes quickly locking to Brock.

Brock rolled his eyes, running a hand down his face. J.T. Miller nudged him, a curious look on his face. You shook Nikita’s hand, letting him go grab his jersey.

Quinn ended up picking most of his team, along with Brady Tkachuk, Jesper Bratt, and Cam Talbot. After a commercial break, the choice was back to the Hughes Team. You took a step forward, waiting for Jamie to give you the go.

“I guess, we are picking Brock Boeser. Even though he didn’t wear his shirt with my face on it, then was mean to me.” You scrunched your face, watching as Brock skated up while shaking his head.

You held your hand over your microphone as he pulled you into a hug. “You are in trouble, doll.” Brock mumbled in your ear, then promptly skated off to receive his jersey. You had a small smirk on your face, clapping as he received his jersey.

The rest of the event went smoothly, thankfully. Now you were pilled into Uber’s that were driving you to the bar that Auston Matthews rented out for the night. You were squished in between Brock and Elias, uncomfortably squirming in the seat at some of the potholes in the road.

Brock’s arm hung loosely behind your seat, his hand occasionally tugging at loose strands of your hair. To which you’d return a nudge at his side, and he would always react with a low chuckle.

“Scoot over, I know you are uncomfortable.” Brock leaned over to whisper in your ear. Jack was blasting music loudly in the Uber so it wasn’t hard for Brock’s voice to get drowned out by anyone but you.

You glared at Brock, but still scooted over to sit in his lap. “You still mad at me?” Brock continued to speak quietly, his hand squeezing at your exposed thigh.

You nodded, continuing the fun ignoring game you liked to play when you were mad. Brock hated it, despised it actually. Yet, you still did it because Brock would always find a pleasuring new way to deal with your attitude.

“Come on, don’t act like I don’t know what you did. I’m sure you loved convincing your captains to switch the draft order, all over a silly argument.” Brock spoke, tugging at another strand in your hair.

You looked at him in confusion, wondering who snitched to him. “You think Pettersson would keep it from me?” Brock now had an amused expression on his face.

Thankfully the conversation was put on pause as you arrived to the bar. Brock tapped your ass as you pushed open the door. Tonight, your plan was to continue to be angry at Brock, just to catch a reaction out of him. And boy, would it be a fun night.

[harlowhockeystick]

i'm a little wine drunk. thinking ab being wine drunk with your man.

when you're tipsy to the point where you get giggly and handsy. he loves it, he's all for it. this is his favorite stage of you being drunk. one more drink then you get really flirty, another drink after that you get aggressive, then one more drink and you can't stand up. so right before shit hits the fan, he's all for it. he loves when you slide a hand over his chest through his button shirt, he loves when you run your hands through his hair making it look like post sex hair, messing up the gel he put in an hour previous. oh, he also loves when you give him a sloppy kiss right after taking a big swig of your drink. he can taste the tequila mixed with lime on your tongue, then he has to put his hands firmly on your hips to get you to slow down and take a breath. he loves when you're still tipsy that he can still have a conversation, because he knows realistically he has about ten minutes before he's having to follow you around making sure you're not picking up someone else's drink. he loves when you're tipsy.

[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

because of brock

brock boeser x f!reader

summary: a breakup because of brock

warnings: swearing, hints of a slightly toxic relationship/lack of trust between two people, hints of unrecognised emotional infidelity, fluff, awkwardness

word count: 8.7k

Petey was first to knock – twenty minutes early as per usual. Usually you’d invite him in, sit him down, pour him and drink and carry on setting things up for everyone else; he’d offer a hand, maybe help lay the table. Not this time.

This time you threw the door open on your way to the kitchen, not even sparing a second to greet him, before rushing into the kitchen, the beeping of the oven signalling something was ready, but you couldn’t of the life of you remember what. You hadn’t wiped the table, put the tablecloth on, tidied the living room (or moved the mess from the living room into your room to at least make it look more presentable), got the drinks out, or even finished cooking everything.

And Petey took all of that in from where he’d stepped into your apartment, a bottle of wine securely in his hands, and sporting a slight wince upon hearing the swearing and clanging from the kitchen area. He quickly placed the wine on the table, shrugging his coat off – and for the first time ever, he found you accepting his offer for help, a rather frazzled look about you.

It was only after he’d got the drinks out of the fridge, wiped the table, put the tablecloth down, and double-counted the placemats that he knew that slightly frazzled look was for a reason. You hadn’t really uttered a word since he’d walked in, just a simple greeting and multiple thank you’s for his help. You hadn’t really smiled once, and you’d not even attempted small talk like you usually would.

You’d just kept quiet, throwing things in and out of the oven, eyes anxiously darting to the clock above the door.

Elias was a little hesitant at asking. There was something tingling in the back of his head, like he knew what you were about to say, and he wasn’t so sure if it would be okay to bring it up so close to everyone arriving if you got upset. He was also less-prepped on how to look after you. That had always fallen to Brock, or at least, it used to be.

He eyed you in the kitchen where you’d taken to stacking up the right number of plates, hair falling out of a braid, before carefully stepping closer, “Where’s Noah tonight?” He asked tentatively.

Elias almost winced at the cut-up glance you wore, swallowing hard and immediately avoiding looking at him. He could tell you were trying not to act too hurt, or maybe it was simply practice before you had to perform this facade in front of everyone else. Your hands were still busy, and he heard you sigh a little, “We broke up.” Was all you said, shooting a curious glance in his direction, probably to gauge his reaction.

And because Elias had suspected that answer, his face didn’t really tell a tale of shock. His brows were raised a little, but he was clearly sympathetic, offering a nod of understanding, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, more hair falling out of your braid. 

Elias nodded again, brain itching. You were good at acting like you were fine, but this was a new level of nonchalance – even for you.You’d clearly been a little flustered in the time he’d spent helping you set up, and nearly every year you stressed a little playing host, he’d beared witness to it time and time again; there was no other real evidence you were too affected by it – not like how he’d initially predicted.

There were no teary eyes, achy throats or raspy voices that suggested you were holding back tears. Your body language didn’t give anything away.

“When did you guys break up?” He found himself asking, more out of his own curiosity.

He knew you well, which was why he found there was something a little irksome about the entire thing.

You didn’t seem to care that he’d pried after you’d said you didn’t want to talk about it, because there was barely a second’s hesitation before you were answering him, “About two months ago, I think.”

Elias blinked. Two months? You think? He could have sworn last week you’d made a comment about Noah playing golf, which must have meant…

“Does Brock know?” He frowned, trying to work out the mental maths of the tangled timelines.

Brock hadn’t said anything about it if he knew. In fact, he’d been pretty miserable for a while, now that Elias was thinking about it, which meant–

“No.” 

Oh. Oh.

“You’re the only person that knows.” You admitted shyly, rubbing a hand against the back of your neck as you pressed your lips into a tight line, “I’m just trying to sort some things out, first. But please don’t mention anything, I want to be the one to tell people.”

He nodded, “Of course.”

You offered him a rather relieved smile, “Thanks.” You could tell Elias had about a hundred other questions he was dying to get the answers to, but his reserved smile let you know he respected your wishes. 

That, and the insinuation behind your words had been pretty clear – at least it would have been to Elias. To anyone else, maybe not so much.

***

Elias wasn’t an idiot, and he knew you didn’t take him as one, but it didn’t exactly take a genius to realise that you’d been avoiding Brock all night. The poor guy had been on edge since he walked into the apartment, probably expecting Noah to jump out from behind the door and send him glares all night, because that’s what had happened almost every time the two of them entered the same room within the last two years. 

You got quiet and kept a careful eye on Noah, yet remained ready to jump to Brock’s defence if Noah did end up being provoked in some way; Brock tried to stay out of it all, but it was kind of difficult when Noah kept making the issue about Brock, even if he hadn’t done anything worthy of the attention. And in all honesty, it had Elias wondering why you ever put up with Noah in the first place; even when it was you and Noah, it had always been you and Brock.

Yet, even after having broken up with Noah, you maintained that ten-feet-apart-unspoken-notion, and Elias had to applaud your dedication to keeping up appearances.

And he, ever the observer, could feel the tension get a little thicker with every minute that went by when some brave soul chickened out of bringing up the elephant in the room. He thought it was bad when everyone seemed to stall after greeting you at the door, having got used to Noah being at your hip, but things had gone from bad to worse after the food, and now it felt like the room was stifling with all the tension.

He supposed he should stay out of it, but he kept catching you and Brock share glances out of the corner of his eye, and each time you broke eye contact, he could practically feel Brock deflate next to him – and that was about as much as he could take before he turned to Quinn on his other side, the Captain quietly sipping on his drink and content to listen to others conversations.

He nudged him, and Quinn shot him a befuddled look before leaning closer, “Ask about Noah.” Elias whispered subtly, purposefully looking straight across the room to avoid arousing your suspicion.

Quinn seemed to think about it for a second, and Elias glanced back, only to be faced with raised eyebrows, and an ‘is this really what i think it is?’ look written on his face. Elias nodded, and Quinn sat up a little straighter, shooting a pointed stare at Brock’s side profile.

It took Elias' meaningful shake of his head for Quinn to instantly clear his throat and lean closer to you, “Hey, where’s Noah tonight?” 

His voice was quiet, a hushed murmur, but because of the close proximity Quinn had with Brock, the latter heard it perfectly. And Elias feigned composure, choosing to glue his eyes to Brock like he had no part in Quinn’s question – but even without actually looking at you, he could feel the temporary heat of your stare on the side of his face.

He just scratched his nose.

Brock on the other hand, seemed to still, his knuckles going a little white against the glass he’d clutched in his hand. And like Elias, he was subtle about his interest in the conversation, but he might have held his breath, and he might have tuned out everything else in a bid to make out your response.

If Noah wasn’t here, from Brock’s perspective, that meant he could actually talk to you. 

“Um…” He could sense you cringe at the question, and his brows furrowed a little. It wasn’t like you to hesitate, “In Atlanta.”

Brock couldn’t help the way his neck snapped to look at you. You were still giving Quinn your full attention, but almost like you could sense his piercing stare, your concentration wavered, slipping to him. And, for the life of him, Brock could not get a read on you. It was like your eyes were trying to tell him something, but the rest of your face seemed to remain neutral – completely unbothered by the fact that your boyfriend (who refused to travel for work) was not only in another country, but on the opposite side of the continent, almost.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you turned back to Quinn.

Brock didn’t move an inch, anticipation curling up his spine uncomfortably. 

Quinn seemed to follow his train of thought, though, because the next thing that came out of his mouth was an automatic, “How come?”

Brock could have sworn the corners of your mouth turned up fractionally. He could have sworn you just didn’t give a shit. 

“We broke up.” You shrugged simply.

If he’d had a mouthful of his drink, he would’ve spat it out. If he’d been standing, he’d have had to sit down, and he could have sworn his heart dropped to his feet all within a second. He felt warm, maybe a little too hot for comfort, and he had to take a swig of his drink to ease his dry mouth.

Quinn carried on, “Why?” Almost tumbled out of his mouth, perhaps in a manner that might have been viewed as a little insensitive, something he seemed to catch onto, but before he could even splutter an apology, you were already talking.

And Brock wanted to turn up the volume of your voice so he wouldn’t risk missing a single breath, pause or word of what you were about to say. He wanted to record it, so he could listen to it later and know he wasn’t making it all up in his head.

But when your eyes slid over to him for a mere millisecond, he almost fell on Elias. When someone asks why you broke up with your partner, you don’t look at the person who seemed to accidentally cause more arguments and tensions than ever recorded in your personal history. You don’t look at the person that probably understood you better than anyone else you’d ever met.

Because if you did, that meant something.

It meant it hadn’t been in Brock’s head: the soft looks when no one was looking; the gentle touches. It started out as a way to compensate for the way Noah seemed to zero in on your friendship and forbid either of you talking to each other in front of him. The hours you used to spend in each other’s company was reduced to almost nothing, and Brock had had to live through two years of that. Well…there were a few exceptions to that in regards to personal things – you’d actually moved in with him for a bit then.

But Brock had been missing you for two whole years, it didn’t matter that you had the same friends or saw each other every couple of weeks. He’d taken a step back, for your sake, but it had only made things worse.

And now you’d thrown him a glance.

“Just wanted different things.” 

Brock took a sip of his drink in an attempt to stop himself from scoffing at your blatant lie. It was written all over your face plain as day. Your shoulders were a little tense, and you could no longer look at Quinn for more than three seconds at a time before the uncomfortable-ness seemed to prick you in the temples.

And Brock knew that without you even saying anything.

Quinn nodded out of the corner of Brock’s eye, accepting the answer and clearly not wanting to pry for fear of making the entire situation more awkward.

And through the pounding heart and racing thoughts, Brock took a deep breath, turning to Elias only to see the blonde smirking at him from over the top of his glass. He didn’t have it in him to roll his eyes or pull a face at his friend, so he pushed himself out of his chair and made for the kitchen, glass empty.

Only, when he pulled open the door to the fridge, there was nothing left of what he had been drinking. For some reason, as he looked around at everything else on offer, he couldn’t pick. He was reading labels – familiar ones, too, ones that he liked – and he couldn’t decide which one he should settle for because he couldn’t have what he’d been drinking the entire night. He only wanted his drink, and all the other options were just becoming even less desirable by the second.

He stared at the contents a little while longer, the cold from the open door beginning to set a chill in his bones, before swallowing and shutting it without another thought. He could settle for lemonade or water or something. He turned to the sink, rinsing out his glass and picking the tea towel off the oven door like it was second nature, and it wasn’t until a glass was placed down on the kitchen island behind him that he was made aware he wasn’t alone.

His chest seemed to swell at seeing you awkwardly standing on the other side of the counter, looking rather as if you were about to say something. Your palm came down to rest against the cold granite, and you swung your eyes to the fridge, sighing and wandering over to it.

Brock turned back to the sink, keeping an eye on you in his peripheral vision. He almost smiled at the fact that you seemed to hesitate choosing something too, before shutting the door and turning to the bottle of wine already on the counter, hastily filling up a clean glass.

There was a strange tension between the two of you; not knowing what to say to each other because there was so much to say, but there were people in the other room, and it was all rather exhausting. You inhaled, trying to ease the familiar tightness in your chest that always seemed to appear when you looked at Brock.

He was wearing a pale blue button down with dark jeans, blonde hair swept back using his hands. He had his back to you, and you took a swig of wine to ease your nerves. 

It was as you placed the glass back on the counter, unconsciously twiddling your necklace that he turned around, leaning against the sink, towel thrown over his shoulder with a clean and dry glass in his hand.

He was looking at you, and you felt your lips twitch into a smile – awkward, but real – that disappeared almost as quickly as you’d done it. He didn’t echo the same sentiment, instead choosing to furrow his brows, clenching his jaw and zipping his eyes into the living room.

“Why did you break up with Noah?” He asked after a quiet moment, intently fixing his gaze on you as you inhaled, slightly caught off guard with the upfront question.

You’d expected him to ask it eventually, but this was the first time you’d had real privacy in ages. A little icebreaker wouldn’t have hurt. But now wasn’t really a time to joke or dance around it, either.

You just sighed, “Wanted different things.” It was the answer you’d given earlier – not a lie, exactly, but not the entire truth. And judging from the way Brock seemed to immediately leave after you’d told that to Quinn, he must have seen through it.

He blinked, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it, “Like what?” He challenged, folding the tea towel and putting it on the side, glass quickly following as he took a seat at the island, facing you.

The close proximity almost instinctively had you wanting to look over your shoulder to check if Noah was watching from somewhere, but then that feeling of paranoia seemed to dissolve. The knot in your chest loosened, and you felt your shoulders drop slightly. 

Part of the reason you’d held off telling people – Brock specifically – was that the truth would just invite even more questions. Maybe even arguments: you dated Noah for two years and when a couple has been together for a certain period of time, certain things are expected, and when that opportunity presents itself, sometimes the wrong questions are answered.

But you held your nerve, looking straight into Brock’s eyes as you hesitated a little. You’d never uttered the words to anyone other than your best friend and your parents.

“He proposed, actually.” You muttered, immediately biting the inside of your cheek as you watched Brock carefully.

It felt like a relief to admit it out loud, a load off your shoulders. Speaking about it made it true, and you felt less trapped because of it. Noah made you feel trapped, and a lack of Noah meant a lack of that claustrophobia. 

Brock seemed to freeze, his mouth parting in shock and any previous scepticism completely erased; his brows were furrowed, and he looked away from you, processing. One hand ran through his hair, and then, almost as if to check, his attention went straight to your left hand. At the noticeable blank space on your finger, he seemed to gain the courage to look at you again.

There was confusion there, but he seemed incapable of speaking.

“It’s kind of weird because I never actually knew what I was going to say when I thought about it as a hypothetical situation, but then he put the box on the restaurant table and people were watching, and it was the easiest and hardest ‘no’ I’ve ever had to say.” You breathed, clenching your jaw and trying to block out the look of betrayal on Noah’s face that had etched itself in your head – you couldn’t quite escape it yet. “And now he’s in Atlanta because he thought that it would make sense to propose and then make me move to another country because he got a promotion. Guess he hadn’t considered me not wanting to marry him.” You laughed, despite yourself, it quickly dying when the guilt came flooding in again.

You’d loved Noah, but it had changed towards the end – you both seemed to change, and a part of you was still mourning the future you thought you’d have had when you started dating.

It was funny how things changed, because you were pretty certain you were more in love with the blonde in your kitchen than you ever were with Noah, and it was just a shame that it took the threat of moving to Atlanta and marrying someone very much not him that made you realise it.

A man proposes, and the first thing you think about is leaving Brock, and suddenly the answer is just as clear as day. It had crept upon you slowly, harmlessly at first (a simple crush), until it had evolved into this loud, obnoxious thing that you couldn’t ignore.

You’d planned on breaking up with Noah anyway, it was starting to fizzle out for the both of you, only Noah’s reaction had been to propose. That had always been the difference.

“He proposed in public?” Brock asked, tone a little firmer, and when you quickly glanced at him there was some quiet rage on the planes of his face.

That had been the difference between Brock and Noah. Noah thought he knew you, but Brock was the one who actually did.

You nodded.

Brock scoffed, shaking his head, “He always was a dick.”

And you didn’t have the heart to disagree. You kept quiet, focusing on a spot on the granite work surface and absentmindedly taking a sip of your wine.

Brock seemed to take in your silence, looking at you closely. He hadn’t been able to get a read on you in front of everyone – you were always a little too good at keeping up appearances for the sake of not worrying others – the only difference was you seemed to unconsciously zone out of it when you were with him. Your eyes got softer, more vulnerable, and you seemed to unwind – like you knew you didn’t have to worry about being judged, or watched, or anything else.

It was always just you and Brock.

And that’s what was happening now: your hair fell in front of your face as you followed the wine glass with your eyes, and you didn’t make a move to tuck it behind your ear. Your eyes were glossy, not with unshed tears, but emotion, and you had bags under your eyes, probably from a lack of proper sleep. Brock supposed this dinner wasn’t helping matters either, especially not if he walked in through the front door to see Elias watching you with concern as you avoided everyone. It wasn’t just him. 

You lifted your head, eyes flitting to him briefly. 

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, feeling himself lean towards you. 

He wanted you to be okay, but it was a big ask given the circumstances. You nodded, but it did nothing to quell the rising urge to wrap you in his arms, have you touch him without having to worry about that shitty ex of yours. 

Selfishly, he didn’t want to let go if he gave into that urge, but, as usual, when it came to you, you were more important than his own silly little aches and yearns. He’d mastered patience at the expense of his own happiness when it came to you, and he could wait longer – that was a no-brainer.

But the nodding wasn’t comforting: you’d nodded when he’d asked you that before and been crying. It was like an automatic ‘I’m fine’ was just programmed into you, and he didn’t even think you were sure why you did it.

“Are you sure?” He asked, wanting, needing you to give him something else other than a nod.

“Yeah.” You breathed, hands a little clammy at the way he seemed to stare right into your soul, “It’s just…I thought I’d be more affected by it, but I-I’d already detached myself because I was going to break up with him anyway.” You trailed off, voice getting quieter as though your admission was taboo. 

Both of Brock’s hands seemed to lose sense as they fell to the counter, his arms crossing and then uncrossing.

It was instantaneous, the way he seemed to flush, his heart hammering at his ribcage at the insinuation of what you were saying. 

“You were?” He echoed, not quite believing it. Between the past few months, and everything you’d told and done this evening, he was beginning to think that maybe he wasn’t just imagining things – everything that had happened was for a reason, “How long had you been thinking about breaking up with him?”

“A while.” Then, “It hadn’t felt right since the summer, and I’ve had, like, two months to think about it so–”

“You broke up two months ago?” 

The look on Brock’s face almost floored you. Somehow it had you regretting ever not telling him in the first place, even despite knowing it was for the better. There were so many emotions swimming in his eyes, but the only one you could pick out was upset.

It felt like you’d been kicked in the stomach.

“Apart from family, only Lauren knows.” You immediately began to backpedal, wanting to wipe the expression off his face as soon as you could: you had to make him realise. You weren’t quite ready to act on it, but you needed him to know, “I had to figure some stuff out before I told you. Noah had to move out and I changed the lease, and I needed to think things over.”

His face relaxed, before he raised a brow, something akin to an apprehensive understanding melting on his face, as though he was hesitant to take it for what you meant, “What things?”

You swallowed, nerves tingling in your chest. You inhaled, trying to build up your courage, “You things.”

He opened his mouth, leaning back as though the deliverance of your words knocked him backwards, but no words came out. And you didn’t quite have the bravery to keep looking at him when he didn’t know what to say, so you turned your back, reaching to fill up your wine glass again. 

You spun back around, only to face a still-dumbfounded Brock, and a hesitant Elias hovering by the doorway. You could tell from the way he still had a hand on the door and his frantic eyes as they hovered between you and Brock, that he instantly sensed he’d just walked in on something.

But you refused to look at Brock, mostly just because you didn’t know what you’d do if it turned out he was looking at you with distaste. In fact, you tried to avoid his eyes, though you could feel them piercing you with some desperation – but he didn’t say or indicate anything as you made your way back around the island, closer to the door and to Elias.

You tried a smile, though from the way the Swede seemed to switch his gaze from you to Brock behind you, with a little hardness, you figured it didn’t perform as you wanted. But you were glad for the interruption, “You coming in for a refill?” You asked, meeting him at the door.

He shook his head, dragging his attention back to you with a sorry smile, “No, I just came to say goodnight. Me, Quinn…and Brock are gonna go now. It’s getting pretty late.”

Brock shook his head from behind you, trying to catch Elias’s attention. He knew his friend was only making an excuse for him because you had looked a little shaken when he walked in, but you both had, and the last thing he wanted was to leave after that faint admission of some kind of non-platonic feelings. It had taken a lot in you, he could tell.

Not just the admission, but breaking up with Noah. And all Brock wanted was to sit you down and talk about it, not just for his own clarification, but because you needed to hear it from him, too.

Yet, with the stern glare Elias was pinning him over your head as the two of you hugged briefly in parting, he knew he didn’t have a choice. 

He stood next to Elias, who kept a firm grip on the back of his shirt like a parent and their kid with a tendency to go wandering off, but it was for different reasons. It seemed once Elias and Quinn had announced that the three of them were leaving, almost everyone else had taken inspiration, so now there was a queue to the door and you, and Brock was seemingly at the back.

He wanted to say goodbye, but he had a gut feeling that he was about to be dragged out of the door before he could cause any more damage, though all he’d ever done was just show his face in these kinds of situations (he would willingly admit that sometimes he had to ask around to actually see if you were going in the first place; if you were, it was a no-brainer, but he had on occasion turned an invite down purely because you were busy).

The entire situation was frustrating him, and the irony in that wasn’t lost on him, especially because when he walked through the door earlier, this wasn’t the outcome he’d ever anticipated. 

Elias moved his hand from his shirt to Brock’s bicep, squeezing to get his attention, “What happened in there?”

Brock blinked, his eyes briefly flickering to Elias’s, purely just to gauge his reaction, before flipping back to you – he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from you since you said The Thing that just about took his breath away and simultaneously gave him oxygen to cure the breathlessness – certain Elias wasn’t too pissed at him, “Noah proposed.” He breathed, able to catch the way Elias’s mouth fell in shock out of the corner of his eye, “And she said no, but it turns out she was gonna end it with him before that.” His mind seemed to run through everything you said, as it had been, your voice playing on loop like a scratchy record player in the back of his mind, and he huffed a conflicted breath. 

It was something to know you returned a fraction of what he felt for you, but it was another thing to know that he was part of the reason you said no. 

Did it make him a homewrecker? A third party? 

Is this the price of his own happiness? The guilt?

“‘Cause of me.” He finished, finally turning back to Elias with knitted brows.

The two of them looked at each other for a few seconds, Elias clearly digesting everything. Quinn was oblivious, yawning off to the side.

“You two never…” Elias trailed off, widening his eyes pointedly, and Brock scoffed, shaking his head.

“Fuck no. You really think either of us would��”

“It’s not your fault, then.” Elias shrugged, ignoring Brock’s words, “It’s neither of your faults, you know that, right?”

Brock breathed. Elias was a pretty cheeky guy, his comments were ruthless but they never had a single ounce of malice, yet there was something about the way he so effortlessly forewent that kind of reaction and chose to reassure Brock that had him nodding, “I think I needed to hear that.”

“Could tell. Thought you were going to shit yoursel–Hi.” Elias coughed and spluttered, his attention no longer on Brock as he fought to change his words before you caught onto what they’d been talking about.

He turned to look at you, accidentally misjudging the distance, because as he turned, his shoulder bumped yours gently, and you instinctively looked up at the contact, both of you just caught for a split second. 

Brock clenched his jaw at your thinly veiled apprehension at having to face him again: you were twisting the rings on your fingers, and you inhaled sharply – awkwardly – when he turned to you.

You’d never done that before with him. 

And Brock was stunned, not because you were literally stealing the air out of his lungs every time he looked at you (you were breathtaking – always were, always had been), but because that was the first time you’d touched and he felt the tingle from where you’d brushed him. The skin under his shirt seemed to burn at it.

You were so magnetic sometimes that it rendered him speechless.

And that was all happening inside him when you were almost instantly turning to Elias, brushing off the contact like nothing had just occurred. Brock felt his hand go to touch the area you’d bumped into, holding onto his bicep with wonder.

When had Elias dropped his hand?

He sucked in a breath, needing the oxygen in his head before he lost it completely. Before he could overthink it, he tilted his head in your direction, the action drawing you from where you’d been lightly conversing with Elias again (since when were you two such good friends?), “I…” He started, suddenly faltering when Elias sent him a sharp look – one so severe that Brock felt Quinn tune back in, “I had a really good time tonight.”

It wasn’t really the time or the place. Not with all the people and not with so little time.

Something seemed to fall on your face, and Brock hated that it was because of him. He hated himself because of it. The way you immediately fixed it – a small falter in character for the sake of everyone else, and you went back to pretending.

“Good, I’m glad.” You nodded, forcing a smile, and he echoed the sentiment.

He felt it drop, though, his face almost morphing into a sorry frown, if that was even a thing. 

“I’ll talk to you later.” He winced at himself, feeling Quinn begin to pull him towards the door this time, Elias quickly jumping in to save the situation and what little confidence Brock had in his social skills. 

It was only when all three of them had made it outside, drowned in complete silence the entire way down the steps to the door of the building, that Quinn bit the bullet, “What was that car crash I just witnessed back there?” He laughed in disbelief, looking between Brock and Elias for an answer.

Brock’s chest was aching too much to reply, so Elias took the liberty of explaining it, a small smile on his face, “That was the beginning of Brock and—”

Quinn’s brows shot up his forehead, almost going missing under his hair, “Shut the front door.” His jaw dropped, turning to Brock for confirmation.

All he got was a tight-lipped line that resembled more of a grimace.

“I mean, I’m happy for you, man, and because I’m your friend, I feel like it’s my responsibility to also point out the fact that she just broke up with her boyfriend of two years.” Quinn seemed rather uncomfortable at throwing the reminder out there into the open, cringing when Brock seemed to glance at the floor, eyes glazed over, “Is she ready for that?”

Brock swallowed, looking to Elias for guidance. Every word Quinn said was true. And when the words were spoken out loud, the entire thing suddenly seemed futile. 

What was he thinking? A person didn’t just get over something like that immediately–Except…

“Actually she broke up with Noah two months ago.” Elias muttered, “Because of Brock.”

Quinn stopped walking, causing the blondes to halt, the three of them crowing the pavement, “Oh.” He breathed, “Shit.”

Elias threw a concerned glance towards Brock at his silence. It never did him good if he was living in his own head, “Noah also proposed and she said no.”

“Double-shit.” 

“Yeah.” Brock answered numbly, head twisting back to your apartment building.

They hadn’t walked far, barely one block, but he could see the window to your apartment, your shadowy figure walking past the window. He inhaled, the exhale fogging up the air around him.

He didn’t have to be looking at Elias and Quinn to know they were sharing similar glances, and he turned back to them, catching their sombre looks red-handed. He shook his head, sighing. He took a step forward, intending to continue their walk to the Uber spot, but something hit him in the chest. It was a gloved hand, and he followed the owner to Elias.

“Yeah?” He asked cautiously.

“You forgot your scarf.” Elias said.

Brock frowned. He didn’t think he’d come wearing a sca–Oh.

He looked to Quinn, who was smiling secretively, and upon noticing his eyes on him nodded his head in the direction of your building.

Brock nodded, turning to Elias once more, “Yeah, I did. You guys don’t have to wait for me, I can get back by myself.”

“Yeah, we know.” Quinn smirked, before gasping as Elias delivered a swift, calculated blow to his diaphragm, knocking the air out of his lungs, and muttering a quiet ‘shut the fuck up’ under his breath as he did so.

Brock ignored them both, already starting the quick walk back up to you, though when he knew he was out of sight from his friends, his brisk walk turned to a hurried run, using the railing on the stairs to launch him up further. By the time reached your door he was breathing heavily, hands a little clammy. 

He took a couple of breaths, running his hands through his hair before knocking on your door.

You were mid-way through clearing the glasses from the coffee table when there was a knock at your door. You stopped where you were, quickly reaching to pause the episode of Gilmore Girls – you weren’t expecting anyone else, and no one had left anything behind.

It could be a neighbour, but they knew to announce themselves–

“It’s Brock.” 

His voice filtered through the door, and the glasses in your hand momentarily slipped, your heart pounding. You threw a cautious glance to the clock above the door: it had barely been five minutes since he left, and honestly, you weren’t even expecting him to ‘talk to you later’. You’d told yourself not to get your hopes up, but either way he’d changed his mind.

This was sooner rather than later – and you were far from prepared. In fact, you were pretty exhausted.

But it was Brock.

You walked over to the door, peering through the peephole to see Brock with pink cheeks and a slightly heaving chest; coat unbuttoned as he put his hands on his hips. His face was tilted away from the door, giving you a full view of his side-profile as his teeth grazed his bottom lip anxiously. 

You stifled a smile, not wasting a second before opening the door, one hand still clutching a  few glasses by their stems. His head snapped to you as you opened the door, a relieved smile automatically making its way onto his face. 

“Sorry, um, I just needed to talk to you.” Brock started, looking at you but clearly struggling with his words. His eyes were bouncing from you to things behind you, nerves eating at him, and you smiled – to ease his mind.

“Sooner rather than later?” You stepped to the side, allowing him to step over the threshold and into your toasty apartment, though with the way he immediately shedded his coat again, he was clearly a little too hot.

But he nodded anyway, draping his coat across the back of the sofa, “I hope that’s okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nodded, “I’m just gonna put these in the kitchen first, do you want anything to drink?”

“No thanks, not right now.” He muttered, and you nodded, moving into the kitchen and placing the glasses by the sink, before turning around only to see Brock walk into the kitchen carrying bowls and even more glasses and placing them by the sink.

He rolled his sleeves up his forearms, and you could only stare in disbelief as he made himself at home, wandering back into the font room and rearranging the cushions around him, twisting back to you with an impatient look on his face.

“Sorry.” You muttered, making your way back to the sofa and sitting an appropriate distance away from  him. 

The TV was still on, and a few of the candles you’d set up earlier were beginning to fade and flicker, the lighting somewhat romantic. But it was cosy, and you pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa across your lap, offering the other half to Brock, who shook his head.

“I ran up the stairs, so I’m warm enough.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, “But thanks.”

You nodded, not sure what else to say.

It was very rare that either of you didn’t know what to say; awkwardness was never really a term you used to describe your relationship with Brock – it was always pretty natural. There were silences, but only the kind where nothing had to be said. So this was uncharted territory in more ways than one.

You inhaled, biting the bullet, “So, where should I start?”

Brock looked at his lap briefly, picking off a scrap of lint, “’Why didn’t you tell me you guys broke up?”

You tilted your head at him, “Noah was still hanging around for a while, and he said some stuff about you, us, that, had you been there, would have just made the situation worse. If I told you, you’d have probably come over–”

“Yeah.” He pulled a face, “‘Course I would. I wouldn’t have wanted you to be by yourself.”

“I wasn’t. I had Lauren.”

“You could have had me.” He muttered, eyes devastated – not for him, but for you. He didn’t want you to have had to go through it alone, and it killed him that you refused yourself of that extra support, “I would never have tried anything–”

“I know that.”

“I wouldn’t have provoked Noah – I never did, by the way, he just had a random need to…” he stuttered, “The guy had it out for me and I never even did anything.” He sighed, jaw clenching in frustration.

You nodded.

Noah had had it out for Brock; he hadn’t initially, it was something that had developed the longer you’d been together, and it had slowly ended up getting worse. Worse in that you felt like you couldn’t even look at Brock if he was in the room without causing an argument between you and Noah, and that was draining.

But not entirely Noah’s fault, either.

“It wasn’t random.” You confessed, closing your eyes and briefly touching your temple to ease the brewing headache at the conversation. It was the dredging up of little issues that you’d caused, intentionally or not, that it all accumulated to. They weren’t the sole reason for the end, though. 

Brock went quiet, gaze locked on you, chest steadily rising and falling with each breath. You were finding it hard to actually look at him, the pressure of the entire situation beginning to creep upon you.

“What?” He breathed delicately, as though he was afraid he’d misheard you.

You felt like rolling your eyes, but you kept it to yourself, “I told you Noah said some stuff, right?” He nodded, rather breathless, “He said that I’d been leading him on for a while because in the end, it wasn’t him that I wanted to see when I walked through the door. I think it was partly my fault; when we first started going out, he asked about you – something about the way you looked at me – and I told him that we always seemed to miss each other, that you were my ‘what if’, or whatever, but that it didn’t matter because it was him I was dating. That’s why he seemed to have it out for you, because you didn’t have your own girlfriend to ‘distract you’ as he so kindly put it. He thought that if you were single, and still hanging around, that somehow I’d just end up losing interest in him because I really just wanted you.”

He seemed to digest your words a little, and with each second that passed, you felt yourself become more restless, eager for him to say something to kill the little voice in your head telling you that you’d just got it all wrong.

“I mean, in a way, he was right.” You huffed, eyes a little watery but not threatening to turn into tears.

Still silence.

“Okay, so he was right about me, then.” You pulled the blanket further up your lap, refusing to look at him. If you did, you were scared that the watery eyes would turn into the full waterworks, because, as much as you’d initially tried to deny it when you were with Noah, you had always wondered about what would have happened with you and Brock, if anything at all.

He was an easy person to love, and he made you feel important. You’d just started to have a more serious soft spot for him as the years had gone on, but you’d kept out of even stepping there because when you seemed to be single, he’d be in a relationship, and he always seemed happy. 

Who were you to ruin that for him?

“He was right about me too.” 

You swore if you’d have moved even a little faster that you’d have ended up with whiplash with the speed you turned to look at him. You’d imagined this, but it had never seemed realistic.

He seemed unfazed by the way you maintained a neutral disposition, wanting to keep your guard up just in case he said something else.

“Do you remember when we met?” He asked, hesitant, a little timid, but soft nonetheless.

You found yourself nodding, “Elias’s party three years ago.”

“We talked for about an hour, until I got a call from my manager, and when I came back in, you were talking to someone else.” He sniffed, red colouring the tips of his ears as he started to tap the cushion rhythmically, “You looked so happy I didn’t dare to interrupt. What I’m trying to say is that since I got to know you, I’ve been trying to find someone who makes me feel half the things that you make me feel all day, everyday, and even on the days I don’t see you, and I haven’t come close.” He took a breath, the look he fixed you with next stealing the air from your lungs, “I’ve tried telling myself that she was perfect, that I really must be happy…but it doesn’t change anything when the root of the problem is that she’s just not you.”

You shut your mouth, not quite remembering when you jaw dropped, and just looked at him. The way that, even after all you’d said, he still looked a little worried about it all; the way a few strands of his hair had flopped in front of his eyes, but he didn’t seem to care, because you were his centre of attention. The way he was trying to smile at you, but his chin seemed to wobble with doubt. “There’s no one like you, not for me. I haven’t been able to even stomach anyone else since I broke up with her, and you were why I broke up with her. And I swear to God, when I left for New York and you came to say goodbye, I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“I was.” You admitted, unable to help the way your bottom lip wobbled.

He nodded sadly.

“But you’d just broken up with her and I hated the idea of being a rebound.” It was your turn to sniffle, “And then when you came back, you never even brought it up. I took it as you not wanting that with me, and then…” You trailed off.

The story finished itself, really. Then Noah came around. Shook some shit up.

“I didn’t bring it up because it felt wrong talking about it over the phone. I tried texting you, but nothing felt right, and then when we did see each other, someone always interrupted. Then Noah showed up and stuck around.” 

“I don’t regret Noah,” you murmured, Brock catching your eye as he shook his head in agreement, “I really did love him, I just don’t think it was enough for me in the end, and I’m so pissed at myself that it took two years to realise it.”

Brock’s fingers itched to touch you, to release the bottom lip you’d caught between your teeth, to smooth the crease on your forehead. But now wasn’t the time.

His head rang with Elias’s earlier words, “It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault.” He sighed, still fighting to repress the urge to give your hand a reassuring squeeze. He knew what he wanted to say, but the last thing he wanted was to either rub it in your face or have you thinking the wrong thing, “Some people are meant for each other at different points in their life, depending on circumstances or who they are at that time. People change, no one can help that.”

“What about the other people?”

“What do you mean?”

“The other people that change but don’t break up?”

“I think you just answered your own question.”

You sighed, frustrated, “What decides that, though?”

Brock was quiet, mind ticking, “I think if you love someone enough, that even if they do change, it won’t matter. I like to think you adapt to love the changed parts of them, otherwise what would be the point of loving someone?” 

“That’s nice.” You admitted, feeling mildly comforted by his words. They felt sort of like a promise of sorts.

“Can I ask you a question?” Brock asked after a moment's silence. 

You nodded, taking in the timid expression on his face as he ran a hand through his hair, combing back the loose strands. You hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was a bracelet on his wrist, almost like a knotted piece of tape.

You swallowed, heart pounding. It looked very familiar — almost exactly like the same piece of tape you’d given him ages ago because he felt like he was missing out on a good luck charm.

“If I hadn’t been in the picture, would you still be with Noah?” 

If Brock hadn’t been in the picture…that thought wasn’t a particularly comforting one. In fact, a life without Brock, even in the outskirts, sounded pretty miserable in your opinion. 

However, in regards to his question, the answer was pretty obvious.

“Probably. Maybe, it’s hard to say.” 

His face seemed to fall at that admission, “Sorry.”

You shook your head, smiling softly, “Don’t be, I prefer it. If anything, I think it says that I’d have settled for someone that makes me feel less than what I feel for you, and the idea of that is pretty dull.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, “Pretty dull?”

You shrugged, “At least pretty dull.”

“What now, then?” 

You swallowed, heart hammering wildly against your sternum at the suggestion in his words. You hadn’t ever really expected you’d get this far with Brock – ever. The endless missed opportunities or bad timings felt like an accumulation of signs not to give into your feelings for him, not a ‘bide your time’ kind of thing.

“I need some time before…”

Brock nodded, smiling like he’d expected your answer. In fact, knowing the kind of person he was, it wouldn’t have been a shock at all if he’d even anticipated it.

“That’s fine by me. I’ve waited three years, I can wait a little longer.” He joked, and this time you noticed the way his hand seemed to jump towards you, before he clenched his fist, folding it under his arm to quell the urge, “I do mean it, though. Take all the time you want, I’ll keep my distance–”

The overwhelming surge of panic that seemed to just crash over you at his promise of distance seemed to come over you quickly. You’d just got him in arm’s distance, and now he was about to leave you alone?

“Hopefully not too far.” You interjected, “I mean, I broke up with Noah two months ago, I’ve already had a lot of thinking time.” And at the insensitive bluntness of your hurried words, you added, “I just need to…close that chapter.”

He nodded, jaw clenching as he fought an excited smile. And, almost to distract you both, he turned to point at the TV, “Do you want to press play?”

[fallinallincurls]

in picture frames, in all my dreams, you’re the one i want

this is my entry for @wyattjohnston 's winter fic exchange 2k24!! i wrote this fic for the lovely @laurenairay and i hope you love it so much! i had the best time writing this one (which means there will probably be more brock fics in the future). and shoutout to @tonyspep for bouncing ideas around with me as always!

i also made a playlist for this fic as well if you'd like to check it out!

hope you enjoy!! feedback is always appreciated! xx

word count: 3.8k+

~~~~~

This was not supposed to happen. You were supposed to be on a plane back to Minnesota right now so you would be home in time for Christmas. But when you arrived at the airport earlier, the board of departures were full of canceled flights including yours. And when you brought your dilemma to the customer service desk, they informed you that all flights out of Vancouver were either booked or canceled through the 26th. The day after Christmas.

That’s how you ended up where you are now. Frantically knocking on your best friend’s front door and trying to hold back the overwhelming urge to cry.

“Come on, come on, come on.” You mutter to yourself, knocking one more time in hopes that the one person you want to see right now will answer.

At that very moment, the door swings open to reveal a cozy but sleepy looking Brock. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats with an old Canucks t-shirt. His blonde hair is tousled but still somehow looks perfect and his blue eyes light up at the sight of you. You love seeing him like this, so soft and relaxed. The Brock that the media and fans don’t know, but you do. 

“Uh, hi. Again.” You say quietly while offering a watery smile.

“Y/N?” Brock asks, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. You don’t blame him, it is only six in the morning. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you going home today?”

“Well yeah, but the insane snow storm had other plans. My flight was canceled and I can’t get anything until after Christmas. So I’m kind of stuck here.”

“A week of me wasn’t enough for you?” He teases, that familiar smile brightening up his face. You just shrug in response, your lips just barely tipping up at his playfulness.

Without saying another word, Brock pulls you into his arms for the tightest hug. It takes everything in you not to sob against his sturdy chest as the warmth and comfort he always carries surrounds you.

“I’m going to miss Christmas.” The terrifying admission tumbles from your lips as tears start falling. You’ve never missed a Christmas at home with your family and you can’t imagine spending the magical day stranded halfway across the continent. 

“No, you’re not.” Brock murmurs, smoothing your hair down as he holds you. The small gesture immediately makes you feel more at ease. It’s something only he knows that will help calm you down when you’re upset. Before you protest, Brock makes a split second decision. “You’re going to spend Christmas here, with me. We’re going to celebrate Christmas together. And you can stay here since all the hotels are probably booked or mad expensive, it’s just easier.”

It takes a moment for Brock’s words to register in your mind, but when they do, your heart swells. Of course he would welcome you in for a holiday that you weren’t supposed to spend with him. He would do anything for you and he’s been that way since you were kids. But right now, you’re more grateful than ever for his kindness.

“Are you sure? I was only supposed to visit you for a week.” You ask faintly, voicing the only worry that surfaced at his suggestion. 

When the University of Minnesota, the school that you’re currently a professor at, announced the dates of winter break, you immediately booked a flight out to Vancouver to spend some much needed time with your best friend. It’s tough to see Brock during the season because classes are also in session and schedules almost never line up. But you weren’t letting this opportunity pass by. The past week has been spent catching up and doing everything that was physically possible together. You couldn’t have been happier you made the trip until the debacle this morning put a damper on the unbelievable happiness you’ve been feeling since you arrived in Vancouver. 

“And the weather said a week wasn’t long enough.” Brock says, his tone of voice telling you there was no room for arguments. “I won’t let you spend Christmas alone so we’re doing this, okay? Plus, I don’t think Coolie and Milo will mind having you around for a few more days. You know how much they love you.”

“The dogs aren’t the only ones who love me.” Brock smiles at your playful comment and can’t help but chuckle at the truth of the oblivious statement. The full extent of his feelings for you that he’s been hiding for years is unknown to everyone but himself. And maybe Quinn and Petey. But he won’t admit how he feels about you until he knows the moment’s right, until maybe there’s a chance you feel the same way.

So he shrugs nonchalantly and lets a laugh slip past his lips while ignoring the way his heart races just from looking at you. Before he can say anything in response, you’re surging forward to hug him again.

“Thank you so much, really. It means the world to me. You have no idea.”

“You know I’d do anything for you.” Brock admits, honesty seeping through each word. “Besides, spending Christmas with you just made my holiday a lot more exciting.” 

“Please,” You roll your eyes in response, but the softest smile blossoms across your lips and the insane amount of anxiety that was consuming you a few minutes ago has already started to dissipate.

“C’mon,” Brock starts, pulling you through the door and over the threshold of his apartment. “You’re probably exhausted so let’s get you a nap and we’ll go from there.”

There’s no resistance as he leads you to his bedroom, hands you one of his t-shirts and tells you it’ll all be okay. Before you know it, you’re under the blankets, wrapped up in the warmth and coziness of Brock’s bed, drifting off to a much needed sleep.

When you wake up a few hours later, well rested and feeling much better, you find yourself squished between two large dogs. A giggle slips past your lips at the sight.

“Hey guys!” You exclaim, not wasting a second to give both Coolie and Milo some pets. “Lucky you, I’ll be here for a couple more days which means you’ll get plenty of extra snacks.”

“No, they won’t!” Brock calls from somewhere in the apartment, making a laugh bubble up in your throat. Even if your Christmas isn’t going to go as you had planned, you’re glad that you’ll be spending it with your favorite person in the world. 

The dogs race ahead of you to find Brock as you start making your way down the hallway. Although you’ve spent a decent amount of time in Brock’s apartment over your weeklong visit, you take a few extra seconds to look over the collection of pictures he has hanging on the wall throughout the hallway. Photos of him with his family, smiling with teammates, namely Petey and Quinn who you know have become his best friends, views from his many trips to different places around the world and of course, snapshots of you and him together. 

A smile blossoms on your face as you look over the memories frozen in time in each photo, laughing to yourself at the ridiculous ones Brock has hanging up that feature his teammates and you. But just before you’re about to head down the stairs to find him, one picture catches your eye. You don’t know how you missed it over the last week, but you must have.

Because staring back at you are little versions of you and Brock, flashing big, beaming grins at the camera in front of the sign to the summer camp you both attended for years. That’s how the two of you met and you remember looking forward to the summer just because it meant seeing and spending time with Brock. Even though you both lived in Minnesota, it wasn’t until you were older that you were able to communicate outside penpal letters sent in the mail and the ninety days you spent together on the campground where you both formed memories that will last a lifetime.

You couldn’t have been more than seven in the photo and it’s clear that both of you are happier than ever. That feeling is still present today whenever you’re with Brock, it’s nestled deep within your heart like it belongs there forever and you’ve carried it around for most of your life. It only took you years after he already had moved to Vancouver to realize that happiness can often be mistaken for love. 

Shoving those thoughts away, you bound down the stairs to meet your best friend again. There’s a new pep in your step as you’re determined to make the most of every second this Christmas even if it’s not what you expected. You’re here with Brock which is all you could ask for.

A gentle smile is already on your lips when you get to the bottom floor, but you halt almost immediately when you see the scene in front of you. Coolie and Milo are wearing the cutest doggie holiday sweaters and Brock is softly grinning while leaning against the kitchen counter which is full of a wide variety of baking ingredients. And when your eyes look over the living room, you notice a box labeled “ornaments” sitting atop the coffee table, undoubtedly full of all of the beautiful ornaments that were carefully hanging from the branches of Brock’s Christmas tree just hours ago. 

“What is-”

“I told you we were celebrating Christmas and we’re going to do it the right way.” Brock simply explains, blue eyes twinkling with joy and you see a flicker of nervousness there too. Like he isn’t sure if you like the gesture.

“Brock,” You breathe out, his name just above a whisper. 

“I know you love decorating the tree on Christmas Eve so I just took down the ornaments so we can do it together. And your family always bakes cookies the night before Christmas too and I surprisingly already had most of what we needed for the recipes.”

There aren’t enough words to properly show the gratitude, the love, that’s swelling in your chest so you just cross the room and wrap your arms around him in the tightest embrace. Brock immediately responds, pulling you even closer to him, and for a moment everything feels right. 

“Thank you,” The words are quiet, but Brock hears them and presses a delicate kiss to the top of your head. You pray he doesn’t feel the way your heart skips a beat at the sweet action and he must not because he pulls away with a big smile and a hint of mischief mixed with something else you can’t quite place evident in his eyes.

“Of course, you deserve nothing less. What do you want to do first?” He asks, ready to jump into either activity. But it’s right then that everything clicks.

“Wait, you went out in the snow to get the rest of the ingredients we needed?”

“Well, yeah, it’s not too bad. Compared to the snow we used to get at home, this is like nothing.”

“But it’s cold! And how did you get the recipes for my favorite Christmas cookies without-” You trail off, the realization setting in at the same moment Brock speaks up to confirm your suspicions.

“I called your mom. She was more than happy to share the recipes with me when I explained what I was up to. That was the easiest part actually!” 

If you weren’t already head over heels in love with him already, this moment would’ve sealed the deal. You can’t believe he went through all this trouble just to make the holiday special when you weren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. Nothing but adoration rushes through your veins and you can feel the blush creeping into your cheeks. Without hesitating, you lean up to kiss his cheek as yet another silent thank you and his skin almost immediately turns pink. 

“Alright, let’s do this, yeah?” He asks, distracting you from his reaction to the little gesture the two of you have been doing since you were younger and pulling you into the kitchen. It doesn’t take long for Christmas music to be turned on, filling the air with even more of a festive feeling. Brock makes sure your apron is tied on, just like you do for his, and then you’re off baking. You teach Brock all the techniques you’ve learned over the years from making these recipes and you get the pleasure of seeing him so free and happy.

You want to see him like this for the rest of your life. A big smile on his face, eyes crinkled in happiness and no sign of any stress hanging over him.

“What are we going to do with all these cookies?” The question falls off your lips after Brock slides the last batch into the oven. 

“Easy. You’ll take some back home with you so your mom can see how much of an awesome job I did and the rest I’ll give to the team. A lot of them won’t say no to homemade cookies even if it’s the middle of the season.” 

“If you say so,” You giggle, not being able to picture his teammates willingly accepting Christmas cookies when they’re in the middle of the best season the team has had in a long time. But you don’t argue, just set aside the best looking cookies that you and Brock decorated for Quinn and Petey, and sneak one to Coolie and Milo too, before getting the kitchen back in order.

After everything is cleaned up so the kitchen doesn’t look like a total disaster anymore and you both enjoy the takeout that Brock ordered for dinner, no time is wasted in moving to the living room to decorate the Christmas tree.

“Okay, where do we start?” You contemplate, gently placing your full mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table while surveying the tree glittering in the corner of the room. 

“I forgot how seriously you take decorating for the holidays.” Brock chuckles, opening the box that he put all the ornaments back in earlier. He didn’t really forget, in fact, he missed it more than anything. That’s more than half the reason he spent so much time taking every single bauble off the tree. Yes, he wanted to make sure Christmas was as magical for you as it would’ve been back home, but he also selfishly wanted to share this moment with you too.

And he’d be lying if he said his heart isn’t full to brim right now with what he knows is love. Not that you can tell or would ever know that.

“The tree is serious business!” You exclaim with a chuckle, watching as Brock carefully starts removing ornaments from the box one at a time. He hands you a simple, but gorgeous blue ball to hang up first.

Slowly, but surely, the two of you decorate the tree with the wide variety of ornaments Brock has. He tells you the stories behind the ones his teammates have gifted him, shares the laughter with you when he stumbles across one that has a picture of him as a toddler in the picture frame and recounts the memories of family or solo vacations whenever he hands you one that was clearly bought at a tourist shop. There’s a soft smile on Brock’s face that never disappears and you swear he keeps sneaking glances at you.  

The tree becomes more festive as each decoration once again finds a home on its branches and not for the first time today, you forget that this isn’t where you were meant to be for the holiday. But you’re kind of grateful for the snowstorm now. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gotten to do any of this with the man who you’ve wanted for years.

“It’s done!” You cheer with excitement when you place the last ornament on the tree. “We did a pretty good job. Don’t you think?” Stepping back to admire the beautiful work you both did, your shoulder bumps Brock’s and that familiar shock of warmth floods through your veins at the brief contact. 

“It’s the best Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.” Brock responds playfully, but there's a faint tone of seriousness evident in his voice. His eyes are glistening in the glow of the lights and you can’t deny how perfect he looks so cozy and joyful like this. 

A few seconds later, without you realizing, Brock slips away to put the box away until it was time to take all the holiday decorations down in a few weeks. But to his surprise, there is one last ornament sitting in the box that was somehow forgotten.

“Y/N,” Brock laughs, picking up the decoration. “We forgot one.”

“No way! What is it?” Nothing but curiosity and excitement is evident in your voice. You cross the room to Brock and lean into his side to see what the mystery ornament is.

And when you get a glimpse, your breath is stolen away. Because in Brock’s hand is a small photo of a grinning little boy and girl sitting together at a picnic table inside a picture frame made of colored popsicle sticks. The two words “best friends” are written in black marker across the bottom of the frame in a neat, but childish looking style of handwriting.

Recognition washes over you instantly.

“I made that,” You start, almost stunned as you look between the homemade ornament and Brock’s face.

“You did. Like decades ago.” Brock chuckles, the sound fills the room with happiness and light. He still remembers the day you gave him this little gift. It was the last day of summer camp and before you both said goodbye with a promise to see each other soon, you gave him the gift. For only being nine years old at the time, Brock thought it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for him. Plus, that way he had a little piece of you back home too.

Since then, he’s cherished this adorable, homemade ornament like nothing else. It always seemed a little silly to him, to hold onto a childhood craft, but seeing your reaction right now tells him it means just as much to you as it does to him.

“And you still have it. You kept it all this time?”

“Of course I did.”

“Why?” The question is gentle, but full of genuine interest. There’s a beat of comfortable silence as Brock battles with his thoughts for a moment. He knows this is it. This is the moment he finally tells you how he feels. All of the nerves and worries he had about confessing how his heart beats just for you falls away in mere seconds.

Your brows furrow at the strange look on his face. His blue eyes are full of an emotion you can’t place and the softest smile graces his lips. But more than anything, there’s a trace of clarity on display across his features. His gaze flicks down to your lips a few times before he speaks. 

“Because you’re my best friend.” Brock whispers, each word carrying more weight than ever before. “But I don’t think that’s enough for me anymore.” He admits, a weight lifting off his shoulders as the words hang in the air for a moment.

He doesn’t have to say anything else because you know what it is right then. He is in love. With you.

“And you’re my best friend, but I want us to be more too.” Brock’s face practically lights up at your response, knowing that you feel the same way he does. It almost feels like a dream that after years, he doesn’t have to wonder anymore if you have fallen for him too.

“Can I kiss you?” Brock asks with a gentle voice as one hand settles on your hip before pulling you in closer. “We did somehow end up under the mistletoe.” He points up to where the collection of leaves are hanging in the entryway you’re both standing under. You can’t help but laugh at the sight and nothing but pure elation fills your heart.

“Yes, please.” 

He cradles your cheek with one hand while the other stays on your hip, keeping you pressed against his body. You can’t help the smile that blossoms on your face before his lips catch yours in the softest, most passionate kiss you’ve ever experienced. The rough feel of his scruff against your smooth skin makes you giggle a little bit, which Brock responds to by deepening the kiss even more.

It’s absolutely perfect. You’ve dreamt of this exact moment more times than you’d like to admit, but it’s everything and more. And by the way Brock is holding you, it’s obvious he’s been waiting for this too.

When he reluctantly pulls away a few seconds later, there’s a new glimmer that you’ve never seen before in his bright blue eyes. He looks like the human form of sunshine right now and you can’t take it. You reach up to brush a lock of blonde hair back off of Brock’s forehead. He gives your hip a reassuring squeeze, a reminder that this is in fact real.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” Brock murmurs, his smile just mere centimeters away from yours.

“I think I do.”

And without hesitation, you lean in to kiss him again. Once because it’s been a long night, twice because it’ll be alright, three times because you waited your whole life.

Before any fears or worries can creep in and ruin the moment, Brock wraps you up in a tight hug. Your head rests against his chest where you can hear his steady heartbeat.

“We’ll figure everything out. I promise.” He says calmly, somehow knowing what your next thought is going to be. “But it’s Christmas Eve and I don’t want to do anything else but enjoy being here with you.”

“I’ve never been so grateful for a snowstorm in my life.” You laugh, pure bliss humming through your body.

“Me either. Who would’ve thought that’s all it would’ve taken for this to finally happen?”

Later that night, when you’re snuggled up with Brock on the couch watching Home Alone while Coolie and Milo sleep nearby, you realize that you did in fact get to spend Christmas at home even though you didn’t make it back to Minnesota. Because Brock is home. Just being in his arms brings you the same kind of comfort and love you cherish so deeply.

Almost as if he can sense that you’re getting lost in your thoughts, Brock raises a brow in silent question when you look up at him. You just smile in response before leaning up to kiss his cheek which earns you a sweet grin.

“Merry Christmas, Brock.”

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.” Brock murmurs softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “So happy my Christmas wish came true this year.”

[lam-ila]

Hotel Room || Brock Boeser

Summary: Brock invites you to a family vacation where you have to share a bed and… well I think you know what’ll happen next.

Word Count: 1,629

Warnings: none (please let me know if you find any that i should add)

NHL Masterlist

a/n: here’s my entry for the 2024 winter fic exchange hosted by the lovely @wyattjohnston ! this was written for @gravestrain . i hope you like it Elle!

this is gender neutral. hope you enjoy this! feedback is appreciated

LIKES ARE GREAT, REBLOGS ARE BETTER ♡

You and Brock had been best friends since high school and you two were very close. You were invited to each others’ family dinners, parties, and vacations. Most recently, Brock invited you to a week long family vacation Cancun. However, this family vacation was different from the other ones you attended as this was a vacation that included Brock’s extended family and you very much wanted to make them like you.

It was a long and tiring commute over to Cancun, but you had finally made it to the hotel you were staying at. Having already eaten dinner, you, Brock, and his family agreed on crashing in the hotel rooms in order to be refreshed for the next few days to come.

You stood in the hotel lobby as you and Brock waited for your room keycards, becoming suspicious when you saw a few of Brock’s cousins in a huddle with their and your room keycards.

“Here’s your keycards.” One of them said while handing Brock the keycards. “Well, see you two tomorrow!” His cousins left for the elevator before either one of you could respond, leaving just you and Brock standing in the lobby.

“They seemed overly excited to give us our keycards.” Brock pointed out, a hint of worry laced within his words.

“They’re probably just excited that we’re at the hotel.” You said in an attempt to ease his mind.

“No, there’s definitely something there hiding from us.” Brock reached for your hand and protectively intertwined his fingers with yours. You knew it was common for him and his cousins to play pranks on each other and you could tell that Brock was worried that they pulled a prank on you.

Once you reached the room and opened the door, you noticed that there was only one bed in the centre of the room.

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me.” Brock said, taking his hand out of yours and running it through his hair.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, unsure of the problem.

Brock walked over to one of the bedside tables, noticing a hand written note that read ‘have fun’. He turned around in frustration; that was the prank his cousins pulled, they knew to give you a room with two beds and they chose not to.

“I told my cousins to give us a room with two beds and they purposely gave us a room with only one bed!” Brock pointed out, waving the note around in frustration.

“I mean, it’s not that bad.” You reasoned. Was sharing a bed with each other that much of a challenge for Brock? Maybe you were just reading into it too much.

“Yeah, I know.” Brock sighed, easing your worries. “I just didn’t want them to do something to you.”

You took the note out of his hand, confused at the message written on it, but put it aside after realizing it was probably some inside joke between Brock and his cousins.

After you and Brock got ready for bed, you sat one one side of the bed, fully expecting Brock to follow and sit on the other side. Instead, to your dismay, he took the pillow off of his side and placed it onto the floor.

“Brock, you are not sleeping on the floor.” You broke the ongoing silence that was present since discovering the note left by his cousins.

“But there’s… I mean… they…” he stammered.

As he was trying to explain his thoughts, you slowly walked over to him and lightly placed your index finger on his mouth, silently shushing him.

“It’s okay,” you assured while taking your finger off of his lips. “just get in the bed.”

“Is that an order?” Brock teased, a slight smirk appearing on his face.

“Mhm. You and I are both getting in the bed and then we’re going to sleep because it’s a bed and not a big deal.” You explained, trying to convince not only him, but yourself that sleeping together in one bed wasn’t as tragic as it seemed.

“Alright.” He said, picking up his pillow and returning it to the bed. “But if I bother you at any point throughout the night, you wake me up and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Okay Brock.” You chuckled, agreeing only to get him to stop suggesting that he slept on the floor.

So there you were, both laying in the same bed with all the lights off minus two lamps which rested on bedside tables next to each side of the bed. Brock faced away from you and you on your back facing the ceiling. Both of your eyes were wide open in thought.

“Hey Brock?” You called out, hoping he wasn’t too tired after a full day of travelling to have a conversation.

“Yeah?” He responded, turning to face you, but you stayed still and continued to look at the ceiling.

“What are we?” You hit him with the hard hitting question. The question he never found the courage to ask in fear of losing you as a friend. “I mean, we’re friends, yeah, but what is all of this going on between us?” You shifted your body so that you were looking at him, wanting to see what his body reaction was to your question.

“What do you mean?” Brock asked, a concerned look fully present on his face.

“That,” you pointed out. “that’s what I mean.”

“Well, I’m concerned because I’m your friend.”

“No Brock, that’s not what I-” You cut yourself off, deciding to drop the topic. “Never mind, just forget I said anything.” You began turning to face away from him, but Brock quickly grabbed your hands to prevent you from turning away. He only dropped your hands once you showed that you weren’t going to turn away.

“Then what did you mean? It’s obvious it’s important to you and if it’s important to you then it’s important to me.”

You took a deep breath as you smiled slightly at his words.

“I mean, are we more than what we think we are? Because last time I checked, people who are just friends don’t act the way we do towards each other and then there was the note on the-”

“That was just a stupid joke my cousins always make about me.” Brock interrupted you to downplay said note which was currently crumpled up in the hotel room’s garbage bin.

“Would you let me finish?” You slightly teased. “What I’m trying to say is that I like being friends with you.”

“Okay, I like being friends with you too.”

You tilted your head to give him a pointed look, indicating you still hadn’t said what you wanted to say.

“I’m still not done.” You explained.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You found his hand under the covers and squeezed it in reassurance. “I like being friends with you and sometimes I feel like we’re more than that. Sometimes, I wish that we were more than that.” You paused, waiting for Brock’s reaction. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words were spoken. “But I understand if you don’t want that. It doesn’t have to change anything.” You quickly added, still unsure of what Brock thought. Your eyes frantically scanned his face over and over again, looking for any indication of a response. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Sometimes?” He teased.

“What?”

“You only sometimes wish that we were more than that?” Brock laughed softly to himself. “‘Cause I always wish that we were more than that.”

“Really?” A smile starts to spread on your lips, but it drops and you abruptly sit up when you realize: “This is just some sick joke that you’re pulling.”

“Why would you think that?” Brock follows your actions and sits up.

“You really think I would fall for this?” You accused, getting up from the bed. You went to the washroom and started collecting your things, wanting to be anywhere but in a room with Brock.

“I don’t understand.” Brock said, following you into the washroom to try to stop you from leaving. “Why would you think that?” He repeated.

“Just forget I said anything.” You tried to brush past him, but he stopped you in the doorway of the washroom.

“Why would you think that?” Brock repeated a third and final time, this time much slower than the previous two times. He waited for a response, but all you did was look at the ground and not say anything. Brock took your hand in his, gently pulling you to the bed that started everything and you both sat down on it. Letting go of your hand, he softly caressed your cheek until you finally spoke up.

“It’s not a joke.”

“Nope.”

“It was just,” you sighed, unsure of how to get your thoughts out. “too good to be true that I guess I just tried to think of any reason why it wouldn’t be true.”

Brock shifted his body to get a better view of you as you tilted your head to finally look him in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have invited you here if I didn’t feel that way about you.”

“We always invite each other to family vacations, how was I supposed to know the intent behind this invitation was any different?” You laughed in disbelief, playfully hitting Brock’s shoulder.

“That was my bad.” He laughed along with you.

“So, does this mean that… well… that we’re…”

“Just ask me to be your boyfriend.” Brock abruptly cut you off. “Uh… please?”

Laughing at his eagerness, you asked the question you’ve been wanting to ask for years: “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Brock simply hummed in response before finally capturing your lips with his in a kiss.

——————————

NHL taglist: @readyfreddy @jostystyles @jimothystu @typical-simplelove @2manytabsopen @11livpangburn @matthewkniesys @lifeofpriya @fallinallincurls

join my taglist here

[mommahughes19-23]

Close as Strangers - B.B

“Through the tears I can hear that I shouldn't have gone, every day it gets harder to stay away from you”

summary : Brock’s playing in the stanley cup with the team. He looses and you tell him how you really feel. you’re a nurse and you’re overwhelmed and miss him.

A.N : Wrote this on my break, edited. enjoy tho. xoxoxo,M

You stand over your last patient of the day, an elder woman who on any other day you would feel bad for and have way more compassion than you do at this current moment. You live in Minnesota and you’ve known the Boeser family since you and Brock were in diapers, born a week apart and your mom’s both attending the same ‘mommy and me’ group. You are currently interning at Minnesota State Hospital as part of your last year in grad school, and to say it was overwhelming was an understatement. You and Brock typically spoke every night despite the time difference, yet lately you guys spoke maybe 5 minutes per week with the busy life you both had. Brock was still in Vancouver as the Canucks were still in the playoffs, you worked 12 hours 5 days a week.

“Miss Nurse, can you give me my meds and be gone” the patient you had just given meds to not less than 5 minutes prior had dementia and again any other day you would be more calm, but after getting thrown up on, slapped by an older patient also with dementia you had had it. “I just told you I gave them to you!” you raised your voice and huffed out. Your coworker looked at you as if to say he would finish up and you should head home for the night. You walk to the center reception desk and clock out not bothering to say anything to anyone, grabbed your bag and walked out to the elevator. You felt your phone buzz to life as you were prohibited from carrying it during your shifts as it was a distraction, 13 missed calls from Brock… You click his name and call him back though it’s only 5am your time so 2am his.

“Hey bug.” he says through the phone, “Hey sorry B, I was at work what’s up?” you tried your best to hold in your emotions but you had been so ready to let the tears flow once you got to your car it was like a leaky faucet that just got worse. “Well we lost, we are out of the play offs. The guys probably hate me for not playing.” you honestly felt numb for a moment, trying to process how you would comfort your best friend and suppress your own emotions. You thought you would be able to just pour your heart out through the phone to Brock like you used to and he would say all the right things like he always did, 6 weeks or 6 months since he’s been away. Hockey and the idea of the Canucks not making it through to the finals were the least of your worries. None the less you responded “I’m sorry to hear that B, not your fault though, you need to remember to take your health seriously. You’re of less use hurt than you are on the side for a little. The guys understand.” you say shaky as you comfort him in the way you longed for him to do for you.

“I know but this blood clot thing was the last thing I needed and it just sucks that I couldn’t be there in person to cheer them on.” “I hear you but you can’t focus on the what ifs. But uh- is it uhm - is it cool if I call you back in a little. I just- just got off and I’m gonna head home.” you say slightly hiccuping trying not to let the tears fall.

“Bug, are you ok? You sound like you’re about to have a panic attack, and don’t say you’re fine I can tell you’re not.” He responds. You let the tears start flowing and you’re honestly scared that you may not be able to stop. “I don’t know Brock, I want to be a nurse so bad and I have worked so hard but these long hours and missing you and not having you here to comfort me I just don’t know how to do it.” You say in one breath. “I don’t want to give up because all my work will have been for nothing but, how the FUCK do i get through this lack of sleep and pressure”. “You miss me?” he says as if he is oblivious to you’re hints you have been dropping for months now. “Yes of course, you’re the only one who knows how - how - how to help me when- i -i am like this. I think I love you.” you say through your sobs.

“Forget the stanley cup we can mourn my loss later, baby I can tell through the tears that I shouldn’t have gone to Vancouver, and I want you to know it gets harder every day to stay away from you. I want to fly you out to all my games and I want you to wear my jersey and I want to call you mine baby. What do you say, I’ll be back home in a few days, can you wait for me a little longer and we can talk in person?” “I’ll wait forever for you, I can’t wait to have you back home.” “I love you bug.” he says, you smile so big and wipe the rest of the dried tears. “I love you more.”

“6 months since I went away, and to know everything has changed, and tomorrow I’ll be coming back to you.”

Tags : @skylershines @puck-luck @quinnylouhughesx43 @noahkahansorangejuice

gimme feedback thanks. will edit around 8 my time.

[jocelynscrazyideas]

Would you ever right a piece about birth complications with brock boeser maybe like a premie little babe 🥹

Baby | Brock Boeser x reader

Summary: Brock comforts you as you had just given birth to your baby. Brock and your baby had came out about two months early, he’s just a preemie.

Warnings: none?!

A:N- I’m scared. I got to tired so I hope this kinda flops?!

I was due on the 15 of May. Brock and I’s baby had ended changing plans and popped out the 7th of March. I mean it’s still I nice birthday, in the late hockey season, summer is around the corner, just perfect timing. Only problem is that my baby is a premature child.

Doctor said that he has a very low chance of having normal a healthy life. I’m sure he’ll have a perfectly fine devil outisde but he’ll be in the schools repeating grades, but that doesn’t matter to me.

I’m scared I’ll lose the love of my life. Brock went down to grab me some ice chips, I didn’t want him to hear the news.

“Hey babe.” Brock says walking in with a paper cup of ice. “Eat up.” He hands me the cup and I chop down on them.

We haven’t seen our baby in 17 hours. I gave birth to him about 19 hours ago, but he went straight to the NICU. “I’m sure he’s okay.” Brock comforted me, I think it’s more for himself. Brick starts to pace back and forth across my room.

“I need to pee, help me up.” I say as I reach for a hand. I have my diapers on, they have an ice pack inside and cooking pads. No one told me that eveb having a premature baby is still exhausting. Such a small baby hurts to push out.

“He’s okay.” Brock says finally, no question and no lie. Only confidence.

Brock walks me to the bathroom and locks the door as he walks in with me. He helps me stand up and wipe. Gross.

I’m bleeding literally everywhere.

“How are you holding up?” Brock checks in on me. I’m fine. That’s what I should say but I start crying.

Truthfully, I’m terrified.

“I don’t want to lose him.” I say, I can’t breathe, I fall to the ground. Brock pulls my diaper up and washed mine and his own hands. He picks me up from the ground and tick me in my bed.

My heart rate is really fast. I need water.

“Baby, just look at me. We can always try again. Besides, Cruz will be okay. He’s going to be okay. That’s what the doctor said.” I love the name Cruz. It’s a perfect baby name, and the perfect grown man’s name.

I look into Brock’s blue eyes, and I just stare at the window that points towards the hallway in the hospital. Brock takes my cup of ice that melted and he drinks it. He’s obviously nervous too, so I have to be there for him as well.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, I know he’s not. I mean he’s probating the same I do. “No.” He states, plane and simple. He isn’t okay.

“Did you go watch him on the window? I look into his eyes, and at his overgrown beard, his blonde ashy hair, it’s a mess. I love it that way. It’s so personal that way, so intimate, seeing eachother so tired, exhausted, and a total wreck.

“No, but I’ll head down and take pictures for you.” Brock insists as he hold my hand and kisses it. He walks out and I’m alone.

~

It’s been about a month after Cruz has been born. We all made it out of the hospital but it’s been difficult. Cruz sees the doctor about twice a month, he has special milk, and he’s super fragile. I can’t even hold my own baby.

I know it seems wrong to keep Cruz at home with us, but Brock lives him, and I adore that.

~

It’s been 5 months. Cruz is a healthy and strong baby, but it’s been hard to keep him in his playroom when I’m cooking. He’s to strong.

“He’s so cute.” Brock whimpers as he puts Cruz into his crib. “I love him.” Brock whispers as he takes my hand and pull me onto our room. He sits me down and starts kissing me on my neck down.

“Baby number two?” I laugh out. I hope so.

“Yes. But maybe later.” Brock walks out of our room and come back with a big smile.

“I got you some..” Brock stalls and he opens this big pan of brownies. He knows I love brownies. I’ve been cleaning, nurturing, and cooking all day. I’ve been busy and haven’t had time to relax. This is it. Relaxing with Brock.

“I love you.” Brock nudged me after taking a bite into a brownie. We sit in our bed for hours until Cruz woke up.

[hockeyboysimagines]

1 under drabbles with Brock Boeser pretty plss

Thanks for this anon! I love writing for him🤍

You weren’t a fool to think you met Brock on accident. I mean, true it probably had been an accident that he almost knocked you on your ass when you ran into him, but the rest had to be fate.

He was a great guy, sweet and funny and someone you’d come to love having around. While you harbored a GIANT crush on him, it was very clear that he did not feel the same.

You knew he liked you, as a friend. He always wanted to hang out, but he didn’t look at you with stars in his eyes, or like you hung the moon or anything like that.

While it sucked, it made you feel good to know at least that he loved you as a friend. That kind of love was better than no love at all.

Your friends however didn’t see it that way. They argued, insisted that he had feelings for you beyond friendship. They tried to get you to make a move. But you refused. There was no way you were going to humiliate yourself in front of him and have him never speak to you again.

So you buried it and went along like everything was fine.

Which is exactly why you were getting ready for a blind date.

“If you’re not interested in anyone right now then what’s the problem with a blind date.”

Not wanting to out yourself and your feelings for Brock, you agreed, but you weren’t gonna be happy about it.

You moaned and whined and complained the entire time you got ready. You were meeting the guy, whatever his name was, at a restaurant downtown. It was a nice place, and you gave your name to the hostess. As she walked down the aisle and turned the corner you stopped dead, mid step.

Sitting in a booth was Brock, looking as surprised to see you as you were to see him.

And then he smiled.

“Should have seen this coming.” He said as you sat down.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is everyone’s always on me about dating and all that.”

“Oh.” You had secretly hoped that maybe he had seen it coming because he was realizing he was completely in love with you, but no such luck. Dinner passed by and after it was over, he tugged on your sleeve.

“Let’s take a walk, and then I’ll take you home.”

The walk was quiet for a while, until he spoke.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, why?”

“Your just really quiet is all. Sorry our friends did this, I might have ruined your chance to meet Mr. Right.”

You laughed hollowly “I doubt that. The only person I think might be right doesn’t see me that way.”

“What?” He frowned and gave you a shoulder bump “I think a lot of people see you that way. Your beautiful Y/N.”

“Yeah sure.”

He was frowning at you “ No seriously you are.”

“It’s okay Brock. This was a set up. You don’t have to act anymore.”

“What? Wait hang on.” He stopped walking and grabbed your arm gently “What makes you think I’m acting?”

“You obviously have no interest in me, like that and it’s okay. But I- I like you, and yeah tonight was a set up and I don’t wanna get my hopes-“

“You like…me?” He asked pointing at himself, you had expected him to be weirded out, or awkward but he was smiling.

“I do, I have for a long time.”

“It’s funny you say that.” He reached forward and grasped your hand, tugging you closer “I like you too, and I’ve been trying to bury it because I always just thought you were out of my league.”

“Me? How many pucks have you taken to the head?”

He laughed and gave your hand a squeeze “Too many, but I’m serious.”

The revelation has sent butterflies to your stomach and you looked down when he realized he was still holding your hand.

“So what do we do now?” You asked, eyes moving up to meet his.

“Let’s kiss and see where it takes us.”

He leaned down and you stood on tiptoe and very gently pressed his lips to yours. It sent a warmth from your head to your toes, as one big hand came to rest on your face. You stood there for a while, kissing on the sidewalk, making up for lost time. He was smiling when you finally broke apart.

“Best first date ever.”

[wannabehockeygf]

guilty conscience - brock boeser

part of the think later fic series

"I'll be wantin' you back 'til the cops start calling, Waist deep in the mess you started, 'Cause I need you, darling, is that wrong? All my morals shot, even it don't faze me, Lovin' you batshit crazy."

*** request: "Hey!!! Would you be able to do Brock Boeser for guilty conscience for the think later series? Thank you!"

summary: drugs, sex, and infidelity don't make a nice combination. pairing: brock boeser x fem!reader word count: 3.6k warnings: drugs (marijuana, c*ca*ne, and other unnamed), cheating (not on brock or reader), doing drugs in detail, slight sexual innuendo, substance abuse/addiction. this could generally be an upsetting read so just take care babes <3

notes:

ty for the request!

^ since there were no specific guidelines given, I tried something new and a lot darker. if this wasn't what you were getting at, I totally understand and feel free to request something different with more specific guidelines!

lowkey inspired by some dark mitch marner fics i've seen (the names escape me right now) and i love him & boes so much, so why not go out of my comfort zone like this?

also I wrote this all in a couple hours 'cause I had a free afternoon lol

***

You’re late.

You know it before you even check the time. The heavy weight of anxiety sits in your chest as you stalk down the narrow, grimy alleyway toward the motel. The streetlights flicker above you, casting broken shadows that seem to dance in mockery. It’s cold, colder than it should be, and the thin jacket you threw on does nothing to keep the chill from sinking into your bones.

As you approach the shut of the room, your heart races—not from fear, but from anticipation. Every step feels heavier than the last. You’ve been in and out of this shitty motel more times than you can count, but tonight something feels different. Something feels... off. The neon sign outside buzzes faintly, casting a sickly green hue over everything, and the silence that surrounds the building is deafening. Not even the distant hum of traffic can cut through it.

For a second, you wonder if you should just turn around and leave. Walk away from this life, from him, from the suffocating pull of it all. But then you think about his voice—low, rough, commanding. You think about the way his hands feel on your skin, the way his praise makes your stomach twist into knots, the way his touch is the only thing that quiets the noise in your head.

You’re already too far gone.

The key trembles in your hand as you fit it into the door. The faint sound of the lock clicking open sends a shiver down your spine. The door creaks as you push it open, and there he is. Brock. Shirtless, sprawled on the bed like a predator waiting for his prey. His body glistens under the dim light, muscles taut, veins snaking down his arms, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. His eyes flick to the door, narrowing when he sees you, and for a moment, you think he’s angry. You’re late, after all. You can feel it in the way the air thickens, the way his gaze hardens as if you’ve disappointed him somehow.

You step inside, letting the door slam shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence. His eyes stay locked on you, a silent accusation. You feel it in every inch of your skin—the weight of his expectation, his hunger.

You know the drill. You always know. It’s what keeps you coming back, isn’t it? The certainty of the routine. The high. The way he praises you when you do it right. The way you make him forget. But the feeling? That’s both of you. A lingering guilty conscience. 

The bag is heavy in your hand, the contents within enough to destroy both of you. You move to the table, the silence suffocating. Brock watches your every movement like a wolf tracking its prey, waiting for the moment to pounce. You unzip the bag, revealing the neatly packaged contents—your carefully curated escape. Pills, powder, vials—everything he needs. Everything you need.

The weight of it all presses down on your chest, but you force yourself to breathe, to focus. This is your job, your life now. This is what you’ve become. You can’t remember when it started, when the line between business and pleasure blurred, when you stopped caring about the difference.

You feel his presence behind you before he even moves. His hand slides over your shoulder, warm and rough, his fingers grazing the back of your neck. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he mutters, his voice low, gruff. There’s something dangerous in his tone, something dark and twisted that pulls at the pit of your stomach. You know he’s been waiting, pacing the room, wondering if you’d finally decided to bail, if you were tired of being his fix.

But you’re not.

You turn to face him, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his lips twisted into that familiar smirk you both love and hate. “I always come,” you say, your voice steady, though the tremor in your hands betrays you. His smirk deepens, and you see the approval in his eyes, that sick, twisted sense of satisfaction that always comes when you do what he wants.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down your arm, his fingers lingering on your wrist for just a moment too long. The words are like a drug in themselves, sinking into your skin, filling the cracks you’ve tried so hard to ignore. You hate how much you crave his approval, how much you need him to tell you that you’re good, that you’re enough.

But it’s never enough, is it?

You set the bag down, your hands shaking as you begin to sort through the contents. Brock leans against the table, watching you with that predatory gaze, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. You can feel his impatience, his need, but he doesn’t rush you. Not yet. He knows this is part of the game—the waiting, the anticipation. It’s all a prelude to the inevitable crash.

Brock wastes no time. He cuts the lines, the razor blade flashing in the dim light, and the room fills with the familiar scent of something dangerous. As you watch, he snorts the first line, his head snapping back as the hit surges through his system. His pupils blow wider, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “Fuck,” he breathes out, voice tight, like he’s already halfway to losing control. “That’s good shit.”

Your heart races in time with Brock’s rapid breathing, the tension between you thick as the blood that drips from his one of his nostrils. You watch as his body reacts—muscles taut, veins bulging under his skin like rivers waiting to burst. His eyes flash with a mix of exhilaration and dread, and you feel a familiar tug inside you. It's always the same—this heady cocktail of danger, pleasure, and the gnawing guilt that coils tighter around your ribs with every hit.

You sink back into the frayed motel couch, its stiff cushions sagging beneath your weight. The air reeks of sweat, weed, and the faintest hint of his cologne—sharp and intoxicating, like him. Outside, the world keeps spinning, but inside this dimly lit room, time bends, reality blurs.

“Yeah?” Your voice drips with amusement, a bitter edge you can’t quite shake. “Guess that’s why you keep coming back.”

Brock glances over, pupils blown wide like dark voids, his gaze unreadable. He swipes his hand through his hair again, the messy strands clinging to his damp forehead. "You know why."

Of course you do. It's not just the drugs—though those help. It’s the way his hands tremble when he touches you, the way he pulls you in like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground. The way he groans your name when he’s lost in it, the way he can’t seem to quit you, even if he knows he should.

“Do you think she knows?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You’ve never asked about her before. You weren’t supposed to. But the reporters, the way they screamed at you yesterday—calling you a homewrecker, a whore—it rattled something loose inside you. The ring might be absent from his finger, but you’ve seen it in photos, sparkling as he stood beside her, his perfect wife, smiling like the world hadn’t come crumbling down around them.

You need to know if this is all part of the game or if you’ve been living a lie.

Brock’s eyes snap up to meet yours, but there’s no guilt there, only that same hollow, detached look. “What?” He’s confused, or maybe he’s just pretending.

“Your wife.” The word feels like poison on your tongue, bitter and unwanted. “Does she know about us?”

Brock’s lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I told you, we’ve got an understanding. It’s not what it looks like.” He leans back on the bed, muscles rippling as he stretches out, exhaling deeply. “Don’t worry about it.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes, though. He never does when she’s mentioned. It’s always the same vague promise, the same half-truths that keep you tethered to him, to this. It’s easier to believe the lies when you’re high, when the world fades into that familiar, soft haze where nothing matters except the feel of his skin against yours.

You wish you could believe him. God, you wish that lie felt better than it does. But the truth clings to your skin, heavy and sticky, making it hard to breathe. You know what the media says—homewrecker. But it’s more than that. You’re drawn to him, to the way he makes you feel, to the rush that comes from being with him, the same high as the drugs you both pretend don’t control you.

“Come here.” His voice is low, that same gravelly tone he always uses when he wants you. And despite the thoughts swirling in your mind, the guilt, the self-loathing—you move to him. Because that’s what you do. You always go back.

Brock’s hands are on you before you can think, rough and desperate, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His lips are on your neck, the heat of him burning through your skin. You want to stop, want to pull away, but you can’t. The truth is, you need him too. This twisted, fucked-up thing between you—it’s the only thing that makes sense.

The sheets crinkle under you as you fall back onto the bed, his weight pressing down on you, familiar and dangerous. Your body responds automatically, arching into him, even as your mind screams at you to run, to leave before this ruins you both. “Something happened yesterday,” you whisper, the sound more like a breathy whimper.

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, barely audible over the frantic beating of your heart. 

But Brock doesn’t stop. His hands roam your body, his breath hot against your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in the sensation. It’s easier this way, easier to drown in the physical than confront the wreckage you’re both hurtling toward. His lips graze your collarbone, and a shiver snakes down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly. It always comes to this—a cycle of indulgence and regret, pleasure and pain.

Stop thinking. Don’t think about it. Just feel.

But your mind won’t shut off. The image of those reporters flashes before your eyes, their voices like knives, cutting through the haze you usually hide behind. Homewrecker. Whore. Slut. You can still hear it, the way they spat the words at you like venom, the way their cameras clicked in rapid succession, capturing every humiliating second.

You hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t known what to do. You weren’t supposed to care. Brock had promised—he’d said it was fine, that his marriage wasn’t real, that it was all for appearances. And you believed him. Didn’t you?

You tried to brush them off, tried to convince yourself they didn’t matter, that they weren’t true. But the truth? It’s tangled up in the sheets with you, in Brock’s hands and the way his mouth searches for release from the guilt neither of you can escape.

Maybe I am a homewrecker.

The thought sends a jolt of nausea through you, but you push it down, like you do with everything else. It's easier that way. Easier to pretend you don’t care. That you don’t feel the cracks forming, widening every time Brock touches you. But they’re there, like fissures in the foundation of your soul, threatening to split you wide open.

Brock pulls away just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark, his breathing ragged. There’s something unhinged in his gaze, like he’s already halfway gone, teetering on the edge of a cliff, ready to free-fall into oblivion. And you know you should stop this. You should pull yourself back from the precipice before you both crash and burn. But you don’t. You can’t. 

Why do you keep doing this to yourself? The question rings in your mind, but there’s no answer, only the cold, empty silence that fills the space between each stolen moment. You hate yourself for coming back, for letting him take you apart like this, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the shell of who you used to be.

Brock’s lips move against your ear, his voice rough and low. “You thinking about her again?” His words are slurred, the drugs pulling him under, but there’s something sharp beneath his tone. Accusation? Jealousy? You can’t tell.

You open your eyes, staring up at the cracked ceiling, the paint peeling in jagged strips like the pieces of your sanity. “No,” you lie, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. You’re thinking about everything, about all of it—about how you’re drowning, how you’ve been sinking for so long that you don’t even remember what it feels like to breathe.

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands hesitate for just a second too long. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t push, because he knows you’ll leave if he does. And he can’t let you go. Not yet.

Not ever, your mind whispers, but you shove the thought aside. You don’t want to believe that, don’t want to admit that you’re just as trapped as he is. Maybe more.

You pull his face down to yours, kissing him hard, letting your teeth scrape his bottom lip. You taste the blood, metallic and warm, and something feral stirs inside you. It’s easier like this—when it’s raw, when it’s violent, when it feels like the world is about to shatter beneath you.

Because maybe it already has.

“Yesterday,” you whisper against his lips, barely audible, your breath shaky. “They called me a homewrecker. Chased me down the street like I was some fucking criminal.”

Brock stills, his body tensing above you. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed over from the high, but there’s a flicker of something—panic, guilt, maybe even anger. You can’t tell anymore. “Don’t listen to them,” he mutters, his voice strained. “They don’t know anything. You know how this works.”

Brock’s words echo in your head, but they’re hollow—empty promises that have no weight anymore. You know how this works. He says it like it’s all so simple, like the lines between right and wrong haven’t been obliterated long ago. But you’re not sure you know anything anymore, not really.

You can feel his body start to relax, sinking back into the rhythm of his need, but your mind is spiraling, caught in the undertow of all the unspoken things between you. The darkness that swirls in your chest, that ugly cocktail of shame and desire, wraps tighter around your throat. Your heart pounds, louder, faster, in time with the fading remnants of the high.

Do you even know who you are anymore?

You shift beneath him, the sheets tangling around your legs like shackles, keeping you tethered to this bed, this man. You wonder if he’s right—if it’s easier to believe the lie. Maybe it’s better to let yourself get lost in this fucked-up dance, where the highs and the lows blur together, indistinguishable from each other. The way he touches you—it’s as toxic as the drugs you deal. But it doesn’t stop you from craving it. Craving him.

Brock’s fingers dig into your hips, possessive, leaving marks that will bruise tomorrow. You’ll see them in the mirror, like battle scars, a reminder of everything you shouldn’t be, everything you’ve let yourself become. His breath is hot against your skin, and when he leans in, biting at your shoulder, a low moan escapes you, involuntary, betraying the war raging in your chest. You hate yourself for how badly you want him, how you keep coming back for more, even when you know it’s killing you.

He’s married.

The thought slams into you like a truck, a blunt reminder of the life you’re entangled in, a life that isn’t yours. The life you’ve allowed yourself to wreck, even if you want to pretend otherwise. Your fingers thread through his hair, yanking him closer, pulling him deeper into you, because if you’re going to fall apart, you might as well burn together.

"Does she touch you like this?" you murmur, your voice low, laced with venom. You don’t know why you ask—it’s masochistic, twisted, but you can’t stop the words from spilling out. The guilt is eating you alive, tearing you apart piece by piece, but somehow, you’re still here, letting him unravel you all over again.

Brock freezes for a split second, his grip faltering. His breath hitches, and for the briefest moment, you think you’ve struck something raw, something real beneath the surface. But then his hand comes up to wrap around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you—he’s the one in control. Always.

"You want to play that game?" he growls, his voice rough, tinged with amusement, like he’s daring you to push him. "I told you, it’s not like that. You’re the only one I come to for this. I’m batshit crazy about you, baby."

For this. The words sting, more than you care to admit. This—this twisted, toxic mess between you—is all you’ll ever be to him. A distraction. A hit of adrenaline when his real life, his real world, becomes too much.

You’re about to speak again when the sound of sirens cuts through the stillness of the night, sharp and sudden. They’re close—too close. Your body tenses, every nerve firing as the blaring wail echoes through the thin walls of the motel. Brock stiffens, his head snapping up, eyes wide, pupils still blown from the coke, but now filled with something else—panic.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, pulling away from you, his hands falling to his sides as he stares at the door like it’s about to burst open. The sirens grow louder, the flashing red and blue lights casting eerie shadows across the walls. For a split second, you both freeze, the weight of the situation crashing down like a tidal wave.

Your heart hammers in your chest, the rush of adrenaline hitting you like a drug of its own. The fear seeps into your veins, icy and unrelenting. You glance at Brock, waiting for him to say something, to do something, but he’s just as frozen as you are, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“What the hell’s going on?” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling.

“I don’t know,” Brock breathes, running a hand through his hair, yanking at the strands as if that’ll help him think clearer. But you both know the answer. You’re dealing drugs in a shitty motel room with a married man, a famous man. This is a disaster waiting to happen, and it might have just caught up with you.

The sirens wail outside, and you can hear the faint murmur of voices, the thud of footsteps on the pavement. They’re close. Too fucking close.

“We have to go,” you whisper, but even as the words leave your lips, you know it’s too late. You’re trapped here, in this room, with him.

Brock looks at you, his eyes wild, his expression unreadable. But then something shifts in his face—a crack in the mask he’s been wearing for so long. He sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks small. Vulnerable. Human.

“They’re going to find us,” he whispers, voice hollow. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t let them find us.”

You take a step toward him, every instinct in your body screaming at you to run, to leave, to save yourself. But you don’t. Because it’s fucking Brock Boeser. And for reasons you can’t even explain to yourself, you can’t walk away from him. Not now. Not ever.

“Brock,” you say softly, sitting down next to him, your hand resting on his arm. He’s trembling. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

He doesn’t look at you at first, his shoulders hunched, his breathing ragged. The sirens are fading now, but the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he lifts his head, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed.

“I lied,” he whispers, the words barely more than a breath. “About her. About everything.”

The confession hits you like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from your lungs. Your heart stutters in your chest, a sick, twisting sensation coiling in your stomach. You’ve always known, deep down, that something wasn’t right. But hearing it—hearing him say it out loud—it makes everything so much worse.

“What do you mean?” The question comes out before you can stop it, your voice shaking. You don’t want to know. Not really. But you need to hear it.

Brock swallows hard, his jaw clenching, his hands fisting in his lap. “She doesn’t know,” he says, his voice raw, broken. “We don’t have an understanding. There’s no open relationship. I’m a fucking liar.”

You stare at him, your mind reeling, trying to process the weight of his words. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air too thick, too heavy. Everything inside you is screaming to get out, to run as far and as fast as you can from this nightmare you’ve found yourself in.

You’re a homewrecker.

The words echo in your head, louder now, sharper, cutting through the thin layer of denial you’ve been clinging to. All this time, you’ve told yourself it wasn’t your fault, that Brock’s marriage was just a façade, something to keep the media at bay. But it was a lie. A fucking lie.

And honestly? You care too much. 

Because maybe, he’s not the only one that’s addicted.

[comphy-and-cozy]

48 with Brock!!! His dogs are sooo cute

they are the cutest little guys which is fitting bc so is brock

celebrate 1K with me

Prompt: #48 "Send. Pic. Of. Dog. Now."

Pairing: Brock Boeser x Reader (gn)

Word Count: ~730

Warnings: Brief alcohol use/mention

The sound of your keys hitting the floor with a clunk is loud, but you can hardly be bothered to care as you drop your bag beside the keyring. Kicking your shoes off, you make a beeline for the couch, falling face first into the soft cushion with a grunt.

You had one of the worst days you’d had in a while, starting with an empty gas tank that caused you to be late to work. Then, issue after issue and several difficult customers only amped up your irritation, having to take 5 minutes to cry in the breakroom no less than three times. Finally, you escaped the confines of your workplace only to find that you had locked your keys in your car and had to wait over an hour for AAA to arrive.

So, to say you want to curl up into a ball and cry is an understatement. You’re almost too exhausted to do even that, choosing to savor the feeling of being horizontal after the day from hell.

And then your phone buzzes. You groan, allowing yourself a few more moments of wallowing in self-pity before you heave yourself up to pull your phone out of your pocket to check the message, hoping it's not more bad news.

[Brock:] how’s it going?

With a snort, you think to yourself, ‘Where do I begin?’, instead opting to send an easier message: “Send. Pic. Of. Dog. Now.”

Not 30 seconds later, an entire collection of photos of Milo and Coolie snoozing on his couch, the last one a blurry shot of Coolie’s tongue licking the camera. You smile through a sniffle, reacting to the image with a thumbs up.

A little while later, your phone buzzes again, this time with an incoming call from Brock. You place him on speakerphone, not bothering to lift your head from the cushion.

“That bad, huh?” he laughs upon hearing your grunt as a greeting.

“You have no idea.”

You can hear he’s in the car, the sound of his blinker in the background. “You want to talk about it?”

“I just want to drown myself in ice cream and a fuzzy blanket. Maybe a glass of wine. Or four.”

He laughs. “Ice cream and wine? Doesn’t sound like the best pairing, but I’ve heard worse.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“Hey, do your thing,” he says, and you can imagine him holding his hands up in defense. You hear the jingle of his keys and the shutting of a car door.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Me? Oh just dropping something off to a friend.”

As if on cue, you hear a knock on your door. With a groan, you roll yourself off of the couch to answer it, expecting to see a delivery driver with a package. Instead, it’s Brock, holding his phone to his ear and two leashes in his other hand. He’s grinning, then holds up a paper bag. “I come bearing gifts.”

You don’t bother hanging up the phone, instead launching yourself forward into his arms with a tight squeeze. The tears well up faster than you anticipate, and he secures his arms around you and rocks you gently while you cry.

“This is so sweet,” you say through sniffles.

“I couldn’t just leave you hanging after you had an awful day,” he smiles once you let him go, a tearful smile in return. 

Brock gestures for you to step back into your house, then whistles at Coolie and Milo, who pounce through your front door and look up at you expectantly, waiting for pets and treats. Their excited tails flap as their tongues find your face while you give each of them a greeting, already feeling your bad mood dissipating at the arrival of the dogs. And Brock. Mostly the dogs.

But then Brock pulls out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a bottle of Pinot Noir, and you’re gaping up at him. “How did you know?” you ask.

“I know you better than anyone,” he says with a smile, moving into your kitchen to retrieve spoons and wine glasses. “Or did you forget?”

You shake your head no, accepting the wine glass gratefully. “Thank you, Brock.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves you off, then plops on the couch, whistling to encourage the dogs to hop up beside him.  “Now, should we watch Frozen or Moana?”

[chukys-mouthguard]

first and ten - bb6

current mood: an nhl moodboard series

-> brock boeser - football coach au

-> genre: fluff

arriving to the stadium…

Brock kept his eyes glued out the window, watching the scenery as you were closing in on the stadium. Though he tried to keep his cool, you knew he was nervous. He had the potential to do the unthinkable and lead his team to its first Super Bowl in franchise history.

Taking his hand you felt him immediately give yours a squeeze, a soft smile on his lips as he turned to look at you.

“Big day baby.”

“The biggest day, but you’ve got this. I know the boys are gonna win this.”

He pulled your hand to his lips, giving it a kiss as the bus came to a halt. You’d have to say your goodbyes as he and the team would head their separate way to the locker room while you would make your way to the family suite.

As you stepped off the bus, Brock wrapped you in a hug. Kissing your lips before you performed your good luck handshake you’d started three seasons ago and never skipped.

“Love you baby, go kick some ass.”

the final drive…

Your hands were glued to your face, partially shielding your eyes as you couldn’t bear to watch. Brock’s team winning by a field goal as it all came down to the final play of the game. A first down was needed, otherwise it would all be over and Brock would become a Super Bowl champion.

The snap of the ball saw the stadium fall silent, anticipation brewing as the quarterback scanned his options. A hail mary pass being his only option, your eyes following the ball down the field as it fell into the arms of one of Brock’s players for an interception.

Your body had registered what had happened before your brain, instinctively jumping up and down with those around you in excitement. The other wives and girlfriends accompanying you in the suite all wrapping their arms around you, tears falling from your eyes as you screamed. The feeling overwhelming as you watched the team storming the field, your husband officially was a Super Bowl champion.

as the confetti falls…

As the celebrations continued on the field, you were sprinting as fast as you could to get down and see Brock. Navigating the crowd as best you could, head on a swivel as you looked for his blonde hair peeking out from his cap. Surely he was being pulled in a million directions, you’d be lucky to find him without a struggle.

“Where’s my wife? Has anyone seen y/n?”

Brock was asking all team personnel to help him find you, his eyes scanning every face that crossed his path. The only person he wanted to see was you, needing to hold you in his arms and relish in this moment with you.

“Brock!”

Looking down field he saw you sprinting towards him, the biggest smile on his face as he took off running. The second you were close enough you jumped into his arms, Brock latching onto you and not letting go. Spinning you around before pulling your lips to his, kissing you like his life depended on it.

“I fucking told you baby! You’re a god damn Super Bowl champion!”

You held his face in your hands as you congratulated him, seeing the pure excitement radiating from him, tears slightly welling in his eyes as he smiled. The realization not fully sunken in.

“Crazy isn’t it? We did it baby!”

He kissed once more before spinning you around again, screaming in excitement as you looked to the sky. Confetti raining down to shower the field in his team’s colors, time standing still as you two never wanted this moment to end.

[gisellaaa]

thinking about brock boeser dating a hughes!sister. hughes sister, who is a famous singer, who also ends up being the team hughes celebrity captain because the nhl thought it would be a great opportunity.

but brock and her end up arguing the morning before the all star draft, which means she forces quinn and jack to make him wait longer to be drafted. elias thought it was mean, since their fight was ridiculously stupid. but hughes sister has a great way of winning people over.

then when it comes to the seventh pick, hughes sister says, “i guess for this one we will have to pick brock boeser unfortunately. even though he told me this morning he wouldn’t wear his shirt that has my face on it during the red carpet.” which does indeed make many people erupt in laughter because she’s the only hughes who openly has a personality.

i will write this out (only if you folks want it.) well you folks wanted it, here’s the link

[harlowhockeystick]

Hello! For the poetry prompts, could you please write 28 for Brock Boeser? ❤️

"i thought it was just goodbye for now" | poetic prompts | warnings: situationship, cuss words, may or may not be based on a real life situation involving someone named j, maybe idk

you swear, the next time he rolls his eyes you were going to throw your phone into the wall. he was so good at making you mad and pushing your buttons, over and over. he knew just exactly how to get you pissed off and he loved to do it.

"brock you know that we were never exclusive, and we were never going to go anywhere." he sits with his arms crossed and his lips pursed together.

he came to you, thirty minutes ago now, pissed off that you were talking with another man. he claimed that he thought you guys were going somewhere and that you were going to have a relationship at some point.

at some point.

"but-"

"no! i gave you plenty of chances. we hung out more than enough times- i even helped decorate your house, brock! that's what couples do." taking a sip of your drink you held onto, watching as his muscles stayed tense and your palms began to sweat. he wasn't going to back down any time soon.

"i just don't think it's fair. you do all this shit with me, the whole time you're talking to someone else? thought you liked me." his voice stayed low in tone, he didn't want the whole bar to hear your conversation, he still had some dignity and respect for you.

"brock you're not hearing me. i gave you chances to make it up to me, i gave you more than enough. i wanted so badly for you to ask me to go out with you, to go on a date, to do boyfriend and girlfriend stuff. but i told you goodbye weeks ago, so you don't have any reason to be mad at me."

"i thought it was just goodbye for now, not forever." he was too ashamed to make eye contact now. he finished his cocktail and tapped the table, staring at the glossy finish on the wood.

"grow up brock. then maybe, maybe, i'll reconsider."

[domesticmail]

nhl masterlist

i no longer write for the nhl, but i used to write a LOT for them, so i would like to keep all my writing accessible! enjoy <3

fics

the one where you become parents | 2.3k

Mat Barzal x Reader

Your eyes brimmed with tears, hands shaking. The test quivered between your fingers, the sole focus of your attention, the cause of the anger and disappointment writhing in knots in your stomach. Your expression turned bitter as you looked away, biting your lips to keep the tears back, refusing to acknowledge the single blue line glaring back at you.

someone to you | 2k

Mat Barzal x Reader

Watching you was like watching the sun set over a beautiful horizon. As the sky darkens, the city glitters with light, alive and awake and moving. You are the lights of the cars, gliding through darkness with the floating quality of clouds, not quite fully present in the moment but still so alive, so full of energy and brightness and feeling. You are the stars in the night sky, shining, each one a planet so far yet so close, he wants to reach to the sky and pull you down to him, keep you close and safe and happy and free.

am i worthy? | Brock Boeser x Reader

part 1 | part 2

You slide your hand down his bare chest, fingertips tapping a light beat on his skin, the rhythm unknown to him but subtly familiar. There’s a softness in the ghost of your hand trailing down that spreads goosebumps across his sternum and causes a quiet shuddering breath to escape his lips. His hand finds its way into your hair, burying his fingers into a fistful of the strands and resting there. His thumb caresses the crown of your head gently.

one of them girls

Brock Boeser x Reader

A fic loosely based on the song "One of Them Girls" by Lee Brice.

blurbs

yoga | pierre luc dubois

waking him up | pierre luc dubois

waking you up | pierre luc dubois

why he loves you | pierre luc dubois

dancing after dinner | pierre luc dubois

meeting your family | pierre luc dubois

feeling like you don't deserve him | pierre luc dubois

pet names | pierre luc dubois

pillow | mat barzal

street fighter | mat barzal

mornings | mat barzal

baby's first nhl game | mat barzal

breakfast | mat barzal

parenting | matthew tkachuk

domestic bliss | matthew tkachuk

backlash | tito beauvillier

[theywantedplayer]

could you do “you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad” and “i want you....here.... right now” with brock after he gets in a fight during a game??

nsfw

masterlist

prompt list

It wasn't like Brock to get into fights when he played hockey, sure he got riled up when he played but he never acted on it. So you were shocked when you saw Brock get into a heated fight with one of the Leafs, your mouth hung open when you saw Brock throw a punch at the players face knocking him to the floor and Brock followed. 

The reff’s had to pull them apart and Brock went back to the dressing room. You didn't know if you should go to the dressing room but you Decided that you should since it was Brock's first fight and you did want to know it was happening and check up on him.

 you soon made your way down to the dressing room  smiling and waving at some of the management members that you knew. You knocked at the door wanting to let him know someone was coming in. When you walked in you saw Brock pacing the room back and forth as me started to take off his gear throwing it across the dressing room.

“What a fucking DICK!” Brock yelled

He sat down in his stall and took off his skate’s and padding just leaving him in his Compression shorts. You stood across from him trying to focus on the matter at hand and not the fact he looked smokin hot when he was mad , the way he ran his hand through his hair and the way he walked with his hands and how his tone of voice went down slightly. You took a deep breath trying to calm the feeling that was coming.

“He’s such a cocky little shit!” Brock cursed out looking up at you.

When he looked up at you and say how you just stared at him

“Y/n are you even listening to me” he asked

You swallowed tightly before you spoke

“Uh im sorry I just-...Brock you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad” you admitted 

Brock Just groaned “Y/n i'm trying to talk to you”

“I know,I know I'm sorry It's just… that was the first time I saw you fight and you just looked so sexy!” You groaned taking a step in between his legs placing your hands on his shoulders

As mad as Brock was about the fight he couldn't help but let a smile creep on to his face at your words.

“Sexy huh?” Brock smirked Grabbing the back off your thighs pulling you into his lap to straddle him. “Getting all turned on watch me fight hm?” He teased “What do you want, baby?”

You grabbed his face his your hands softly holding his face

“i want you....here.... right now” You whined 

Brock’s Signature Golden Retriever smile spread across his face at your words.

“Take what you want baby”