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poithead51 · 8 months ago

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why do you hate media so much?

matt poitras x fem!socialteam!reader

hi y’all this is my first EVER fic so please be nice as i’m starting this new journey. just a lil story based off of a dream i had LMAO

word count: 2.7k

warnings: none, some cursing. just some good old pining with our mp51. reader is 21!

“This is where your office will be for the time being. Why don't you put your things down and get comfortable, and l'll come get you in a few. I'll take you to meet Don, Cam, Jim, and the boys."

She nodded and smiled at her new boss, putting her bag down on the chair of her new, albeit small, office. It was probably 10×10ft, but it overlooked the city of Boston in the way she'd always dreamed of. She finally made it - got a position working in media for her childhood, hometown team - the Boston Bruins.

As she paced around the room, all she could do was smile to herself, anxiously awaiting her boss, Angelica, to come retrieve her so she could meet the team.

Boston born and raised, she had always been a hockey fan - specifically a Bruins fan. Brad Marchand's name and jersey number were her laptop password far before he wore the C' on his chest. Jack Edwards' voice was both familiar and nostalgic, as it echoed around her childhood home in the fall, with family crowded up around the TV set watching their B's.

"Y/N, are you ready?" Angelica's voice broke her away from her memories. She grinned as Angelica motioned for her to follow down out of her office and into the Garden. She looked around in disbelief - all of her hard work truly paid off to get here, especially at only 21 years old.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Sweeney and Mr. Neely are in an important meeting at the moment. l've made them aware that you are here and ready to start working. We'll go meet Monty and the team now, if that's alright. You can get right on with your first task, the hometown video I mentioned. That's a short and easy one that they'll love to do, and it'll help them get to know you and vice versa. Alright?" Angelica smiled.

"Sounds great." she replied kindly, trailing behind Angelica slowly, as she glanced around the path on the way to the locker room. Her hands started to sweat as they got closer to the door, knowing that Brad Marchand was back there. The other guys too, but mostly Brad.

Angelica knocked on the door before turning to her new hire. *Here goes nothing!" she smiled.

Montgomery comes to the door, a small grin lacing his normally stern face. Angelica speaks again. "This is Y/N, our newest media hire. She hails from Boston University. She gestures to her side proudly, as Y/N offers her hand for Monty to shake. "Mind if we come in and get her started?"

Montgomery laughs. “Sure thing. God knows they're tired of me laying into 'em." He holds the door open for the ladies and clears his throat.

"Gentlemen, we have visitors." His voice booms through the space as he leads the media team to the space the team is sitting.

Y/N glances around. Holy shit. That's him. That's Brad Marchand. And Charlie McAvoy. And David Pastrnak. And Charlie Coyle.

She pinches her own hand to remind herself that this is real life.

Angelica clears her throat to speak. “Hi everyone!You all know me, from the marketing and media team. I wanted to introduce to you our newest member of the media group, who will be working closely with you all as a creator for our social accounts and website. Please give Y/N a warm Bruins welcome."

The team smiles, claps, and Carlo lets out a whoop. Of course he did, she thinks to herself, recalling all of the silly videos of Brandon she's seen over the years on the Bruins pages.

Angelica gestures silently over to her new hire, prompting her to introduce herself. "Hi guys, my name is Y/N and I am so excited to be here. I'm a hometown fan hailing from BU," she is interrupted by a whoop now from McAvoy.

She laughs before continuing. “I'm 21, and just finished my degree in digital marketing a year early. I'II be around you all for the time being creating content for our pages like Angelica said, and I'm really looking forward to getting to know you all. Especially you, Marchy!" she giggles, as laughs, cheers, and boos are heard around the room.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches a slightly unfamiliar face shove Frederic's side with a puss on his face, as Freddy laughs at him. She narrowed her eyes. Who is that?

Monty notices her confusion and steps in. “Alright boys. Does anyone have any questions for Y/N before I let her take over to do her job, since half of you can't do yours?" He scoffs.

Trent starts to speak loudly, as the one next to him lowers his head. "Potsy wants to know-"

“I don't think Y/N, Angelica, or myself want to answer whatever question is going to follow that, Trent.” Monty interjects. “You're dismissed for the day. Practice at Warrior tomorrow at noon, optional skate at 10:30. Do the media and go home." He rolls his eyes, grabs his suit jacket and leaves the room with Angelica, who slips a thumbs up to her new hire.

The room goes silent, with everyone turning to look at their new media girl. She waves timidly before starting to speak. “Alright guys - just an easy one for me today, no hassle. All you have to do is tell me where you come from! What's your hometown. Bonus points for country, state, province, whatever." She smiles. "Anyone want to go first?"

Zadorov jumps out of his seat. "I've been waiting for something like this! I finally can explain my accent." he grumbles as laughs break out throughout the room.

"Alright!" she replies. *This is not mandatory this first go around, but I'd really love it if everyone would participate. I'd love to get to know you and vice versa. You ready Nikita?"

"She knows my name!!!" Zadorov exclaimed, met with cheers and gloves being thrown at him from various spots around the room as the team begins to clean up. As their new media girl turns to leave the room, she makes eye contact with the same player she watched shove Frederic not too long ago. She smiles at him kindly, and he quickly turns around and grabs his things.

She reads the back of his jersey.

51. Poitras.

Oh... The rookie. He's back from injured reserve, she presumes, trying to not read into how quickly he dodged her eye contact and smile.

For the next hour and a half or so, she learns Zadorov hails from Moscow, Swayman from Anchorage, Frederic from St. Louis, and Marchy from Halifax, Nova Scotia. She pretended she didn't know that one already.

She speaks one-on-one with the majority of the team, with the soft spoken folks like Zacha and Peeke slipping out after bidding her a goodbye and brief thank you.

51 never said anything.

She watched as Poitras, who's first name escaped her, waited for Lohrei and Frederic to be done with their quick interviews, and immediately ushered them out of the room upon completion.

No words spoken to the media girl or either of the players, just frantic hurrying out of the locker room.

The whole situation just seemed strange. She tried to rationalize her thoughts, acknowledging that this random rookie didn't know her, and had no reason to dislike her. Maybe he had something going on. A party or shoot to get to, a dinner reservation, or maybe just didn't feel well and wanted to go home and play Xbox or something.

It wasn't her fault. Not on day one.

By day 45, it definitely started to feel like her fault.

51, or Matt as she now knows, continued to dodge her constantly - around the office, around the rink, even on his way in and out of the locker rooms. Matt had not done content for media in her entire month and a half long duration with the Bruins. It started to feel personal.

Luckily, she had finally found a rapport with the majority of the team. Marchy, her childhood favorite, became a confidant, always wanting to partake in anything to give him attention. She got a few lip sync videos out of him. Zadorov another she grew close to. But unshockingly, no one came close to touching her relationship with Brandon Carlo. Though truly not that much her senior, Brandon became an older brother figure to her, frequently partaking in her content, chatting with her, and inviting her out with him, his wife Mayson, and their kids.

She had grown so fond of her Bruins family, and it showed in her content. Her silly interviews had started to do numbers on Instagram and TikTok. The Bruins presence on social media skyrocketed, and she began to receive tasks from her bosses to include as many players as possible.

Her newest task? Intro to the new guys.

Of fucking course.

She started with Lohrei. He was the easiest - just wanted to do what he knew he had to and get back to the ice. She liked that about him. Being the same age, they had a similar respect for each other. And sent each other TikToks on occasion.

After Beecher, Koepke, Jones, Zadi, and Lindy #2, Kastelic was next - though not new to the league, only the B's. Though she knew he was from Arizona and is a former Ottawa Senator, she learned Kasty is an NHL nepo baby.

“Y/N... You can't start calling me nepo baby.. it's not like l'm a Tkachuk." Mark rolled his eyes, the girl laughing in response, clutching her abdomen.

"Kasty, as far as l'm concerned, you might as well be the lost third brother. You're just as much of a rat!"

"Oh... That's low..." he cackled.

"Whatever. Get outta here, and send the next guy in!" she called.

"Will do!" Kasty replied diligently, turning on his heels to go out into the hall. She knew Matt was next. He was the only new guy' left. Being a fan favorite, she knew he needed to be in this video series.

What is taking so long??

She crossed her arms and tapped her feet anxiously, waiting for Poitras to come into the interview room.

“Dude, you actually need to grow up. This is part of the job." She hears Mark's voice through the wall. Her stomach sinks. Is he talking to Matt?

She approaches the door, leaning her ear up against it. "Do you really think this does you any favors? You're such a kid. This isn't the minors, Matt." Kasty's voice booms nastily.

She feels the tears well up in her eyes. She had the feeling that Matt didn't like her, but to fight with a teammate over having to be in an interview video? Was she really that bad at her job?

She walks away from the wall when she hears scrambling on the other side. She wipes her tears as Mark comes back into the room, the one and only Matt Poitras trailing behind him. Kastelic rolls his eyes. "Matt hates media, sorry. He needs to be out as soon as possible or he'll start to freak out." Mark leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Matt sighs, running his hand through his hair.

"Sorry, Y/N. Can we just get this over with?" he says, uneasiness audible in his voice.

She takes a deep breath as she turns her camera back on. "Sure thing, Matt. Why don't you tell me a little about your life growing up?"

A few days later, she aggressively flops down onto the carlo family couch. "Brandon, I have a genuine question."

Brandon cocks his eyebrow, bringing dinner over to Y/N and Mayson. "This can't be good." he chuckles.

She throws her arms up exasperatedly. "This is not a joke! I need answers.” Brandon ushers her on. “Is there a reason Poitras hates media so much?"

Brandon lets out the smallest giggle under his breath, making eyes at Mayson. The girl continues, solemnly. "Is it me? Did I do something?"

"Oh my god. No. You didn't. Open your eyes!" Brandon all but yells, not wanting to wake up the kids.

She furrows her brow. “Brandon. I've known you for just under two months and here I am, eating dinner on your couch with your family. Poitras won't do much as speak to me, and he avoids me and media at all costs. I don't know what I did to him." she feels her eyes start to water again.

Brandon sighs. “Dude, have you ever considered that you make him nervous?"

"What? He's a professional hockey player Brandon, that makes no sens-"

“Y/N, he has a crush on you. Since day one. It is slowly killing all of us." Mayson starts to giggle as Y/N's jaw drops, Brandon looking very proud of himself.

"What?"

"You have to say something to him. Please. For the rest of our sake. Monty almost killed him last week when he fucked up that drill in practice - he got distracted when he noticed you in the stands with the camera. If you don't say something to him soon, Monty's gonna send him to Providence!!" Brandon laughed, a lot less quiet this time. Mayson, also still laughing, shushed him between giggles.

Monday morning, she shows up to practice with her camera, an evil (Carlo) plan in her brain.

Up in the stands, she notices as she catches Matt's eye. She waves and smiles as he skates into Lohrei's back distractedly. Mason shoves him in response, laughing as he realizes he had been looking at the girl up in the stands.

When Monty calls practice, she heads down to the locker room, searching for Matt. She knocks, signifying her entrance into the room. she calls into the room. "Hey guys, it's Y/N. I need Potsy for an exclusive. Boss's orders." She smiles as she rounds the corner, her order met by whoops and wolf whistles.

Matt blushes, giving his team the stink eye as he approaches her. He starts quietly. “What is this for? They know I don't like doing media."

She gives him a soft smile. "It's a silly TikTok. Ranking snacks. You're a hot commodity, Matty, fans want to see you online!" He blushes again, grabbing his water bottle and following her out of the locker room.

They hear a faint "GET IT!" from Pastrnak as the door closes.

Matt sits down in the interview space, accepting her phone with TikTok open on it.

"Loosen up, it's just a video. Everyone loves you - they want to see you be silly" She smiles.

He blind ranks the snacks, frustratedly putting cheetos above protein bars after he didn't plan accordingly. He grins timidly as he gives the phone back to her. He pushes his chair back, and starts to get up to leave. “I hope that was enough. I gotta g-”

“Matt, wait." She gently grabs his arm. "Sit back down for a second. I have more questions!"

His face heats up as he sits back down. "About what? I thought I already did my get to know you thing weeks ago." He rolls his eyes unconvincingly.

She giggles in reply. "They're questions from me.”

"Of course they are, you're the media girl. I don't understand."

"No. This is Y/N asking Matt a question. Not the media girl asking the rookie." She smirks. "I just want to know - why do you hate media so much?Did I do something? You did fine when it was Angelica."

Matt sighs. "It's nothing personal, Y/N. I just get nervous."

She smirks again. "Matt, I know it's personal.”

Sighing louder this time, Matt speaks again. “Y/N, whatever Freddy or Kasty or whoever else told you is not true, I have nothing against yo-"

"Matt, I have a crush on you too."

Matt freezes. "What?"

“I know that's why you won't do media. Why do you think I keep asking you to do it anyway?"

"Boss's orders?" He smiles shyly.

"Something like that." She pulls a piece of paper out of her camera bag, scribbling digits onto it. "Here's my number, Pots. Don't lose it, okay?"

She gets up, turns on her heels, and opens the door back to the locker room.

"I'll call you!" He calls after her.

“I’m sure you will.”

hope u like it bruins gals :P accepting NON SMUT requests for rn

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chaotickryptonitetree · 1 year ago

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grant me easiness and i'll give you everything (it's only fair) | jeremy swayman

what I feel about him is alarming and frighting and yap yap yap. hope you like!

Whoever claimed to enjoy airports had clearly never been an Uber driver.

Sure; the money was significantly better than a normal ride—but the traffic? And the poor temperament? And the confusing lanes? It made you question if it was even worth the money.

But there were bills to pay, so you added tonight to the list of nights you ended up at the rideshare terminal of the airport.

You knew by now that flights usually got in on the 10s (7:10, 8:10, etc), so people would have collected their luggage and made their way to ride shares by the 35s (give or take). Glancing at the dash cam, you read 9:32. As if on cue, your phone pinged with a few alerts.

Typically, you’d choose the one that offered the most money. But it had been a long night, with a lot of rides, and had made enough to finish a bit early. So you picked the one that would put you closest to home. And it happened to be Jeremy, who wanted to end up at a brownstone around 7 minutes from your building.

And you waited.

Just for a minute or two before a knock on the back window stirred you from completely zoning out. Instinctively, you unlocked the car and a body slid into the back seat.

“Jeremy?” You confirmed, not bothering to look back.

“How do you know that?” A cheery voice forced your hand, made you make eye contact with him in the mirror. Mistake.

“Are you Jeremy or not?” You were paid to drive, not indulge lazy jokes. Still, his kind eyes didn’t waver.

“Just messin,” he looked out the window and mockingly placed a light touch to the window. Despite yourself, you tracked the movement, watching his hands (his large, large hands). Mistake. “Driver, take me home.” He sighed a wistful sigh, and even though you didn’t want to, a small smile found its way to your face. Putting on the turn signal, you merged into the departure lane and turned up the stereo.

Checking your blindspot, you pulled onto the freeway—traffic was awful so it would be a long ride despite the short mileage.

“Temperature okay?” You asked politely, following your script.

“Just right!” You could hear the smile in his voice, even though you refused to look at him again.

“Music alright?”

“My favorite!” You raised an eyebrow at his response—top 40 radio was no one’s favorite. But that was your last question that usually made riders feel heard enough to give 5 stars. Slightly relieved (as always), you settled in for the drive.

Usually you spent the time working through a problem in your head, really getting into the whys and hows of something that was bothering you. One of your friends was being distant, so you started there. She had started this behavior about a month ago, so that could mean that—

“I flew in from Alaska,” that cheery voice interrupted your internal monologue completely.

“That’s nice,” your reply was non-committal. You didn’t usually talk to riders that much. Didn’t plan on making it a habit.

“Yup!” He popped the p sound. “I’m from there, and I was visiting my family. It was awesome—I really miss them when I’m here for a long time.”

“Nice.” You were out of practice making small talk with a new person (to put it lightly). He just nodded—the only indication being the sound of fabric moving around his neck as he did so.

“So, where are you from?” He leaned forward in his seat, as if genuinely interested—as if knowing where this stranger grew up was a seriously important part of his night.

“I don’t have to talk to riders just because,” you cringed at how mean you sounded. He didn’t even deflate a little, just leaned back and laughed a slightly weird laugh.

“Fair enough,” his tone made you wonder if he was always this happy, this unphased.

And then the music filled the space as much as your stale air freshener did—even if the air was tinged with a bit of guilt on your part.

“I can feel you looking at me,” your eyes darted to him again in the mirror. Brown eyes forgiving and kind and very, very cute.

“Not tryna hide it.” It could’ve been taken as flirting, but you had the impression that he was just like this with everyone. Still, it warmed your cheeks just a little bit. “I’ve just never had such a pretty Uber driver,” and then a moment later, “well, a pretty one that’s my age, I mean.”

You laughed, despite yourself. “Pining after older women are ya?” He smiled easily, and it definitely was for him—easy.

“Look at this face and tell me I’m not a cougar's dream,” he laughed loudly. You didn’t look back for safety reasons (and convinced yourself that was the only reason). He leaned forward again. “I like it though,” his words felt like an admission, even if he didn’t lower his voice. Everything about him just felt—genuine? In a way that made every breath feel like a secret. “Makes me feel like I have a hot girlfriend who likes me enough to pick me up at the airport.”

You scoffed. If he wanted a hot girlfriend, it definitely wouldn’t be hard—not with his easy charm and pretty face. “I’m only here because I’m being paid.” You hesitated. “And there’s no way you don’t have someone who likes you enough to brave the traffic.”

You could sense his delight through your headrest. “Oh yeah I do,” he looked out the window again, “I have the best friends in the entire world. They were just busy tonight.” He sighed as if the idea of his friends was as good as having them in the seat next to him. It was quiet for a moment. “But no girlfriend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t asking,” your tone was blunt, but you couldn’t help but smile. He laughed his weird, goofy laugh.

“Call me a romantic,” he addressed you by name—something you typically didn’t like from patrons in your backseat—but it felt different with him. “But I want that—someone who wants to be the first person to see you when you get back, who can’t even wait to kiss you even if it’s in front of a whole terminal.”

“Sounds like you’ve been watching too many rom coms,” but that suddenly felt unkind to such a gentle man, so then a moment later, “I hope you find that.”

“I will,” he seemed absolutely sure. “Oh shoot,” he raised his fists to the sky mockingly. “My phone died. Curses!”

“I have a charger,” you looked around for the cord while still keeping an eye on the road. He stayed quiet for a moment, considering.

“No, I have an android,” he quickly put his phone in his front pocket, eyes squinting with trouble. Trouble that made you think that he definitely didn’t have an android. “Oh wait! I have an idea!” He completely over-sold his facial expressions, making you question where he was going with this little scheme.

“And what would that be?” your tone was dry, eyes still on the road as you took the exit off the freeway, only a few minutes from his destination.

“So I can give you your rightfully earned tip!” He reasoned, “you can give me your phone number so I can send you money once I get my phone charged.” You could feel his hopeful gaze on you, like his plan was the most logical course of action ever spoken.

Logistically, it made no sense. You could tip an Uber days after your ride. “And what—you’ll just remember my number until then?” For some reason that was the first question you asked.

He nodded, serious as you’d seen him. “Of course,” he said incredulously, “I remember important stuff.”

And it didn’t make any sense. And you could’ve said no. And this was probably against some sort of employer code. And he was definitely this charming with everyone. But he looked so endearing and hopeful and there was something very good about him. Something right.

So you rattled off your number, and he mouthed each number after you said it. And you believed him that he would remember it.

And you believed him as he opened the door to leave, wishing you a good night. And you believed him as he waved from the top step. And as he opened the door and turned around for one more look, mouthing goodbye.

Despite yourself, you believed him.

…

Your bed was heaven after a long stint in the car. Practically asleep before your head hit the covers, a notification sounded from your phone.

A message from an unrecognized number was the last thing you saw before sleep.

From: unknown

Sent $50

And then a moment later, after you saved his contact.

From: Jeremy

Any interest in meeting me at Dunkin on Tuesday morning?

You went to sleep smiling. He remembered.

…

You agreed to meet him early—you typically liked to start driving before 11 and he had morning skate.

The sun had just risen as you walked to a Dunkin about halfway between you and him, bundled up in a puffer jacket and a toque. The bell jingled above the door as you entered, blowing warm air into your hands. It was freezing out.

You didn’t even have time to glance around and look for him before a tall, broad body in a black coat walked up to you and held out his arms for a hug. And then you weren’t freezing anymore. Not even a little bit.

He released you with a smile, linking your arms together and pulling you into line. “What do you usually get?” You asked, convincing yourself that you certainly were not leaning into his side. Definitely not.

He peered down at you, tucked into his side, nose red from the cold. “Whatever looks good,” he admitted, “usually the thing with the most cream and sugar.”

You laughed—even if you didn’t really know him, the idea that he didn’t have an order, that he just let himself enjoy whatever he wanted (even if it had a ton of sugar), that seemed very him.

“I’ll get that too,” you definitely snuggled into his side more, but maybe it was so you didn’t have to face his genuine smile so head on. Maybe?

And so he ordered for you both, but not before complimenting the teenage cashier’s pride pin and asking what his favorite donut was.

“Dunno,” the kid had braces and posture that seemed to shrink in on itself, and was clearly not used to anything beyond what can I get for you, “sprinkle looks pretty good today.”

“Then two of those too,” he put the spare change (and a five) in the glass tip jar. “Thanks brother,” he put out his knuckles for a fist bump. The kid tapped his fist lightly to Jeremy’s, completely won over.

Like a puppy, he quickly found something else to entertain himself with while you waited. “We almost have matching jackets!” He gestured to his black north face and your navy one. You pulled a face—how could he find such delight in everything?

“I guess?” You pinched your face together. He didn’t mind.

“Very couple-y of us,” he put his hands up at the look you shot him. “I had to say it,” He shook his head like it was obvious. And it was so cute you didn’t give him a hard time about it.

“Thanks for paying,” you directed the subject elsewhere, “you didn’t have to do that.” He shrugged, eyes fixed on your drinks as the barista (are they called baristas at Dunkin??) set down two identically light and sweet drinks.

“My pleasure,” he grabbed the bag with two sprinkle donuts inside.

“I’ll send you my share,” you made to grab your phone from your pocket. His hand over yours stilled the movement entirely, warmth emanating from his palm.

“You got it next time,” he shrugged—like obviously there would be a next time. And you believed him, hand now interlaced with his.

“I know it’s bad for me,” he groaned as he took a sip, “but it’s actually the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” A completely innocent line, but it felt dirty as he said it. Or maybe you were just losing it over how his thumb moved over yours.

“Oh,” you responded quietly, taking a sip of yours. Total sugar bomb. “Well you’ll work it off anyways in practice I’m sure,” you fumbled over your words just a little bit. He seemed amused. “Like, looking at you, I’d never guess you have a sweet tooth,” you said, even though there was absolutely no reason to keep talking. He titled his head in delight. “Because you look totally in shape—you look, great. Yeah.” A true example of vocal mastery was on display tonight.

He took a bite of donut, his white teeth a sight so intimate it made you blush. He hummed while chewing, nodding. “Oh yeah? I’m not sure why you mean…should we keep talking about how hot I look?” He joked before pulling a very embarrassed you into his side and out into the chilly air. It didn’t feel as cold with his hand around yours though.

You laughed an embarrassed laugh. “Easy, you big dope, I was trying to be nice.” He laughed into your toque, head on top of yours.

“I know, I know.” And then he went into talking about how he wasn’t a fan of Dunkin before moving to New England and now he was addicted. And you just listened, toasty from humiliation and content as he walked you home, hand covering yours.

…

You offered to pick him up from practice later in the week (he had asked you to come to a home game, but you weren’t quite ready for that yet). He was right on time, waving an animated wave as he walked out the door with a few teammates.

You waved back (a bit more timid in the presence of his friends), and turned to que up your next song. He knocked lightly on the window, and you rolled it down. He was bent over, face in the window as he glanced toward the backseat.

“Want to meet my friends?” He asked politely, clearly excited.

You hesitated, which made him continue. “No pressure at all. If you don’t want to, I can hop in the backseat and we can pretend you’re my Uber driver again,” he smiled a grin that was so genuinely happy it made you less nervous. You turned off the engine.

“No way,” you unbuckled your seatbelt. “I wanna meet ‘em.” You opened the door and shut it softly behind you, wrapping your arms around yourself instinctively. He pumped his fist.

“Let’s go!” He seemed overjoyed. It was quite possibly the sweetest reaction to such a nothing event. You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you in front of him, large hands rested on your shoulders, steering you to face his two teammates.

He introduced you to them both (they were sweet, but there was something on their face that made you unsure if they were making fun of you or jeremy–or both–or no one). But listening to them banter back and forth while you stood pressed to the front of him made you realize that they just joked around like that.

Jeremy was usually the punchline–but he didn’t mind. He was easy to laugh, easier to smile, and made a point of pulling you impossibly closer to him. If his friends noticed, they didn’t say anything.

But then the fact that they didn’t say anything made you wonder just how many people he had introduced to his friends. Maybe they were having a non-reaction because they were so used to it? You stiffened slightly under his hands.

And he must’ve felt it, because he placed a feather-light kiss to your hair–which did pull a reaction from his boys.

“If you’re around on new year’s, we’re throwing something and you are obviously invited,” one of them nodded towards you, eyes a little wide.

“Obviously?” You questioned, but felt far more comfortable than a moment ago. The taller one laughed, eyes flickering to Jeremy’s briefly.

“Obviously,” he confirmed. “You think this is our first time hearing about you?” He shook his head, clapping the shorter one on the back. “Sway here wouldn’t shut up about you. If you didn’t respond to his text he was going to make us call every Uber in Boston until one of us got you as a driver.”

You hit his chest as you turned around. “You goof,” you meant to say–but the words died on your tongue when your eyes met his–so full of genuine enjoyment and content that it warmed you from the inside out. You turned toward them again, waving goodbye.

“I’ll see you on new year’s then.”

“Nice to meet you,” they parroted, smirking at Jeremy. “We’ll see ya sway.” He waved and let you pull him into the passenger seat.

“I like your friends,” you rubbed your hands together and blew on them. He smiled a radiant smile.

“You’ll love the rest of the guys,” he pulled your free hand into his lap, both palms wrapped around it, warming you right up. You drove the rest of the way home with one hand so he could keep a grip on you. He gave you a play-by-play of practice (which drills he did best on, what made him laugh the most, what he wanted to focus on for the next game), only coming up for air once.

“I really like you,” he said earnestly, as matter-of-factly as when he spoke about drills. It made you shake your head.

“Obviously I like you too,” the words felt good to be out–like you didn’t realize how true they were until you said them aloud.

He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “Obviously?” You could feel his smile on the back of your hand.

“It's, like, impossible not to.” You pulled in front of his building, putting the car in park. Meaning to pull your hand back from him–a little embarrassed–but didn’t even make it over the console before he crushed you in a hug over the center console. The steering wheel dug into your side, nose crushed into his chest, hair static-y all over his puffer. But you couldn’t bring yourself to back out of it–arms rubbing circles against the back of his coat.

You had no idea how much time had passed when he pulled back, grabbed his bag from the trunk, and walked up to the front door. It was probably the longest he had gone without talking around you. But you didn’t mind. You liked him when he talked, when he didn’t, when he smiled, when he breathed.

You smiled all the way home.

…

You agreed to walk to the new year’s eve party together. It was just far enough away for you to prepare to meet more of the people from his world and hear about his last couple road games. Just hearing him talk made your nerves melt away.

He insisted on meeting on your doorstep, however, even though it added 10 minutes to his walk. He texted when he was on his way.

From: J

Be there in a few!

From: you

You need my address?

From: J

Course not.

And then.

I remember important stuff.

You went in for a hug as you opened the door–a new part of your routine.

“Hey,” your greeting was muffled into his puffer. His navy?? Puffer. One identical to your own. You thumbed the material and glanced up at him. “Nice coat?” You raised your eyebrows.

He laughed loudly, tipping his head back. “I wanted to match.” The way he said it made it feel obvious–tone like a noncommittal shrug. Like why wouldn’t he want to match?

The ease of the gesture was lovely. He was lovely. “Well then,” you linked your arm with his, setting off down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, “it is an honor to match with you tonight.”

He let a grin brighten his face. “You smell really good,” he breathed into your hair. “Like you always do. And I like the glitter you have–” He ghosted a thumb over your brow bone, “here.”

And the loveliness haunted you the entire walk over, conversation easy and light. He was so open, so kind, in a way that eased openness and kindness from you as well.

So the night was much better than you had expected. It felt natural to meet his friends, his teammates, their wives, their kids. It didn’t feel like being thrust into a brand new world. It just felt like natural–like getting another piece of Jeremy was a privilege.

And you didn’t feel out of place with how enamored you were with him–everyone here clearly was. He was the heartbeat of this group of people–and you felt lucky to watch him light up the room. And a little part of you felt proud that you were here with him.

The one who everyone wanted to be around–he wanted to be here with you.

“You’re too nice for him,” another new face laughed as he clapped Jeremy on the shoulder, looking down at you.

“Too nice?” You glanced at the palm resting over your stomach. Possibly the most gentle, kind touch you had experienced. How could anyone be too nice for that? “For him?” Your voice raised with confusion.

The young guy in front of you raised his eyebrows at the man behind you. “He didn’t tell you?” His smile was all trouble. “Our boy Sway likes to be a little roughed up,” he laughed at your blush, hidden by you turning around to gape at Jeremy. To wait for a rebuttal.

But it never came. He just laughed good-naturedly and hugged you into his chest. “Hey now, don’t scare her away!” He looked down at you, squeezed tight against his chest. “Lucky to have her here at all.” His smile was just for you.

And so you smiled and let yourself half forget about that comment. Met some more people. Drank some more wine. Smiled a lot.

But you couldn’t forget it entirely.

Some time later, he beckoned you over to where he sat on the couch. You finished up chatting with some of the women and made your way to him.

“Hey,” you stood in between his legs before he pulled you down to sit on one of his thighs with a thud. You felt him sigh into your hair as you leaned back so your head rested on his shoulder, hands reaching around the play with his fingers. He was solid and warm.

“Hey,” if you had to put money on it–you’d bet he was smiling. “Thanks for being a champ about this–they can be a lot.” You traced a nail over the outline of his hand. “But they’re important to me, so it makes me happy that they get to meet you.”

As intimate as a secret, spoken lowly in your ear. As secure as a fact, warming your chest.

“I like them,” you thought for a moment. “Even if they think I’m too nice.”

He rolled his eyes. “They’re just giving you a hard time. It’s a long story.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You can tell me if you want.” You could feel his chest rise and fall under your back.

“When I first signed, I showed up to practice all beat up once. Bruises, all that nonsense.” His eyes shone as he retold the story–like the emotions were just as fresh as they had been. “Told everyone I walked into a doorway–or something stupid like that. In the locker room later, everyone saw the marks this girl had left all over me.” He indicated scratch marks over where you lay on his chest. “All on my back and my neck and stuff. Never heard the end of it–how doors are really fighting back now and all that.” You just listened. “So yeah, they give me a hard time about it. But it’s no big deal–I didn’t want them to scare you or anything. If you’re not into that, don’t worry.”

He ducked his head into the crook of your shoulder, kissing behind your ear. You shivered, trying not to wiggle too much over his lap. Tilting your head towards him, you let your voice drop so only he could hear. “I’m into that.” His eyes went wide. “And I’m into you, so I can still be nice.”

He gulped audibly, making you smirk. “Like, I can be nice and tell you that you’re so good.” His face was as serious as you’d seen him. “Makes me wonder if you’d be so good for me.”

He nodded before he knew what he was nodding at, grip tight around you. “I would be.” His voice was clipped. “I’d be so good for you.”

You nodded back, chest on fire. You believed him.

You let your cheek rest against his sweater, eyes peering up at him–slightly flushed from the party and eyes a little tired. It had to be close to midnight.

As if on cue, the countdown began from the tv. Every voice in the room chanted along…10, 9, 8…but you almost didn’t hear them. Too busy looking at Jeremy. 7, 6, 5. You turned so your legs swung off the couch, sideways in his lap.

“I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss,” he whispered, holding you upright against him. “Like a real one. Not just a friend or something.” 4, 3. You pulled him so close you could see the shine of his lip from his drink, feel the sweat on the back of his neck from his sweater.

2. 1. “Glad to be your first or something,” you grinned into the kiss, teeth knocking against his. He laughed a breathy laugh into your mouth, free hand palming the back of your head. His chest rose and fell next to yours, making you pull back.

“I’m so happy it’s you,” he admitted–probably the most embarrassed you’d seen him. You ran your hands through his hair, settling against his chest so he could put his chin atop your head.

You believed him.

...

happy new year! Love ya

#nhl fic #nhl imagines #jeremy swayman #bruins #boston bruins #david pastrnak #brandon carlo #charlie mcavoy #matt poitras

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