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abbotjack · 2 months ago

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Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have

pairing : dr. jack abbot x resident!reader (afab!reader)

summary : The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury. (Lowkey inspired by Big Love by Fleetwood Mac—because obviously.)

warnings/content : trauma aftermath (mass casualty event), hospital setting, attending x resident dynamic, mutual pining, emotional repression, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, verbal rejection, explicit sexual content (f!receiving, protected sex), semi-public/backseat sex, emotionally loaded dialogue, swearing

word count : 4,212

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : I am just so obsessed with Abbot, like oml I do not need a new hyperfixation at this point of the semester but here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this!

There’s blood on your forearms.

Not a lot—just the dried trace of a life you couldn’t save, stuck to your skin even after the first scrub. You’ve already changed out of your soiled gloves and gown. You sanitized twice. But still, you scrub again, because your hands won’t stop shaking and focusing on the motion keeps you upright.

The shooting at Pitt Fest has left the trauma bay soaked with the sound of screams you can’t forget. The floors were slick. Supplies ran out faster than anyone could track. You can still hear the rhythmic buzz of the trauma pager, the overhead call for more gurneys, the shrill monitor that never quieted until it did.

Your white coat is somewhere in the hallway—discarded and stained, a casualty of triage. There’s a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, just beneath your eye. It’s from when the mother of the boy thrashed in panic, her elbow colliding with your face. You didn’t notice it at first, not until someone pointed it out with a grimace. Said it was turning purple, already swelling. Said you should ice it. You didn’t.

You press harder on your hands.

Jack Abbot hasn’t spoken to you since he snapped orders across the gurney three hours ago, voice razor-sharp, eyes like flint. He’d taken over compressions without blinking. His personal protection gear streaked in blood. His shoulders set like stone. His voice—steady, calm, cold.

You’d hesitated.

Just a second. Maybe less. But he’d seen it.

“You’re too shallow—switch out. Now.”

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stepped in, hands already moving, chest compressing with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

He moves like he did on the field. You’ve heard stories—Jack the soldier, desert heat in his lungs, fingers suturing flesh with a kind of brutal grace. You’ve seen glimpses of it before, but tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t a glimpse. It was a full transformation.

You backed away, stunned into silence. Not because he took over. But because of how he did it. Like you were a liability. Like you didn’t belong.

You told yourself it was adrenaline. It wasn’t.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

You keep your eyes on the mirror—don’t move, don’t breathe—until his reflection comes into focus beside yours.

His eyes go straight to your cheek.

The bruise.

His posture changes. Shoulders tense, mouth tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of something behind his eyes is unmistakable. Not surprise. Not guilt.

Anger. Not at you—but at the fact that you’re hurt.

He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter. His eyes flick to your cheekbone again. The bruise is deeper now, ugly in the fluorescent light.

“You paused,” he says finally, voice low.

You dry your hands slowly. The paper towel crinkles between your fingers.

You turn, sharp. “I froze because I’ve never had to treat a gunshot wound in a fifteen-year-old while their mother screamed in my ear.”

You don’t stop.

“She was grabbing my sleeves, pulling at my hands, sobbing and shouting his name—over and over. She kept trying to touch his face. I could barely see where the blood was coming from. I wasn’t even sure where to start.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “That’s what the job is.”

You laugh, and it sounds like it’s clawing its way out of your chest. “Don’t lecture me on what the job is, Jack. I’ve been here three years. I know what this place does to people.”

His jaw tightens. There’s something in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or guilt. You can’t tell with him. You never can.

He pushes off the counter.

“You think I don’t know what it does to people?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he steps closer, the air between you tight enough to snap.

“You think I wanted you in the bay?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

Jack’s voice dips lower. “I saw your name on the call sheet. I almost pulled you off rotation.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t get to do that.”

He’s close now—too close. He smells like hospital soap and something else beneath it—deep, expensive cologne that cuts through the sterile air. Teakwood. Mahogany. That warm, slightly spiced scent that always lingers a second too long after he leaves a room. Clean. Controlled. Intentionally chosen. Just like him.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart,” he says.

Your heart slams. The words hit harder than they should, because they’re the first ones he’s offered that sound like anything real. Not just protocol. Not just war-worn discipline.

“I already have,” you whisper. “And you didn’t notice. Not when I told you how I felt. Not when you shut me down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

He swallows hard. His posture stiffens.

“You didn’t even look at me after that,” you say, voice shaking. “I told you I had feelings for you, and you acted like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Like caring about you was a mistake I should be embarrassed by.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

You shake your head, eyes burning. “For you, it’s easier to pretend this thing—whatever it is between us—doesn’t exist than admit you’re scared of something real.”

You don’t have to spell it out. You’ve seen the way he distances himself—the way he locks things down before anyone even gets close. You’ve felt it.

The silence now is a living thing. Loud. Brutal. The air is laced with too many unsaid things.

You can feel it—beneath the calm, beneath the scrub shirt and military precision—Jack is burning.

But he still doesn’t reach for you.

So you do what you always do.

You leave before he can stop you.

You don’t get far.

The trauma bay doors hiss shut behind you and the night air hits your face like a slap—cool, sharp, soaked in hospital exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You pace once. Twice. You don’t cry.

You breathe. You think you might scream. Instead, you lean back against the cold exterior wall of the hospital and close your eyes. And there it is—the echo of his voice, thick with something too raw to name.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart.”

But it wasn’t just tonight that gutted you. It started before. When you said too much and he gave you nothing.

It was three days ago. Late enough that the hospital had gone quiet—the kind of quiet where your thoughts get too loud, and nothing feels safe to admit.

You were both at the nurses’ station. Jack sat at one of the desktops, the screen glowing pale blue in front of him, his fingers motionless on the trackpad. You were across from him, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other absently toying with a pen.

You’d been circling it for weeks—maybe longer. This thing between you. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the quiet, in the unspoken, in the almosts. In the way your skin prickled when he entered a room. The way air shifted when he stood behind you—close, but never touching.

It was in the way his gaze found you during rounds, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The way his voice dipped when he said your name, soft and unreadable—like a secret slipping between his teeth. The way your breath caught when he brushed past you in the hallway, the fabric of his scrubs grazing yours, sending a bolt of something electric down your spine.

It was professional. It had to be. But it never felt neutral.

Every look felt like contact. Every silence, a dare.

The tension wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It sat just under the surface—constant, quiet, undeniable. Like gravity. Like something pulling you toward him whether you wanted it or not.

But it wasn’t just you.

Jack watched you, too. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he was trying not to want you and failing anyway. He always looked away too slowly. Cleared his throat when your laugh caught him off guard. Said your name differently than everyone else—lower, rougher, like he was holding it in his mouth too long.

There were moments you caught him looking at you like he was already sorry for it.

Like he knew what it would cost if he gave in.

There were nights you couldn’t sleep without replaying the way his hand brushed yours, or the heat of his body behind you in the elevator, or the flicker of something in his eyes before he shut it down again.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

He wasn’t supposed to let you.

But you did.

And he did.

And both of you kept pretending it wasn’t real—even as it took up more and more space inside your chest.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… happened.

“I care about you,” you’d said, voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just need you to know.”

Jack didn’t look up. Not at first. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw set like someone had flipped a switch inside him. When he did meet your eyes, it wasn’t with warmth. It was with something colder. Sharper. Like he was bracing for impact.

“This can’t happen,” he’d said. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was reciting a rule he’d memorized a long time ago. “You’re a resident. I’m your attending. You know that.”

You’d nodded, tried to smile, tried to make it easy for him. Tried to act like it didn’t sting.

But he kept going.

“And even if you weren’t… it’s not a good idea.”

He hesitated. Just a second. But enough.

"You don’t know me," he added, eyes hard. "You think you do, but you don’t. You see what I let you see. And that version of me—that's not real."

And then, like he needed to twist the knife just to make sure it stuck :

“Whatever you think this is—I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”

You knew, even as he said it—he didn’t mean it. Not like that. But he wanted it to hurt. Needed it to. Like if he made you hate him, it would make walking away easier. That was the part that stayed with you.

You hadn’t cried then. Not in front of him. You nodded again, eyes dry, throat burning, and told him you understood. But you hadn’t said anything else. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask him why.

And he hadn’t offered.

Not an apology. Not an explanation.

He hadn’t said a single word to you since—not until today, when his voice finally cut through the chaos to order you off the boy’s chest. Cold. Clinical. Like nothing had ever passed between you at all. Like you were just another resident.

But you’d felt it. In the way he walked into a room and wouldn’t look at you. In the way his voice would hitch when you brushed past. In the way his fists curled tight at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but refused to let himself.

He was trying to be cold. Trying to keep the line drawn.

And still—still—he’d almost pulled you from trauma rotation tonight.

You open your eyes. The ache in your chest feels ancient. Familiar.

Big love. That’s what it was. The kind that never had a chance to grow, but still bloomed under your skin like it owned you.

And Jack? Jack let it die before it ever had the chance to live.

It’s been a week since Pitt Fest.

The hospital has started to settle into something like normal, but you haven’t. You still flinch when a trauma page comes over the comms. Still hear that mother’s voice, shrill and ragged. Still feel the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing yours when he took over compressions. That wasn’t the moment you broke, but it was the moment you knew you couldn’t pretend anymore.

So tonight, you go out. Against your better judgment.

Whitaker begged you. Santos threatened to show up at your apartment with a bottle of tequila. King and Mohan promised only one drink, just one, come on, you need it. Javadi was supposed to come too, but she bailed last minute—something about studying for boards and not wanting to get caught at another bar underage.

So now it’s the five of you crammed into a booth at this dive bar near the hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, the one with sticky floors and pool tables missing half the balls. The music is too loud, but the company is easy. Whitaker is doing some elaborate retelling of a patient who tried to fake a heart attack to get out of paying his copay. Mohan is crying from laughter. You’re sipping something sweet and strong and trying to let it all melt away.

It’s working.

Until you see him.

Jack.

He’s across the bar, half-shadowed under the neon sign, nursing a beer like he doesn’t want to be seen. But he’s not alone.

Robby’s with him. Of course he is.

They’re leaned in close, not talking much. Just sitting. Watching.

No—he’s watching.

You.

Your drink stills halfway to your mouth. Your stomach twists, not violently, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Jack doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Just holds your gaze like it hurts him. Like it should.

You force yourself to blink, to laugh at something Whitaker says. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking. You pretend you don’t feel your entire body tuning itself to the sound of his silence.

He rejected you. You know that.

But the way he’s looking at you now? It doesn’t feel like rejection.

It feels like longing.

And maybe that’s worse.

You down the rest of your drink in one go. It burns less than it should.

There’s a man at the bar. Mid-forties, maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Expensive watch. He catches your glance and offers a smile that’s a little too polished, a little too practiced—but you return it anyway. Because he’s older. Because he’s sharp-eyed. Because he reminds you, in all the wrong ways, of someone else.

You excuse yourself from the table before anyone can stop you.

You take your drink, your heels, and your broken pride, and you slide onto the stool next to him.

Jack sees. Of course he does.

You make sure he does.

“Can I buy you another?” the man asks, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile. “Yeah. Why not?”

You laugh too easily. Let your shoulder brush his as he leans in. He says something you don’t hear because your pulse is thundering in your ears.

Across the bar, Jack’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around his beer bottle, the label peeling beneath his thumb.

You tilt your head back and laugh again—this time louder, brighter, crueler.

Because if you’re going to hurt, you want him to feel it too.

And he does.

You can see it in the way he breaks eye contact first.

You can see it in the way Robby says something and Jack doesn’t respond.

You can see it in the way he stands up a minute later, like he can’t stand to watch anymore.

But he doesn’t leave.

He moves.

Across the bar. Slow, deliberate. Controlled rage in every step.

Robby calls after him, eyebrows lifted, confused—but Jack doesn’t answer.

He stops a foot away from you, the stranger mid-sentence, and you feel it before you even look up—heat rolling off of him like a storm about to break.

“Can I talk to you?” Jack says. Voice low. Measured. Barely held together.

You arch an eyebrow, take a long sip of your drink. “Busy.”

The man beside you glances between the two of you, sensing something sharp in the air. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Jack’s eyes are locked on yours. Not the stranger’s. Not anyone else’s.

“You need to come with me,” he says, lower now. “Now.”

And it’s not a command. It’s not even a plea. It’s desperation wrapped in control, fraying at the edges.

You consider refusing. You want to.

But you rise anyway.

And follow him out the door.

The air outside is colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just him.

Jack doesn’t speak right away. He walks fast—toward the lot behind the bar, where his car is parked beneath a crooked streetlamp. When he finally stops, it’s with his back to you. One hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair. The kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.

You follow, heart hammering. He turns.

“What the hell was that?”

Your arms fold across your chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

His eyes flash. “The guy. The flirting. You were trying to—”

“Trying to what?” you snap. “Move on? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Jack exhales, sharp and uneven. “You don’t get it.”

“No, Jack. I really don’t. You said this couldn’t happen. You told me to forget it, forget you. And then you stare at me like that? Like you’ve got any right to be angry?”

“I’m not angry,” he bites out. “I’m—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretches. You can hear the distant music from inside, laughter spilling through the front entrance. But here? It’s just you and him, and everything you haven’t said.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” he says finally, voice frayed. “Push you away. I just… I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”

Your voice lowers. “Why would you want it to stop?”

He steps forward once. Close, but not touching. His hands stay at his sides like he’s afraid of what will happen if he reaches for you.

“Because it scares the shit out of me,” Jack says. “Because you matter more than you should. And because I don’t trust myself not to fuck that up.”

Your heart twists. “So instead you say things to make me hate you?”

“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier for both of us.”

You laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s not.”

His voice breaks. “I know.”

You look at him. Really look at him. There’s pain there—old and festering. The kind that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he’s been dragging behind him since the war, since before.

You take a breath. “So what now?”

Jack steps even closer. You can feel the heat of him again. His eyes drop to your mouth, then snap back up like he’s furious with himself for even looking.

“You came out here,” you say.

“I didn’t want to watch someone else touch you,” he admits.

“Then don’t make me someone you can’t have.”

There’s a beat.

And then he’s kissing you.

Rough. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for years and it’s finally breaking loose. You answer it without hesitation, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him down like you’re daring him to finally stop pretending.

He presses you back against the car, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His mouth is on yours—hungry, ragged—like if he slows down, this will disappear.

“Back seat,” he growls. His voice scrapes through your chest.

He opens the rear door behind you, hand never leaving your hip, guiding you with him. You climb in first, crawling across the backseat with your heart in your throat. By the time you turn, he’s already sliding in after you, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid, final thud.

He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you again, harder this time, like his life depends on it. You climb into his lap, straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed close and flushed with heat. He shoves your coat off your shoulders, pushes your shirt up. You tug his top over his head and toss it somewhere in the car.

“God,” he mutters, eyes raking over you. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does.

He unhooks your bra with one hand—like muscle memory—his mouth already on your chest, teeth and tongue working in tandem. His other hand splays across your lower back, holding you close as your hips grind down into his.

You’re panting. He’s shaking.

You reach between you, working open his belt, and feel him throb beneath the fabric. Jack shudders when your hand slips inside, groaning low into your skin.

“Wallet,” he mutters against your neck, voice breathless. “Inside pocket.”

You grab it. Your fingers move fast, practiced by adrenaline. You find the condom tucked there, tear it open, and hand it to him. His eyes meet yours as he rolls it on—slow, deliberate. Controlled, even now.

You brace yourself on his shoulders and lower down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you.

The stretch burns in the best way. You gasp. He swears.

You don’t move. Not yet.

He kisses your jaw, your collarbone. Holds your hips steady with both hands like he’s savoring the feel of you. And when you start to move—hips rolling slow and deep—he leans his head back and groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he breathes.

You ride him hard, your rhythm building, mouths colliding again and again between moans. His grip bruises your thighs as he thrusts up to meet every movement, his control slipping with every second you stay on top of him.

Then suddenly—he shifts.

His arms wrap under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts you.

You gasp as he turns, guiding you onto your back across the seat. He stays inside you the whole time, never letting go, until your back hits the cool leather and he’s towering over you, braced between your legs.

“You okay?” he asks, breath ragged.

You nod, already whining for more.

Then he starts to move again—deep, relentless, rocking the car with every thrust.

He shifts, bracing one hand beneath your thigh to push your leg higher, opening you up to take him deeper. The angle hits something devastating—you cry out, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

Jack leans down, mouth hot at your neck, breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked and raw. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jack.”

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip for leverage—then slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit and start to circle, firm and focused, his pace never faltering.

It sends you over the edge.

You break apart beneath him—back arching, thighs trembling, his name ripped from your mouth like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.

You’re still shaking when he comes—groaning into your shoulder, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time and lets go.

Afterward, you don’t speak right away.

You’re tangled together. His chest is against yours. His arms still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. Your heartbeat stutters beneath his palm. The windows are fogged, the car soaked in heat and the weight of everything that just happened.

You stroke a hand through the back of his hair, calming him more than you.

Finally, he shifts, settling beside you, your body still half-curled on top of him.

And quietly, you say:

“I followed you out because I thought you were going to leave again.”

He freezes.

You feel his breath catch against your shoulder.

“You left once,” you say. “After I told you how I felt. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just made it clear I’d imagined all of it. And tonight? I thought you were about to do it again.”

His voice is tight when he finally speaks.

“I almost did.”

You nod slowly. “Why didn’t you?”

Jack exhales hard. “Because I saw you with him, and I knew—if I walked away again, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d be choosing to.”

He turns your face toward him.

“And I couldn’t live with that.”

You search his expression. His hand brushes a strand of hair from your face, and then settles on your cheek.

“I tried to kill it,” he says. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it is. And it’s too big to ignore.”

“Big love,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. The kind that burns everything else down.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I waited. Through all of it—every time you pretended you didn’t feel this, too.”

His eyes close. Like the truth hurts more than anything else tonight.

“I don’t know how to want you without wanting all of it,” he admits.

And you don’t need him to explain what all of it means.

The chaos. The risk. The weight.

You nod. “Good. Because I don’t want halfway.”

He leans in—presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, soft now. Careful.

And finally—finally—he says, “Then I won’t run anymore.”

You believe him.

But only because Big Love doesn’t let you run.

It lives. Loud. Messy. Permanent.

And tonight, in the heat of a parked car, Jack finally lets it have him.

#i got too carried away #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt #the pitt x reader #shawn hatosy #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #jack abbott #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #smut #angst

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rcvcgers · 2 months ago

Text

Challengers, part one

series masterlist , main masterlist

18+ content! minors dni!

please read the author's note before continuing.

pairings ; caleb x reader x zayne

synopsis ; it's the last playoff game between the linkon hunters and skyhaven fleet. their star players, zayne & caleb, go head to head. you sit in the crowd and watch.

word count ; 5.5k words

author's note ; hi all! thank you so much for your interest in the series! it made me so excited that i decided to write the first chapter and post it for y'all! now, to get into it:

this is an adaptation from the movie challengers. i am essentially putting these characters into the roles of tashi, art, and patrick. i HIGHLY recommend watching the movie first before you read! the structure is non-linear and there will be time jumps back and forth. those who have seen the movie will understand but if you haven't it may be hard to keep up. i will indicate when there is a switch in time, though!

i also plan on (trying to, at least) making this hornier than the movie! i will be writing out the sex scenes & will even expand upon a few of them alongside other scenes from the movie. the movie is erotic and i will try my best to match the mood! i want to do luca justice for his amazing direction of the movie!

also, this will be an alternate universe where the characters do not have powers & their relationships/dynamic aren't exactly like in the game. if you're looking for canon compliant characterization, then i suggest you go read another fanfic because i am taking liberties with caleb & zayne & any other character that may appear (stares at the other LIs).

now that is done & over with, i hope you all enjoy the fic! i love the movie so much and had to make it into a fic for caleb & zayne for obvious reasons! and psst, this chapter is a little on the shorter side but the other chapters will be heavier in word count! and it will most likely have weekend updates!

content warning ; blood, light violence (punching), light neck kisses, slight vulgar language, let me know if i missed anything!

my challengers ❤︎ ; @militaryapple , @godoffuckedupcats , @tojicide , @flowers-wilt-on-juniper-lane , @mariojins , @probably-hyperfixating , @neigesprincess , @leeniverse , @debrahhhhhhh , @31streasonwhy , @loversobession , @idiashusband , @nezuswritingdesk , @sanrioprincessdani , @blorbohunter , @divxvx , @kazbrkker , @deathdakidz , @here-for-the-tea-baby , @zariahx , @rxelarailuj , @aliyahluvsfall , @novthirty , @mxkvlio , @yumesagashite , @zeskyzed ,@llamabois , @darkeskye , @hrtnote , @cathedralofaudra , @chakalimic , @butterbiscuit444 , @jexireads , @updatesoftware , @blcknebula

The center face off circle is a faded blue color. A red line runs down the middle, Skyhaven Fleet’s logo dead center of the ice. Two shadows approach the center. A man with purple eyes and athletic tape poking over the edge of his heavy uniform. The other has hazel eyes, mouthguard hanging from his mouth, chewing on the malleable plastic.

The puck is dropped. The arena cheers, air horns going off, and chants from the fans beginning.

Skates dash across the ice, slicing into the frozen landscape. The once perfect ice is now ruined. Holes and scrapes dig into the surface, the tips of razor sharp places picking up snow when a player comes to a sudden stop. Bodies collide. Gear and padding smack into each other. Sweat falls from foreheads. Men yell at each other on the ice, trying to be audible over the deafening sound of the championship crowd.

One Skyhaven player, in a black and blue uniform, sprints down the ice. He pants, face in a grimace, as a Linkon Hunter slips in behind him. The puck dances back and forth against the ice, staying in the comfort of the player’s reach. They shoot down the side of the ice, the player in the gold and white uniform catches up to him. The curved edge of his stick scrapes across the once smooth ice, the tip just barley nicking the back of the Skyhaven player’s blades.

The Skyhaven player quickly looks over his shoulder, purple eyes focused on the stoic face that closes in on him. A smirk flashes across his face. He flicks his stick to the right, tilting his blades against the ice, snow kicking up from the sudden movement. He slows enough for the arena’s camera to pick up the white last name on his jersey.

Xia

The Linkon player slips by him. His black hair falls onto his forehead. The thin, clear visor veils his hazel eyes, trained on the black puck that’s been hit to the other side of the ice. He groans and circles behind his team’s goal. His appearance is blurred from his speed. It’s only when he hooks around the net that the camera is able to grab his name.

The black haired man pushes up to the other Skyhaven player. His hockey stick slaps and swipes across the ice. They tussle over the puck, bodies leaning in on each other. The Linkon player slips the puck out from the chaos. The black puck is just about to reach his teammate when Skyhaven’s star player cuts between the pass, intercepting it. He darts down the rest of the ice.

Everyone in the stadium leans forward, slowly sucking in all of the air from the chilly area. Knuckles are white, babies stop their cries, anticipation bubbling inside the enclosure.

The puck flies through the air, the thwack from the hit echoing across the ice. Time slows. The puck collides with the back of the net. The crowd erupts into screams and cheers. Grown men jump from their seats and hug each other while others shake their head and take a sip from their beers, cursing under their breath.

It’s the last game of the playoffs. The seventh and final game has begun with the Skyhaven Fleet taking the early lead over the Linkon Hunters.

Sirens and horns blare throughout the stadium. The Fleet’s team skates to their star player who just scared. They slap and smack his padded body and helmet, a charming smile gracing the man’s face. His purple eyes lock onto a player who skates by, sharing an intimidating and threatening glare.

“Caleb Xia with the first goal of the night!” An announcer screams through the arena’s speakers.

The scoreboard is bright, dangling over the ice like a taunt to the losing players, especially to one in particular. Caleb Xia’s headshot and dazzling smile is displayed for all of the fans to see.

1 - 0

“A devastating blow for Zayne Li of the Linkon Hunters,” the announcer continues, “if only he got to the puck sooner!”

Caleb and Zayne skate around the inner circle of the ice. Their eyes remain on each other. Caleb wears a smug smirk, closing in on his spot next to the referee. Zayne slowly approaches with a scowl sewn onto his lips.

They lean down, resting their weight onto their knees, eyes on the ice. Caleb’s breaths are steady whereas Zayne’s are shallow, anticipation taking over his body. In unison, they lower their sticks onto the ground, placing a bit of their weight into it. The referee leans down with them, puck in hand, whistle in his mouth. He glances between the men. The tension slowly builds. He drops the puck and skates backwards, a blur of sticks colliding and smacking against each other. Zayne is able to slip in and swipe the puck away, passing it to a teammate.

Caleb hesitates in his place. Zayne bumps his padded shoulder into his. Caleb’s nostrils flare. He turns on his blade, immediately darting after Zayne, who sticks to the edge of the frozen playing field. He is nowhere near the game of play, watching as his teammates pass back and forth. Zayne remains open, waiting for the right moment to slip in. He’s just about to push off the edge when—

Slam!

The large plexiglass planes stutter in their place, reverberating from the sheer force of Zayne’s body colliding with it. The side of Zayne’s face smacks against the barrier, pain flashing across his face. A metallic taste fills his mouth. Caleb keeps him held up against the wall, only letting go when a referee pulls him off. As the men are pulled away from each other to prevent a fight, their eyes move to someone sitting behind the glass.

There you are. The object of their desires, the angel in their dreams, the woman who has captivated them for the past thirteen years of their lives. A she-devil disguised as an angel. The woman who has been nothing but honest about her pursuit for greatness, expecting nothing less from those who surround her.

You like to sit to the side of Zayne’s team, always available to give him so much needed words of wisdom when he begins to falter in his gameplay. You watch from your seat, glossed lips pressed into a thin line, arms crossed over your chest, diamond wedding ring sparkling under the stadium lights. Eyes flicker between the men, their lips parting when you make eye contact with them. You slowly lean back in your chair. Caleb passes between you and Zayne, his purple eyes locked on you, smirk spread across his face before he disappears with his team. Your gaze lingers on him. You reread his last name on his jersey before peeling your gaze away.

Zayne hovers by the glass, looking at you. His eyes soften yet hold back any emotion he may feel, an internal push and pull with himself. You tilt your head to the side and your gaze sharpens on him, shaking your head ever so slightly. He swivels on the ice and skates away, swinging his stick back and forth as he catches up with the play.

Four Weeks Ago

Zayne sits on the hotel couch, remote in hand, knuckles white. His hazel eyes remain on the television screen. You move behind him, talking in hushed whispers with his personal trainer while shaking up a green drink in a water bottle.

“It’s predicted that the Skyhaven Fleet will be facing off against the Linkon Hunter’s in this year’s championship. The other teams in the league aren’t able to keep up with their offensive players. With the return of Zayne Li, do you think the Linkon Hunters will be victorious?”

Zayne’s grip on the remote tightens. Unable to look away, he watches as footage from his injury plays on screen. A player in a green uniform uses his hockey stick to swipe at Zayne’s feet, the man’s shoulder colliding into the tall glass planes. His shoulder popped out of its socket, his collarbone shattering into three distinct fragments.

It took him out of the game for three months. He sat on the sideline alongside his team, arm in a black sling, while you sat beside him on the other side of the glass in your usual spot, watching the game, taking notes on plays and players for him. He returned just in time for playoff season, having jumped in a few games before the official start of playoffs.

His game, though, had changed. The once strong and confident player now plays timid, staying away and out of skirmishes that may arise.he hangs back, preferring to shoot from afar despite knowing that the goalie will snatch it in his glove. He no longer slams other players out of the way, instead making sure to always swerve around them instead of taking the hit like he used to.

After every game, Zayne saw the look of disappointment in your face. He noticed every micro-expression, the way your brows furrowed ever so slightly, the twitch of your lips tugging down, the way you could barely look at him when you got back to the hotel while in another city. Zayne knew you were hiding your lackluster enthusiasm for his return to the game. He knows that every smile you give him is filled with sadness that he’s allowing his injury to ruin his season, his career.

Zayne knew he had to make it up to you, to get back into the number one spot in the game and in your heart, even if it means he doesn’t want it as much as you do.

“I think Li and the rest of the Hunters have an uphill battle to face. The Skyhaven Fleet just signed back on their star player, Caleb Xia, and—”

The television goes silent. Zayne blinks, slowly turning his head to look up at you. You look down at him, your hand on top of his. His grip loosens and you slip the remote from his hand, moving it to the side table.

An orange medication bottle sits on the table with his name printed on the side. Painkillers for his shoulder and collarbone just in case his pain flares up. On the coffee table in front of him sits an open laptop. His emails with his coach and physical therapist are open to read, x-rays attached in a file. Beside his laptop is a cup of jasmine tea and a small, sweet breakfast treat, one that you were sure to lecture him for having.

You slowly circle around the couch like a predator trapping its prey. Zayne’s eyes never leave your body. A light blue, silk two piece pajama set hugs your body, a hotel robe flowing behind you. Whenever Zayne looks at you, you always manage to take his breath away. You stare at the television screen, though, and take your place at the other end of the hotel couch.

The television screen shows highlights from Zayne’s last game against the Whitesand Sharks. In one of the clips, Zayne falls behind as the other players push past him, skating across the length of the rink quicker than he did. You sigh, watching his number try to keep up.

“You should skate laps tomorrow…get your stamina back up, lessen your time,” you mutter, eyes fixated on the screen.

Zayne’s hand inches closer to you. His calloused fingertips walk along the exposed skin of your leg. He hooks his fingers behind your calf, using just a tiny bit of his strength and muscles to pull you towards him. A gasp escapes your lips. He immediately wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side.

The palm of your hand flattens against his bare chest, fingers spread out across his skin. He sighs and helps you adjust your legs in a position where you are most comfortable, just the way you like it. Zayne leans his head into yours, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“Look,” you point to the screen, “we need to improve before the first playoff game.”

Zayne’s tiny figure glides across the muted television screen. The network plays coverage of another game he was in, a more recent one, where he misses a pass, the puck being caught by an opposing player. Another clip is of him missing the net from a close distance. A close up of his frustrated face flashes across the screen, shaking his head while he chews on his mouth guard. The last clip shows him throwing his hockey stick away, the piece of black painted wood spinning across the ice while Zayne yells at a referee.

“I wonder what he’s yelling about,” Zayne comments, trying to lighten the mood. You slowly turn to look at him, frowning. “He probably has a good reason. He was playing really well—”

“You should stay on the bench if you’re going to continue playing like that.”

“My love…”

“You should sit out of the playoffs. This isn’t your year, so why contribute, right?” You begin to peel away from him but Zayne pulls you right back. Your eyes meet, his gaze burning into yours, disinterest and disappointment in written all over your face.

“I’m just rusty. It’s a confidence thing,” Zayne reasons. You lean in, face hovering next to his. You squeeze his chest, the tips of your fingers just barely grazing across the slowly fading scar on Zayne’s shoulder.

“Then get your fucking confidence back,” your voice is low, dangerous. It’s a threat, a promise that something bad will come his way. Zayne sighs. His grip on you loosens.

You readjust in his arms, gaze now trained on the fresh and slightly pink scar. Your painted fingernail presses into the skin. Zayne sucks in a breath. You drag your finger along the line of the scar, feeling the raised skin press into the pad of your ring finger. The diamond of your wedding ring shimmers under the afternoon sun; the token of Zayne’s love for you perpetually glimmers like the ring he put on your finger, locking you to him. The ring acts as a silent sign that you’re his, nobody else’s.

So is it really a token of his love? Or is it a way for him to mark his territory?

“I would have killed to have a recovery like yours,” you whisper. Zayne turns his head to look at you but you don’t look back. Your nail pushes into his skin further. Chills spread across his chest and shoulder. “I literally would have stabbed someone. An old lady, a child, a priest…you.”

“Where are Mommy and Daddy?” a little girl’s voice can be hard from just outside the hotel’s living room.

“They’re inside watching Daddy’s past games, baby, you can see them soon,” you Gran’s voice soothes her. Both you and Zayne look at the doorway, waiting for them to enter. You turn back around and look up at him, keeping your voice low.

“What do I need to do? What can we do to get you to play like you used to?”

Zayne’s bright eyes move away from your face, looking at the doorway. You turn, following his gaze, and smile when your daughter enters the room. She holds a snowman plushie in her arms, it’s almost as big as she is, and waddles inside. The budding tension between you two immediately dissipates.

“Mommy? Daddy? Can we watch a movie?” she asks, her eyes big and puppy-like.

“Of course, Lily,” you breathe out. You slip from Zayne’s grasp, his touch lingering on your back as you pull your daughter into your arms. She has your hair and nose while taking Zayne’s vibrant hazel eyes and quiet nature. “We were just talking about hockey, honey.”

“You’re always talking about hockey,” Lily murmurs, looking down at her snowman plushie. Your smile falters. Zayne’s heart aches at his daughter’s words.

“I know, I know,” you quickly recover for you and Zayne, glancing back at him. You push away from the couch, hands resting on Lily’s shoulders, and follow her out of the room. “Why don’t you go get your blanket and other plushies to join us, okay? I bet they’d want to watch a movie too.”

Zayne sighs, remaining on the couch. He looks back to the muted television screen. Footage from a previous season’s game, one where his goals were at an all time high, plays. He darts across the ice, perpetually open and quick to pass the puck when the defenders gang up on him. He slips around the opposing team’s hockey net. The puck flies to him and he’s quick to dump the winning goal into the back of the net. Light flash and his team skates up to him. They cheer and celebrate while the other team sulks, aimlessly gliding across the coarse and beaten up ice.

Pride fills Zayne’s chest. He watches how his smile grows from the other side of the camera lens. He can hear the screams and cheers from the crowd, making his ears ring as sirens blare and lights flash on and off. He still remembers how he traveled across the rink, finding you in your usual spot.

There was a small smile on your face. One that is both proud yet expected. Zayne tossed his hockey stick to the side, swiping the black helmet off of his head. His gloved hand presses against the glass. The world around you two moved slow. Confetti descends from the ceiling, taking its time to reach the frozen floor, and bodies jump up and down, hovering in the air before meeting the concrete below them. You stood from your seat, adjusting your clothes, and pressed your hand on the glass, your eyes fixed on his.

“She likes it here,” your voice breaks Zayne out of his daydream. He looks to you. His black hair falls in his face, ticking his eyebrows. You stand in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest. A knot forms in your chest. You slowly breathe in and out, watching as Zayne’s expression softens.

“We can stay here,” he breathes out. He props his elbow up onto the back of the plush couch, leaning his head against it. His eyes travel up and down your body, gaze hesitating when it reaches the scar on your knee.

“Yeah?” you respond, holding your arms closer to you chest. “We can stay here. We can stay behind and act like rich people, like celebrities. We can stay behind and focus on the foundation, maybe get you a job as a coach of a minor league team before you’re pulled up. I can continue being your wife, the mother of your daughter, and play house while you’re gone all day...if it’s what you think you can handle.”

Zayne turns his face away from you. A bitter taste spreads across his tongue. He looks at the television. Caleb Xia’s face is plastered all over it. The volume is off but Zayne can hear the commentator’s praise through the silence. He watches as the man skates across the ice, passing the end zone lines, over the face off circles, the puck moving in and out of other player’s grasps before he launches it into the net.

Frustration builds inside Zayne’s chest. It ferments, rotting his once strong confidence, withering it down as the seconds tick by.

“Or you can continue being a hockey player.”

Zayne’s head snaps to you. Your arms are crossed over your chest. You raise an eyebrow at him, lips pursed.

“Which is what you are. Still.” You push away from the doorway. Every step is calculated, meticulous. He stares at you, heat trickling into his cheeks. His eyes narrow. You look down at him, unable to read the emotions on his face.

Is it anger? Contempt? Love? Hatred? Have you finally broken him? Pushed him past his limit so he can’t return to the same player he used to be?

You stand in front of him, slipping between his spread open legs. He leans forward and places his hands on the back of your thighs. You look down and place a hand on his cheek, your touch gentle and tender. Zayne pulls you closer, your knees and shins pressed against the material of the couch. Your thumb grazes over his cheekbone, wiping over a faded bruise from a punch he took just a few days ago.

“It’s your choice, Zayne,” you whisper, “what do you want?”

Your breath mixes in with Zayne’s. His hands run up and down the smooth skin of your thighs. With one gentle pull, he guides your leg to his side, pulling you on his lap. Your hands rest on the sides of his neck, thumbs grazing the stubble on his jawline. Zayne’s hands slip behind the rope and under your silk pajama shirt, one that he desperately wants to rip off your body with his teeth. He holds back, though, and allows his gaze to travel up and down the bare, unmarked skin of your neck. HIs hazel eyes slowly travel back up to your face, catching your gaze.

“I’m going to be a hockey player,” he whispers.

“Good,” you whisper back. Zayne leans up but you tilt your head to the side, his lips coming in contact with your cheek. He begins to press slow, tender kisses down your jaw, making his way to your neck. You sigh and lean into his touch, closing your eyes, feeling his hands bring your chest closer into his hardened muscles.

Caleb taps his fingers against the car’s steering wheel. The windows are devoured in dirt and grime from the outside world, some of it being trapped beneath his fingernails. His phone screen illuminates the inside of the faded blue Jeep.

“Has the deal gone through yet?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck. The man on the other end of the call sighs.

“They’re being difficult with the paperwork. It will probably be finalized tomorrow.”

“Uh huh…” Caleb swipes out of the call, not ending it, but opens up his bank account. Red numbers stare back at him, his recent transactions for gas and drive thru food sinking him into the negatives. He narrows his eyes at the screen, sighing, before moving back to the call. “Do you think I can get an advance on the paycheck? Or just enough to stay the night somewhere close by?”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Caleb,” his agents responds with another let down of an answer. The man’s face scrunches up. He pinches the bridge of his nose, muscles in his forearms flexing.

“Really?” he follows up.

“Appears that way,” his agent confirms. “This is what happens when you let your ego get in the way and are dropped down to the minor lea—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Caleb interrupts, “I got it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?” He hangs up the phone before his agent can answer. He tosses the small device into the passenger seat, hitting an empty styrofoam cup from some chicken place called The Chicken Joint and bounces to the floor. Caleb leans back into his chair, groaning. He slams his fists against the wheel. The horn sounds off for a split second.

Caleb gets out of the car, walking around to the passenger side. Skyhaven’s nightly breeze chills him, a few snowflakes flowing with the wind. He rips open the passenger side door and picks up his phone, running his thumb over the cracked screen. It vibrates.

Rest up. You have practice tomorrow before the first playoff game game. Don’t fuck it up.

A frown tugs his lips down. He shoves the phone inside the back pocket of his pants and rushes to the motel doors. His boot slips on the wet plastic of the welcome mat, clinging to the metal bar of the door for some stability. The old woman at the front desk watches him, half burnt cigarette hanging from her lips. Bright red lipstick stains the outside of the white roll of tobacco, a grumble leaving her lips.

“Welcome to Cloud Motel,” her voice is gravelly, “what can I do for you?”

“Yeah, hi,” Caleb puts his most charming smile on his face, beaming down at the woman. “I’d like a room, please, but the thing is…” he pauses when the woman begins to turn away, rolling her eyes.

“No money?”

“Yeah…” he scratches the back of his head. “I can get it to you tomorrow! I just signed a multi-million dollar deal with the Skyhaven Fleet so—”

“I don’t know what that is,” the woman quips with a condescending smile. Caleb pauses, smile slightly faltering, before he moves his fists to his side.

“It’s a professional hockey team, ma’am,” he breathes through gritted teeth, “playoffs start this week but they haven’t given me an advance on my salary.”

“Oh? The multi-million dollar deal you were bragging about?” she throws his words right back into his face. Caleb forces his smile to remain, not letting her attitude spoil his mood. “You know, if I gave out a free to room to whoever came in here claiming to be a future millionaire, I wouldn’t be a motel…I’d be a homeless shelter.”

“I can sign a hockey stick for you? It’d be worth a lot of money on eBay—”

“Sir,” the woman snorts, “I don’t know who the fuck you are!”

A laugh flies from Caleb’s lips. The woman takes a drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke out into his face. He shakes his head and looks away. He taps the counter with his hands before eventually turning around and exiting the motel.

Caleb hugs his arms to his chest, hurrying back to his beaten up Jeep. There are grayed splotches from where the paint has faded. He’s had the car since high school, something he saved up for before he left to go play for the Fleet for the first time.

Now, it was just a reminder of where the past thirteen years of his life has led him to. He’s a washed up hockey player, one that was purposefully demoted to the minor league due to his ego and constant need to hit the puck and fight, that is broke as hell and needs a redemption…what better than to win the playoffs for his team?

He gets inside his car, the engine sputtering to life. He sits there for a minute. The windshield slowly loses its fog and the orange roadside lamps make the world seem more orange than dark. Caleb rubs his dry hands together, warming them up. He puts his seatbelt on and puts the car in drive. The wheels spin against the snow, car drifting as he pulls out into the snow covered road.

The radio is on. Caleb usually has it on some sports channel, especially when hockey season rolls around. A cigarette hangs from his teeth, puffing the smoke out in medium sized plumes.

“Rumor has it that Caleb Xia is coming back to the Fleet,” the radio show host’s voice buzzes from the speakers. Caleb smirks, taking another prideful drag from the stick of tobacco.

“Oh yeah?” the co-host adds. “That’ll either be a whole lot of trouble for them or they’ll win back to back championships!” The hosts laugh. Caleb’s smile fades. He turns it off with a forceful push of the button. The car tilts on its side as he turns into a nearby parking lot.

The Skyhaven Fleet’s arena is owned by Ever so, of course, it’s named Ever Stadium. The bright blue letters illuminate the night and the low hanging clouds. Caleb’s Jeep slips and slides on the snow, eventually parking crooked and across multiple spaces.

He crawls into the backseat, tilting back the seats as much as he can. The windows fog from the heat of the car, the smoke from his cigarettes sticking to the humid glass. Caleb looks out the window and at the stadium, a scowl on his face. Ads flash by the large screens on the outside of the building. The arena promotes the upcoming playoffs as well as other winter sporting events that are held inside, such as figure skating, curling, and speed skating. He is just about to turn away when two familiar faces appear on the screen.

You and Zayne stand on either side of a luxury brand car. A sly smirk is on your face while Zayne’s remains stoic, making him appear as some stone-faced athlete while you remain the innocent ex-figure skater. In the video, the two of you walk around the car and you slip into Zayne’s arms, resting your head against his chest.

Caleb can’t help but laugh. A tinge of jealousy coats his lungs, his breaths now feeling heavy as he inhales and exhales. He grabs a dirty hoodie that sits on the floor of his car, balling it up and placing it behind his head.

If only the world knew, he thinks to himself, if only they knew what you two were like behind closed doors.

2 - 1

The Skyhaven Fleet are still up by a point, Caleb having scored both goals back to back, but your husband, Zayne, managed to sneak in a slap shot just under the ten minute mark. You smiled for him, clapping as he skated by, needing your validation. When Caleb glides by, your smile falls and your breathing quickens, trying to hide it before your husband can notice.

They circle around the rink as the cheers from the crowd die down. Zayne smiles and waves to some fans in the crowd as they chant his name. Whenever his gaze passes over Caleb, his smile turns sinister, competitive. He smirks as he approaches the center of the rink. Caleb follows suit, gripping his hockey stick like the world depends on it.

“I’m glad to see that you still got some talent left to give,” Caleb remarks when they lean down, ready to intercept the puck. Zayne rolls his eyes in response, not ready to dignify Caleb’s childlike behavior…yet. Caleb inches closer, the sharpened edges of his blades burying deeper and deeper into the icy surface.

The puck drops, clattering against the ice. Zayne goes for the puck, slapping it to his teammate from behind. Caleb, on the other hand, hits his stick against the other man’s hands. Zayne hisses, Caleb quickly skating after the puck to follow the play. Zayne shakes his head, anger boiling inside his chest.

The tips of his ears turn red. The slender man shoots after Caleb, immediately falling in sync with his movement.

The crowd begins to turn rowdy, yelling “Fight! Fight! Fight!” as Zayne draws closer to Caleb. The Skyhaven player is too focused on the puck, purple eyes following the black speck as it speeds across the ice, to notice Zayne coming from behind him.

Zayne tosses his hockey stick to the side, helmet coming off. Caleb turns around when he hears the crowd scream their names. When he sees Zayne flick off his gloves, fists balled up, Caleb smirks, beginning to shed himself of his gloves and helmet as well. And the fight? It just so happens to blossom in front of you. Your lips tug down into a dissatisfied frown. Zayne’s disheveled black locks poke out whereas Caleb’s hair is slick from his sweat, staying down on his head.

Zayne is the first one to throw a punch. His fist connects with Caleb’s jaw. Caleb snatches a fistful of Zayne’s jersey, bringing the man closer to him. Their fists blur in a flurry of blows and they spin and slip on the ice alongside each other. Caleb throws Zayne to the ground but he pulls him with him. The referees finally jump in and throw them away from each other. Zayne slides across the ice, his back hitting the wall where you sit.

He gets up with the help of his teammates, nose bloody. The warm liquid freely flows from his nose, his once perfect bridge now skewed. Zayne turns to you, eyes wide, begging for you to give him something, anything, to let him know that you’re on his side.

Your expression remains still. It doesn’t falter or move, not even a twitch of your muscles is enough to make you react. Fans of the Fleet from all around you call and chant your name, taunting Zayne. You turn your attention elsewhere, watching as Caleb comes into a view. He throws his hair back, out of his face. He picks up his gloves and stick with ease, his purple eyes finding yours in the crowd. Zayne follows your gaze. He watches as Caleb winks at you, his head shooting back to see how you react.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Your fingers pick at the skin around your perfectly manicured nails, threatening to destroy the perfect image you have made for yourself. You look back up and both men have their eyes trained on you. Your heart skips a beat.

The horn blows, signaling the end of the first period.

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