#pregame warmup

[tjkl895]

QB Brock Purdy (https://www.49ers.com/photos/pregame-snaps-detroit-lions-vs-san-francisco-49ers-week-17-bosa-purdy-hufanga#0d946f48-ad00-47dc-8809-110bc6ecc6dd)

[muirneach]

imagine being the brandon wheat kings and youve been living your life for like 60-90 years with that name and then the hip release a song called wheat kings and its about a teen who was falsely imprisoned for two decades for murder. and now thats what the term wheat kings is to canada. i think id be a little mad even if it is a good song

[tinselkat]

kat_mcnamara: goalies are freaks.

[gay-stuff-is-happening-here]

gabe do it for the pope again

[coyging]

[ehghtyseven]

yet again, the nhl tv stream just completely misses the start of the game and randomly kicks in when play has already started...

although now I perhaps wish it hadn't kicked in at all given it was just in time to see that :|

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you’re both back and better than ever

part one - part two - part four - part five

The court is glowing under desert lights. Cool air blasts through the tunnels. Thousands of seats are filling with fans in shades of purple and orange.

But your world stays small.

Just one player. One jersey. One heartbeat you’ve missed beside you for four long games.

#5 – BUECKERS

She's back.

She emerges from the locker room in full warmup gear, muscular arms and shoulders exposed that may or may not have you feeling some type of way. Her face is calm but unreadable. You can see the shadows of the last week still under her eyes — not just from the concussion, but from the chest cold that hit her two days later like the universe wasn’t quite done testing her yet.

She walks toward you slowly, sneakers squeaking on polished hardwood. You smile when you see her.

“I was starting to forget what it felt like seeing you in game shoes.”

Paige stops in front of you. “You missed me.”

“I missed you yelling at me about your wrist tape being too tight.” She lifts her left arm slightly “I need it retaped.”

You try not to grin. “Called it.”

You're kneeling by the bench with your tape kit open, gently unwinding the wrap on her wrist as she stands in front of you. Her hand rests in yours like it’s second nature, like four games away didn’t happen.

“You ready?” you ask, eyes focused on the tape.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I think so.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

She exhales, watching you finish the final wrap.

“I’m… nervous.”

You look up. “Good.”

Paige blinks. “Good?”

“You care. That’s all the nerves are. Your body remembering this matters.”

She breathes through her nose. Quiet. Soft. “I didn’t like watching from the couch.”

“I didn’t like sitting next to you knowing you should’ve been out there.”

She tilts her head. “But you didn’t push me.”

“I’ll never push you to break yourself.”

Her eyes soften.

“I think that’s why I trust you.”

You nod once, then test the tension of the tape.

“Wrist feels good,” you say. “What about your head?”

“Clear.”

“Breath?”

She inhales slowly.

“Strong.”

“Vision?”

She gives you a crooked smile. “You’re still the hottest person in the building, so yeah.”

You roll your eyes. “Perfect. She’s healed.”

It’s thirty minutes before the tip when you’re on the court with Paige. You step back to the sideline as Paige starts her rhythm work — one-dribble pull-up, spin footwork, step-back from the wing. You watch the way she moves. Smooth, but not flashy yet. Conserving energy. Testing the water.

After five reps, she glances back at you. You raise a hand with three fingers. She nods. The third shot she releases drops clean — net only. You nod back. She smiles.

“And there she is — Paige Bueckers back in the lineup tonight after a four-game absence. She’s missed time with concussion protocol and illness, but reports say she’s been full-go in practice the last two days.”

“You know what else? Look who’s back on her sideline. Assistant Y/N L/N. They’re locked in again pregame — I’ve watched that warmup routine evolve since the start of the season.”

“You can tell Bueckers is grounded when she’s got Y/N out there with her. That trust is rare between player and staff, especially in a rookie season.”

“It’s not just technical. That’s… connection.”

Back on the court, you hand Paige a water bottle as the buzzer sounds.

“First shift’s never going to be easy,” you tell her. “Don’t try to win the whole game in one quarter.”

She smirks, taking a sip. “You know me.”

“I do. That’s why I’m reminding you.”

She hands the bottle back and reaches out and quietly bumps her fist against your chest — right over your heart.

“You’ve got me?”

You bump hers in return. “Always.”

And as she walks toward the huddle, shoulders squared and tape firm on her wrist, you feel it again. The game beginning to breathe right now that she’s back.

You watch her breathe before tipoff.

One long inhale. One sharp exhale. Then her eyes lock forward.

She’s not looking at the defender. She’s looking past her. Through her. Like the court is already mapped in her mind.

You’ve seen this version of Paige before.

But never this focused.

Paige catches the ball on the left wing. Jab step. Hesitation. One hard dribble right.

Step-back. Pure.

3–0 Paige.

You raise your pen but don’t write anything. Not yet. You’re still calibrating her.

Next trip down, she floats through a stagger screen and slips between the Mercury help like water splitting over stone. Floater.

5–0 Paige.

You glance at the bench. Arike’s clapping. ZaZa’s yelling “She’s back!”

You don’t smile. You just watch. Because something’s happening.

“Paige Bueckers is cooking. She’s back from concussion protocol, back from illness, and back to being unguardable.”

“Look at her poise. Her shot selection. This isn’t just about getting buckets — she’s surgically taking apart Phoenix’s switches.”

“And yet—look at the score. Wings still trail by eight.”

Phoenix is doubling the wings. Collapsing paint. Playing downhill. They’re scoring in bunches while Dallas trades jumpers and loose rebounding effort.

Paige doesn’t flinch.

Corner three.

14–0 Paige.

She’s moving faster now. Calling for screens, ghosting behind Arike, back-cutting when defenders blink.

A steal. One dribble. Two steps. Reverse lay.

16–0 Paige.

She runs back down the court without a word. You catch her glance at you. You give one subtle signal from the bench — three fingers tapped against your hip. She nods.

Next possession she flares a screen. Lift from the elbow. Hesitation pull-up.

18–0 Paige. 7–7 from the field. Fifteen minutes. Zero misses. And still? Dallas is down by 11.

Timeout. Wings bench.

 The players walk in breathing hard, towel-wiping, frustrated. Paige sits. Wipes her face. Doesn’t speak yet. You squat next to her, clipboard angled, voice low and even.

“You’re perfect,” you say first.

She shakes her head. “We’re losing.”

“You’re still perfect.”

Paige blinks.

“I don’t want you to chase the game,” you continue. “You don’t have to be the fuel. You’re the flame. Let the rest of them catch up.”

She doesn’t reply. Just holds your stare.

“I’m not gonna tell you to score more,” you add.

“Then what?”

“I’m gonna tell you to make them play with you. Not behind you.”

Paige lets out a slow breath. One sharp motion.

“I got it.”

The streak breaks.

It’s a pull-up from the top of the key. Clean look. Great rhythm. It rims out. You don’t flinch. Neither does she. Paige backpedals on defense without looking at the scoreboard. She’s already reading the next coverage.

You mark the shot on your clipboard, quiet. First miss of the night. 7-for-8 now. Still flawless from the line. Still leading all scorers. But it’s the feel of the game that starts to shift.

Phoenix pushes the pace. Thomas lobs a skip pass to Sabally, who drills a transition three. Dallas calls timeout.

Phoenix 36, Dallas 28.

“It’s hard to ask more from Paige Bueckers. She’s got 20 of the Wings’ 28. That’s over 70 percent of the offense.”

“It’s a career-high already — and it’s not even halftime. But the problem is, she’s alone out there. Dallas is out of rhythm. Their defensive communication is breaking down, and Paige can’t plug every hole.”

You stay seated during the timeout. Not because you’re tired — because she isn’t looking at the coaches. She’s looking at you. And you nod. Not instruction. Not strategy. “You’re doing everything you can.”

She closes her eyes. Nods back. Then turns back to the huddle.

It’s her favorite set — a back screen from Nalyssa, quick flare from Arike. The defense overcommits. Paige slips under, curls to the elbow.

Catch. One dribble. Body bump.

Foul.

Bonus.

She jogs to the line. Phoenix is up six. The crowd is rowdy now, sensing blood. You watch her bounce the ball once, twice, roll her shoulders.

She’s breathing a little harder now. Still sharp, but fading slightly.

She sets her feet. Takes a deep breath. Spins the ball in her left hand.  First free throw — clean.

21.

Second shot — softer, high arc.

22.

She exhales. Turns. Jogging back on defense.

“That’s a career high for Bueckers. 22 points in just one half. The rookie is putting on a clinic.”

“And yet — Dallas is still chasing. They need stops. They need someone else to step up.”

The half closes with Phoenix pushing in transition. Westbeld launches a leaning three at the buzzer — it rims out.

Horn sounds.

Phoenix 42, Dallas 36.

Paige walks off the court slowly, jersey clinging to her back, towel thrown over her shoulder. Her teammates pat her back, but she doesn’t really react.

Not until she gets close to you. You don’t say “great job.” You just reach out and squeeze her wrist gently, thumb brushing over the tape. She exhales.

“Still down,” she whispers.

You nod. “But not out.”

The door shuts behind the last assistant, and the Phoenix crowd becomes a muffled thump behind concrete.

Everyone's quiet.

Some players are still breathing heavy, kneepads peeled halfway down, sweat soaking into towels. Others are slouched on the bench, water bottles in hand, eyes unfocused.

And Paige — she’s sitting on the floor against her locker, legs extended, towel over her shoulders, jaw set but eyes… distant.

Like she just ran through a wall for thirty minutes, and it still wasn’t enough.

Coach Koclanes clears his throat.

“Alright,” he starts, standing in front of the whiteboard.

No one moves.

“You’re playing soft on the boards,” he says, uncapping a marker. “They’re leaking weak-side every time and you’re not dropping fast enough. Maddy, you’ve gotta call out the baseline help. DiJonai—two of your switches were late. Arike—stop fading on those screens.”

No response.

He turns to the board and starts drawing lines, talking over himself. “We’re gonna run more 4-out, isolate Paige less. They’re gapping her now. She’s giving us points, but they’re baiting the overreliance. We switch to horns sets out of the timeout.”

Still no one speaks. Still no one moves. You’re standing near the side wall, arms crossed, watching. He finishes drawing. Puts the marker down.

“Got it?”

No one answers.

He steps back, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room. It’s not mutiny. It’s silence. Worse. No one’s disrespecting him — but no one’s buying in, either.

He turns away from the board. “Okay, well—figure it out.”

He walks off to the corner, picks up his clipboard, flipping pages angrily. And that’s when you speak. You don’t raise your voice. Don’t announce you’re talking. You just start.

“Everyone look up.”

They do.

Paige sits up straighter. Arike turns her head. Nai drops her water bottle to her lap. The room slowly rotates to face you.

“We’re not losing because we’re soft,” you say. “We’re not losing because we’re outmatched. We’re not losing because Paige is doing too much.” You pause. “We’re losing because we’re disconnected.”

They’re really listening now.

“This team was never built around one shooter. Or one voice. But right now, it’s like we’re all watching the same show instead of playing the same game.”

You glance at Paige.

“She gave you 22 in twenty minutes. That’s not her bailing us out — that’s her asking us to come with her.”

You look back to the room.

“So the second half? Don’t let her be the only one playing like it matters.”

A few heads nod. Hines-Allen clenches her jaw. Nai leans forward.

You step closer to the board and erase one of Koclanes’s drawn sets with your palm.

“We simplify. Strong-side cut, baseline diver, weak-side read. Make the defense think for two seconds. That’s all we need.”

You meet every player’s eyes. “But I need everyone thinking.”

From the corner, Koclanes stares at you. Silent. Tight-lipped. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop you.

But the look on his face says it all. “They’re listening to you. Not me.”

And that? That stings.

Because he’s the head coach. And you’re not. But tonight? You’re the voice in the room.

You turn back to the team, more calmly now.

“We don’t need a miracle. We need trust. We need each other. That’s it.”

Paige stands first. Wrist still taped. Eyes still sharp.

“I’m ready.”

You nod.

So is everyone else now.

The final buzzer sounds.

Phoenix 93, Dallas 80.

You let the pen drop from behind your ear and slowly close the folder in your lap.

You’re still on the bench, same seat you always take. Second from the end. Close enough to shout plays, far enough to see everything. But you’ve barely spoken since the third quarter. You didn’t need to. You were watching her.

Paige.

Thirty-five points. Four assists. Six rebounds. One steal. First game back. Career high.

And yet.

It was never about the stat line.

She played the right way. Gritty. Composed. Committed. And when her teammates finally started moving with her instead of behind her, it looked like something real. Even if it came too late.

The locker room is quiet when the team files in.

Exhausted. Not gutted. But quiet.

Arike throws her towel at her locker without looking. Nai collapses into the bench like gravity’s heavier after losses. Luisa is already peeling her shoes off, muttering about spacing and switches under her breath.

Paige walks in slower. No strut. No ego.

Just bone-deep fatigue and a calm sort of fire still simmering behind her eyes.

She sits down across from you. Legs wide, hands on her knees. No words. Just the shared breath of someone who left it all on the floor.

Coach Koclanes enters last.

Claps his hands once.

“Alright,” he starts. Loud, performative. “Tough one tonight.”

Silence.

“We were right there,” he says. “Right on the edge. We just have to lock in on the details. Play together. Trust each other. That’s what separates wins from losses. Togetherness.” He paces once. “You show me a team that trusts each other, I’ll show you a team that wins games.”

He looks around. Still silence.

Not blank stares. Not open rebellion. Just… quiet disinterest. His voice slows. Like he’s realizing mid-sentence no one’s buying it.

“Let’s regroup tomorrow. Get your heads right.”

He claps once more. No one claps back. Then he turns and walks toward the staff hallway. No one watches him leave. You step forward.

“Hey,” you say.

It’s not a command. It’s not a speech cue. It’s just your voice. But every single head lifts.

“Look, we didn’t win,” you say. “No one’s sugarcoating it. We let Phoenix own the tempo. We didn’t adjust early enough. We let Bueckers carry too much too fast.”

You look at them, steady.

“But we didn’t quit. And that means something.”

A breath.

“To start the second half still down double digits and see you rally? Shift the energy? Move off-ball, make the second and third passes, talk through switches? That’s growth. That’s film we want to break down. That’s team basketball.”

Some nods now. Arike leans forward. NaLyssa wipes sweat from her temple but doesn’t look away.

“And that fourth quarter?” you add. “You could’ve let the deficit drown you. But you didn’t. You fought. You played. And most importantly — you played for each other.”

Paige shifts slightly. Not to draw attention. Just quietly proud. You turn toward her now.

“And one of you didn’t just show up tonight — she showed out.”

Paige blinks.

“Thirty-five points,” you say. “Career high. First game back from a concussion. From being sick. From sitting in street clothes watching us run in circles without her.”

The team chuckles softly. You smile.

“She didn’t try to be a savior. She just played the damn game. The way it’s supposed to be played. With trust. With poise. With fire.”

You glance around.

“I don’t care what the scoreboard says. That’s the kind of player who lifts this franchise.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then everyone claps. Soft at first. Then louder. Myisha starts it. Arike joins in. Nai’s standing now. Paige looks stunned. The locker room breaks into full applause.

She blushes, ducking her head a little, cheeks flushed redder than they were during the game. You catch her smiling into her towel.

And you? You just lean against the wall and let it wash over her.

He’s still in the hallway. Back turned halfway toward the room. Listening to the cheers that didn’t come for him. His jaw tightens. He steps back in just as the applause dies.

“You know,” he says, voice sharper, “this is all nice. But maybe if we spent more time listening to the people actually in charge, we’d be winning games.”

The room stiffens.

Paige’s smile fades slightly. Maddy glances at the floor. Arike raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak.

You say nothing. Because you don’t need to.

Koclanes looks around. Waiting. Expecting someone to jump in. Someone to agree. Someone to apologize for being inspired by the wrong voice.

But no one does. He exhales through his nose.

“See you all at tomorrow.”

He walks out again.

This time? Not a single head turns.

Paige walks up to you, towel around her shoulders, hair damp with sweat. She doesn’t speak at first. Just stands beside you. “You know he’s gonna try to push you out eventually.”

You don’t flinch. “Let him try.”

She looks over.

“You’re the reason this team’s still breathing.”

You glance at her hand, resting next to yours on the bench. So close it touches, barely.

“And you’re the reason I never back down,” you say softly.

Her lips part slightly. Eyes bright. Shoulders soft now.

“You think they’ll remember tonight?” she asks.

“They already do.”

The room is bright, white, and humming with reporters. Camera lenses click. Recorders are already running. Every folding chair is filled.

Behind the table, three name placards.

PAIGE BUECKERS | GUARD CHRIS KOCLANES | HEAD COACH Y/N L/N | ASSISTANT COACH

You’re seated far right. Koclanes is in the middle. Paige is left of him, legs crossed at the ankle, Wings polo tucked clean under her warmup jacket, bottle of water unopened on the table.

The press doesn’t waste time.

A reporter in the second row raises her hand, eyes already on Paige.

“Paige, congrats on the career high. First game back, no missed beats — what clicked for you out there?”

Paige shifts the mic closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I think… I just trusted my prep,” she says. “My team did a great job creating space. I felt good physically. Once I hit a couple early shots, I got into a rhythm.”

She pauses, glances at you briefly.

“And honestly, I’ve been waiting to play for a while. Four games on the sideline builds up a lot of… urgency. I didn’t want to force it. I just wanted to be solid.”

The reporter smiles. “Well, solid turned into 35.”

Paige smiles a little. “Could’ve traded 10 of those points for a win, though.”

Light laughter from the room.

Next question.

A different voice, more pointed.

“Coach Koclanes — Dallas gave up 93 points. What went wrong defensively?”

Koclanes adjusts his mic.

“Well, you know… it’s about effort. And togetherness. You can’t win in this league without being synced. Defensively, we weren’t connected. Not just schemes — I mean the emotional commitment. The buy-in. If we’re all on the same page, maybe it’s different.”

You stare ahead, still.

The reporter frowns. “So… was it a lack of effort?”

Koclanes shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it was us being too in our heads. We focused too much on individual matchups and forgot the team responsibility. When that happens, breakdowns follow.”

Another reporter chimes in, skeptical.

“Do you take any accountability for the defensive game plan tonight?”

He leans forward. “I take accountability for the whole team. That’s what being a head coach means.”

But the way he says it? It means nothing.

Someone turns to you.

“Coach L/N — same question. What do you think went wrong out there?”

You adjust your mic, calm, composed.

“I think we lost the tempo battle,” you say, voice steady. “Phoenix dictated the pace early. We were slow to adjust. They ran smart pick-and-roll variations that pulled us off help and punished our recovery.”

Reporters start writing.

You continue.

“We didn’t communicate well on switches. Rotations were late. Weak-side coverage fell apart on early drives. That’s not about effort — that’s about timing, discipline, and trust. And we’ll address that in film.”

You don’t look at Koclanes when you say it. But you feel his glance shift your way. The room stays quiet.

You finish. “We’ve got the tools. But we’re not using them together yet.”

Another hand raises.

“Coach L/N, can you speak to Paige’s performance tonight? From a developmental standpoint?”

You glance at her. She’s watching you now, subtly. You keep your tone clean. Grounded.

“Paige was efficient. Smart. Patient. She didn’t rush into shots. She read second-level defenders, punished hedges, used angles. But what stood out more was how she adjusted between quarters.”

You pause.

“She scored 35, but she also made reads that didn’t show up on the box score. Got us into rhythm when the offense stalled. Created gravity off-ball. That’s growth. That’s leadership.”

Paige looks down briefly. The tiniest smile at the edge of her mouth.

You finish simply, “She played like a veteran tonight.”

The room quiets again. Then applause. Soft, respectful. A few murmurs of agreement from reporters. The balance in the room is obvious now.

They heard Koclanes.

They listened to you.

As the media coordinator calls it, Paige gets up first. She tucks her chair back quietly, waiting for you at the side wall.

Koclanes lingers behind, still pretending to check his notes.

You and Paige walk out side by side — and the air feels different. Lighter. Steadier. Even in loss, the room belonged to her. And maybe — just maybe — a little bit to you too.

You’re in the team hotel, eighth floor, room key in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, and two hours of film notes waiting on your laptop.

It’s just after midnight. Most of the team’s already upstairs — some watching movie together, some passed out in their rooms. Paige had slipped you a quiet smile in the lobby before disappearing into the elevator with Maddy and Arike, a half-empty smoothie in her hand.

You’re heading toward your room when you hear it.

“Coach L/N.”

You stop.

He’s standing near the vending machines down the hallway, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

You sigh softly. “Chris.”

He walks over.

“You got a second?”

You glance toward your door. “Kind of late for a staff chat.”

“Won’t take long,” he says, tone clipped. “Just figured we should clear the air.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

“About tonight. About what you did in the locker room. And the press conference.”

You tilt your head. “What I did?”

He steps a little closer. Not threatening — just trying to make his voice carry.

“You undermined me.”

You pause.

“Did I?”

“You erased my plays off the board mid-halftime.”

“They weren’t working.”

“I’m the head coach.”

“And I’m the assistant coach whose players weren’t listening to the head coach.”

He doesn’t like that. You see the tension rise in his jaw.

“You think I don’t know what’s happening?” he says. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you instead of me? You’re not the voice in charge. I am.”

You shrug. Calm.

“Then maybe act like it.”

That sets him off.

He steps in. “You think you’re some locker room savior? You think Paige drops 35 because of you? You’re overstepping. You’re coddling her. You’re turning the team against—”

“Hey.”

A voice cuts through the hallway.

You both turn.

It’s Paige.

Standing by the elevator. Arms crossed. Hoodie zipped halfway up. Behind her? DiJonai. NaLyssa. Arike. You glance at them.

Koclanes stiffens. “This is a private—”

“Actually,” Paige says, stepping forward, “it’s not.”

She walks toward you, calm but blazing. “If you’re gonna say this stuff, say it in front of us. Because we were all in that locker room. And we all heard the difference.”

Chris blinks. “Heard what?”

Arike answers, arms folded. “You giving us the same generic talk you’ve been saying since camp. Togetherness, effort, togetherness, togetherness. That ain’t coaching. That’s deflecting.”

Nalyssa nods. “We needed real adjustments. We needed accountability. We needed someone who actually gave us a way forward. L/N gave us that.”

DiJonai’s quieter, but when she speaks, it cuts, “We trust her. Period.”

You don’t speak yet. You don’t need to. Because this isn’t your fight. This is the team’s answer.

Chris’s face cycles through disbelief, frustration, wounded pride. He opens his mouth like he wants to pull rank — but he must see it in Paige’s eyes, in Arike’s stance, in DiJonai’s dead-serious tone.

The room’s made its choice.

He turns to you, voice lower now. “You happy?”

You look at him evenly.

“No,” you say. “I’m not happy we lost. I’m not happy the team’s fractured. But I’m proud of them for finding their voice.”

He scoffs. “You think you can run this team better than me?”

“No,” you reply. “I think the team is showing you who they want to be led by. And it’s your job to listen before you lose them for good.”

He stares at you.

Then turns, mutters something under his breath, and walks away.

Paige steps beside you the second he’s gone.

“You okay?”

You nod. “You didn’t have to step in.”

“I didn’t,” she says. “We did.”

She turns back to the group. “Let’s go upstairs. We’ve got practice tomorrow.”

The girls nod. Arike leads the way. But before Paige follows them, she leans in quietly and says, just for you, “You didn’t undermine him.”

You look at her.

“You just did your job better.”

[postgamevibes]

It started as a joke.

A quick kiss outside the tunnel before a game he was nervous about, nothing serious. You had leaned in, kissed him softly on the lips, and whispered, "Go get 'em, superstar."

He scored twice that night.

"This is a coincidence," you said.

"Nope. It’s the kiss," Connor insisted. "It’s good luck. You have to do it before every game now."

You laughed it off—until he started puckering up his lips like an offering before every puck drop, waiting for your kiss like it was part of his equipment.

Tonight was no different.

Connor stood just outside the locker room, already in his uniform, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The arena buzzed with pregame energy, the low hum of fans and music vibrating through the walls. He looked up as you approached, a smile spreading across his face instantly.

"You're late," he teased.

"You're needy," you teased back.

He leaned in with a grin. "Just give me the magic."

You rolled your eyes and took his face in your hands, pressing a kiss to his lips. It was quick, innocent, but it made his shoulders drop, made the tension melt away from his body.

"You’ve got this," you said.

"I’ve got this," he echoed, more to himself than to you.

As he jogged down the tunnel, he glanced back over his shoulder and shot you a wink.

He had two assists and a goal that night. Naturally.

Back home, he sprawled on the couch with his feet on your lap, scrolling through highlights on his phone.

"It’s officially not a coincidence anymore," he declared. "The kiss is canon."

"Canon?"

He nodded. "Like, part of the lore. Like a sacred pregame ritual."

You snorted. "Do I get a jersey or puck for being part of the lore?"

He tossed a throw pillow at you. "You get unlimited bragging rights."

"Hmm. Tempting."

It kept going—game after game, kiss after kiss. Home or away, you’d find a moment, no matter how quick, to press a kiss to his lips or cheek. Sometimes it was behind the scenes, in the locker room hallway. Other times it was just a texted selfie blowing a kiss when you couldn’t make it in person.

Then came the night you didn’t make it at all.

You were stuck at work, swamped with last-minute emails and back-to-back calls. You didn’t even realize how late it was until the puck had already dropped.

Connor played fine—on paper. But anyone watching closely could see the difference. He looked off. Unsettled. Like something was missing

Because something was.

After the game, he didn’t text right away. It wasn’t until almost midnight that your phone buzzed.

Connor: missed you today

You: i’m so sorry. i feel awful.

Connor: i just didn’t feel right. even in warmups. not mad. just missed you.

You sat with your phone in your hands for a long time, then typed:

You:i’ll never miss another pregame kiss. swear it.

His reply came instantly.

Connor:deal. it’s our thing now.

Next game, you were there early. Connor saw you and lit up like a fire, crossing the tunnel in three long strides.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly, already ducking his head for the kiss.

You stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Wait.”

He blinked. “What?”

You grinned. “Just soaking in the desperation. Okay, now.”

He laughed, pulling you into him as you kissed his cheek, then his lips.

“You good now?” you asked.

He nodded, already looking sharper, steadier. “I’m great.”

He turned to head out, then paused. “Love you.”

You smiled. “Love you more.”

And he stepped onto the ice, your kiss stitched into the seams of his confidence.

Canon, indeed.

[tjkl895]

QB Brock Purdy (https://www.49ers.com/photos/pregame-snaps-dallas-cowboys-vs-san-francisco-49ers-week-8#36b20d88-9ec4-43b9-8497-50f31f9d1481)

[shouyuus]

hi, i love your writing!!! Can you please write something for vi + 7:49 pm?? kinda random but yeah tyyyyy

writing/warmup game closed!

vi; 7:49pm --

"i don't usually -- ow -- you're poking me in the eye!"

"if you stop squirming --" you squeeze your thighs over vi's hips, pressing your forearm a bit harder into her shoulder as you lean over her, a palette of eyeshadow in one hand, a brush in the other.

vi huffs, going still beneath you, one eye closed, the other full of a doleful insolence as you resume your work of spreading a dark iridescent shimmer over her left eyelid.

"are you sure it won't be... too much?" she asks; you crinkle your nose, you can feel the heat of her breath along your skin -- you're leant down so close, close enough to count each one of her individual eyelashes, close enough to kiss --

"are you questioning my makeup prowess? i'll have you know i've got --" you frown as you consider, "like... 4k people on insta who watch my makeup vids so --"

vi lets out a helpless laugh, her muscles relaxing tangibly beneath you as you motion for her to close her other eye.

"right, my own little influencer."

you try not to think too hard on the way vi'd just called you hers. not that you'd mind. sweet god, would you not mind one single bit --

"just... lemme finish this up and then we can start pregaming."

vi scoffs, "start pregaming? what've we been doing for the past hour then?" she waves towards the beer and soju on your table, surrounded by a plethora of other makeup things.

you grin, "pre-gaming the pregame, duh!"

vi sighs, pushing up as you pull back, the distance between you stretching and folding as if some strange magnetic force were keeping the pair of you together. you look over her face one more time.

"okay, great! now we just need... eyeliner --"

"wait --" her fingers grip into the plush of your hips, pulling you back. your breath hitches as you're jerked back down into her, tumbling into her chest, "shit -- s-sorry --"

but she doesn't try to push you away. like this, you can hear the rapid-fire thunder of her heartbeats; they sound just like yours.

"vi...?"

you look up. she gulps. the ice-chip blue of her eyes are offset by the dark, iridescent glimmer of eyeshadow. and suddenly, the room is too hot, and the pair of you jolt away from each other as if electrocuted. you drop the brush and snap your palette shut.

"uhm -- c'mon, we should get dressed or else we'll be late for the party."

vi nods, staring at you, "sure, right -- the party."

she doesn't mention that the party's not for another 2 hours as you start to loudly chatter about what to wear and she makes small noises of understanding as she watches you with soft eyes and a tiny, goofy smile.

you don't mention it either as you twist around and show her two completely nonsensical outfits, just to make her laugh.

neither of you can deny the hairline fracture that's appeared in the seamless varnish of your easy friendship, in the causal way vi used to sling her arm around your shoulder or the countless times you've slumped across her on the couch. both of you know that there's a line, that if crossed, can never be uncrossed, however tantalizing the thing on the other side might be.

but, you both agree, silently to yourself, that that's a consideration for another day.

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Part Three

Part One

Part Two

Reader Request: Reader has been working for the bengals since Joe got drafted. She can be a social media admin, public relations liaison or even a physical therapist. She’s been in love with him but it is unrequited while he was with Olivia and when they break up she thought that she had a chance but he starts seeing the influencer but please make it a happy ending. Angst as fuck but happy ending.  I want to see this girl yearning for fucking years before she gets him and I want him to realize that she is the love of his life. 

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: Life-changing job offers, confrontations in edit bays, the specific discomfort of everyone finding out you might leave, career crossroads, that painful moment when he finally says what you've been waiting to hear at the exact wrong time, first kisses that are years overdue, heartbreaking honesty, the anxiety of deciding between your heart and your career, feelings that can't be compartmentalized no matter how hard you try, and the terrifying vulnerability of finally admitting what you want.

Taglist: @honeydippedfiction

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open for now, but it may take a minute to get to them, I’ve got several in the inbox.

September 2025 - Regular Season Begins

Game day energy pulsed through the stadium as Y/N directed her social media team from the sidelines. The season opener against Pittsburgh had sold out months ago, the stands now a sea of orange and black as fans welcomed football back to Cincinnati.

"Pregame is live across all platforms," Marcus confirmed, tablet in hand. "Fan engagement numbers already up 25% from last year's opener."

Y/N nodded, scanning the field where players warmed up. "Good. Make sure we're capturing rookie reactions, especially Thompson's first NFL experience. Fans love that 'kid on Christmas morning' energy."

She moved efficiently along the sideline, camera in hand, document key moments herself while overseeing her team's coverage. After five seasons with the Bengals, Y/N had developed an instinct for the visuals and stories that would resonate with fans, the quiet pregame rituals, the focused preparation, the camaraderie within position groups.

From across the field, she spotted Joe going through his warmup routine, methodical and focused as always. He looked good—confident, sharp, ready for the season ahead. Y/N captured a few frames, professional eye recognizing the compelling visuals, before moving on to other players and moments.

The buffer system she'd implemented in January had evolved into something more sustainable by September, a professional approach that allowed her to do her job effectively without the emotional complications that had once made working with Joe so difficult. She still managed overall content strategy, still oversaw quarterback coverage, but delegated the direct, one-on-one work to her team whenever possible.

"Five minutes to national anthem," Sam's voice came through her earpiece. "Coaches want pregame huddle coverage."

"On it," Y/N confirmed, positioning herself for the shot as players gathered around Coach Taylor.

The game unfolded with the intensity typical of a Bengals-Steelers matchup, hard hits, defensive struggles, momentum shifts. Y/N documented it all, capturing both the game action and sideline reactions, directing her team to focus on storytelling moments rather than just plays.

When Joe threw a perfect 40-yard touchdown to Higgins in the third quarter, breaking open what had been a tight defensive battle, Y/N captured his celebration—the controlled fist pump, the quick acknowledgments to teammates, the immediate refocus on the next series. She knew his patterns so well, could anticipate his movements even from across the field.

"That's the money shot," Marcus said, reviewing her footage of the touchdown celebration. "Lead with that for the halftime content push."

Y/N nodded, already moving toward the tunnel to prepare for halftime coverage. As she approached, Joe jogged past on his way to the locker room, helmet in hand. Their eyes met briefly, a moment of recognition amid the chaos. He gave her a small nod, which she returned professionally before continuing on her way.

That was their rhythm now, professional acknowledgment without lingering. Mutual respect without the complications of before. It worked. It had to.

The Bengals won 24-17, a solid start to the season that sent fans home happy and created plenty of positive content for Y/N's team to amplify. After the game, she coordinated postgame interview coverages, finalized social media highlights, and directed the content wrap-up from the media room as players showered and changed.

"That's a wrap," she announced to her team as the final content pieces were scheduled. "Great work everyone. Clean execution across all platforms."

As staff packed up equipment and prepared to leave, Y/N checked final statistics and planned the morning follow-up content. She was focused on her tablet when a voice spoke from the doorway.

"Successful opener."

She looked up to find Brian Reynolds, Director of Communications for the New York Giants, standing just inside the media room. His presence was so unexpected that Y/N momentarily struggled to place him, though they'd met at league events before.

"Brian," she said, professional smile quickly in place. "Didn't expect to see you in Cincinnati."

"In town for meetings with sponsors," he explained, stepping further into the room. "Thought I'd catch the game while I was here. You mind if I shut the door? Wanted to talk to you about something."

Y/N nodded, curious about this unusual visit. Brian closed the door and took a seat across from her, his expression thoughtful.

"I'll be direct," he said. "I've been following your work with the Bengals for several years now. The content strategy you've developed, particularly around Burrow's injuries and comebacks, has been exceptional. Authentic storytelling that connects with fans without exploiting vulnerable moments."

"Thank you," Y/N replied, genuinely pleased by the professional recognition. "That's exactly what we aim for."

"The Giants are looking to completely overhaul our digital content approach," Brian continued. "Our ownership wants a more cohesive strategy across platforms, something that builds deeper fan connections beyond just game highlights and press conferences."

Y/N listened with increasing interest as Brian outlined the Giants' vision, mentally noting the similarities and differences to her work with the Bengals.

"So," he concluded, "we're creating a new position: Vice President of Content Strategy and Fan Engagement. Full creative control, substantial budget increase, direct report to ownership." He met her eyes directly. "We'd like you to consider it."

The offer hung in the air between them, unexpected and substantial. Y/N maintained her professional composure while her mind raced through implications.

"That's... quite an opportunity," she said carefully. "I'm flattered you thought of me."

"You were our first choice," Brian said simply. "Your work speaks for itself. The way you've positioned the Bengals' digital presence, particularly through challenging seasons and player setbacks, shows exactly the kind of storytelling vision we're looking for."

"I appreciate that," Y/N replied. "I would need to know more details, of course."

"Of course," Brian agreed, retrieving a business card from his jacket. "My contact information. If you're interested in discussing further, we can arrange a more formal conversation. Compensation would be substantially above your current position, and we'd provide relocation assistance to New York."

Y/N accepted the card, her thoughts still processing this unexpected development. "This is a lot to consider. I've been with the Bengals my entire NFL career."

"I understand," Brian nodded. "Take some time. But we're moving quickly on this position. We'd like to have someone in place before the holiday season, to prepare for playoff push and draft strategy."

After Brian left, Y/N sat alone in the media room, turning his business card over in her fingers. The opportunity was substantial—higher position, creative control, major market, significant salary increase. A chance to build something new rather than maintain what she'd already established.

It was also, she had to acknowledge, a chance to start fresh. Away from Cincinnati. Away from Joe Burrow and the complex emotions that still lingered despite her best efforts to move forward.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam:

Sam: Celebration drinks at Sundry and Vice? Team's heading over.

Y/N stared at the message, Brian's card still in her hand.

Y/N: Running late, finishing some things. Save me a seat.

She tucked the card into her wallet and gathered her things, mind still turning over this unexpected opportunity. She hadn't been looking to leave Cincinnati. Hadn't considered building her career elsewhere. But now that the option existed, she couldn't deny the appeal of a fresh start.

As she walked through the quiet facility, Y/N passed the players' parking area. Joe was just leaving, dressed in his postgame suit, phone to his ear. They spotted each other simultaneously, the empty hallway suddenly charged with awareness.

Joe ended his call quickly. "Heading out?"

"Yeah," Y/N replied. "Just finished content wrap-up."

"Good game coverage," he said, that hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Saw the touchdown sequence. Perfect timing on the sideline reaction."

"Thanks," Y/N said, unexpectedly touched that he'd noticed her work specifically. "Clean game from the offense. Especially that third quarter drive."

Joe nodded, seeming to want to continue the conversation but unsure how. "Team celebrating?"

"Meeting them now," Y/N confirmed. "Sundry and Vice, I think."

"Tell everyone good work," Joe said, then added with slight hesitation, "Your boundary system's working well."

The observation caught her off guard, so directly acknowledging what had developed between them. "It seems to be," she agreed carefully.

"I don't like it," he said quietly, "but I respect it."

Before she could respond, his phone rang again. He glanced at it, then back at her. "Should take this. Have a good night, Y/N."

"You too, Joe."

As she walked to her car, Y/N felt a strange lightness. Their brief exchange had been the most natural in months, acknowledgment of their new dynamic without tension or avoidance. Progress, perhaps. Or just the passage of enough time to dull the sharper edges of what had once felt so raw.

She thought of Brian Reynolds' card in her wallet. Of New York City and new beginnings. Of building a career beyond the shadow of complicated feelings for Joe Burrow.

For the first time, leaving Cincinnati felt like a genuine possibility. Not an escape, but a step forward. And that realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.

* * *

Late September 2025 - Exploring Options

The Giants moved quickly after Brian's initial approach. What began as exploratory conversations rapidly evolved into formal interviews, detailed position discussions, and increasingly attractive offers.

Y/N conducted these conversations discreetly, scheduling video calls during off-hours, using empty conference rooms when the facility was quiet, carefully protecting her exploration from becoming facility gossip. Only Sam knew the full extent of her discussions with New York, serving as both sounding board and reality check as Y/N weighed the opportunity.

"They've increased the salary offer again," Y/N said, showing Sam the email during a rare lunch away from the facility. "And added a signing bonus."

Sam whistled softly. "They really want you. Question is, do you want them?"

Y/N stared into her coffee. "The professional opportunity is undeniable. VP title, creative control, major market. It's the kind of role people work decades to reach."

"But?"

"But Cincinnati is home now," Y/N admitted. "Five years of building relationships, understanding this team's culture, creating something meaningful here."

Sam studied her friend carefully. "And is that the only reason you're hesitating?"

Y/N knew what Sam was asking. She sighed, turning her coffee cup slowly. "I'd be lying if I said Joe wasn't a factor. Not in the way you think, though."

"Explain."

"I've finally reached a place where I can work with him professionally without my feelings complicating everything. Where I can appreciate his talent and leadership without that constant ache." Y/N met her friend's gaze directly. "I fought hard for that balance. Part of me wonders if leaving is running away, not moving forward."

"Or maybe," Sam suggested gently, "it's recognizing that you've done the work here, and now it's time for new challenges. Professionally and personally."

Y/N nodded slowly. "The Giants want me to visit New York next month. See the facilities, meet with ownership. Final step before a formal offer."

"And will you go?"

"I think I have to," Y/N replied. "Even if just to know what else is possible."

* * *

The next week passed in a blur of regular season content production, Giants follow-up calls, and careful navigation of Y/N's increasingly complicated professional situation. She maintained her focus on Bengals work, refusing to let her potential departure affect current performance.

The Wednesday morning content meeting found her reviewing game footage with her team, outlining social strategies for the upcoming Ravens matchup. She was deep in discussion about third-down conversion graphics when she noticed her team's attention shift to something behind her.

Y/N turned to find Kayla in the doorway, expression unusually serious.

"Can I see you in my office?" she asked.

The walk to Kayla's office felt longer than usual, Y/N's mind racing through possibilities. Had someone discovered her Giants conversations? Was there an issue with recent content performance?

Kayla closed the door behind them and gestured for Y/N to sit. "So," she began without preamble, "the New York Giants."

Y/N maintained her composure despite the internal jolt of surprise. "You've heard."

"Brian Reynolds and I have known each other for fifteen years," Kayla said simply. "He had the professional courtesy to let me know they were pursuing you seriously. Not the details, just the fact."

"I was going to talk to you," Y/N said quickly. "Once things became more concrete. I'm still exploring options."

Kayla nodded, her expression softening slightly. "I'm not upset that you're exploring opportunities, Y/N. That's normal career development. I am concerned that you didn't feel you could discuss this with me directly."

Y/N exhaled slowly. "It's happened very quickly. And honestly, I'm still processing what I want."

"Fair enough," Kayla said. "So let me be direct: what would it take to keep you in Cincinnati?"

The question caught Y/N off guard. She had been preparing to explain her reasons for considering departure, not negotiate her reasons to stay.

"It's not about compensation," she began carefully. "The Bengals have been very fair."

"But the Giants are offering substantially more," Kayla finished for her. "Along with a VP title and greater creative control."

"Yes."

Kayla leaned forward. "We value your contributions here, Y/N. You've built something special with our content strategy, particularly around player narratives. Before I take this to ownership, I need to know if there's a package that would convince you to stay."

Y/N considered the question carefully. "It's not just about title or compensation, though those are factors. It's about growth potential. The Giants are offering creative control I don't currently have."

"And if we matched that?" Kayla asked. "Director of Content Strategy. Final approval on all external storytelling. Budget oversight."

The offer was substantial—more than Y/N had expected. "I'd need to think about it," she said honestly. "This isn't just a leverage play for me. I'm genuinely weighing options."

"I understand," Kayla said, leaning back in her chair. "Take the time you need. But know that we want to keep you here. You've become an essential part of this organization's voice."

Y/N nodded, appreciating the straightforward conversation. "Thank you. I promise I'll be transparent about my decision process."

"That's all I ask," Kayla said. "And Y/N? Let's keep this between us for now. No need to create unnecessary speculation around the facility."

"Of course," Y/N agreed, though she wondered how long such significant career discussions could remain contained.

* * *

Joe found out two days later.

Y/N was reviewing game highlights in an editing bay when Joe appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Sure," Y/N replied, saving her work before giving him her full attention. Their interactions had become easier over the past few months—professional, occasionally even friendly, but with clear boundaries that neither pushed against.

Joe closed the door behind him, an unusual move that immediately put Y/N on alert.

"The Giants?" he asked without preamble.

Y/N kept her expression composed despite her surprise. "How did you hear about that?"

"Does it matter?" He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Were you going to mention it?"

"Once I made a decision," Y/N said carefully. "It's still exploratory at this point."

"Exploratory," Joe repeated, studying her face. "VP of Content Strategy doesn't sound exploratory. Sounds like they're serious."

"They are," Y/N acknowledged, seeing no point in downplaying the opportunity. "And I'm seriously considering it."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his gaze direct in a way it hadn't been in months. "Is this about the buffer system? About creating distance?"

The question caught her off guard with its directness. "No," she said firmly. "This is about my career. A significant opportunity in a major market."

"So it has nothing to do with getting away from a complicated working relationship?" The challenge in his voice was subtle but unmistakable.

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation. "My professional decisions aren't about you, Joe. They're about what's best for my career."

Something shifted in his expression—perhaps surprise at her directness, or recognition of the independence it represented.

"Fair enough," he said after a moment. "But five years building something here, and you'd walk away for a title and a bigger market?"

"It's more than that," Y/N replied, keeping her voice even. "It's about creative control. Building something new rather than maintaining what already exists."

Joe studied her, that perceptive gaze seeing more than she sometimes wished he could. "And there's nothing keeping you here? Nothing worth staying for?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications neither had acknowledged directly. Y/N maintained her composure, refusing to read more into his words than was actually there.

"I've built a life here," she said carefully. "Relationships that matter. But career opportunities like this don't come along often."

Joe nodded slowly, processing her response. "When will you decide?"

"After I visit New York next month," Y/N explained. "Meet with ownership, see the facilities, get a better sense of what I'd be walking into."

"And if you go," he asked, his voice dropping slightly, "who handles the content strategy here? Who maintains what you've built?"

The question felt both professional and personal, his concern extending beyond workflow logistics.

"That would be Kayla's decision," Y/N replied. "But I'd ensure a smooth transition. I wouldn't leave things in disarray."

Joe pushed off from the wall, his expression settling into something more resolved. "Well, I hope you don't go. But if you do, I get it."

The simple statement, neither manipulative nor dismissive, caught Y/N by surprise. Before she could respond, he continued.

"You've earned the right to choose what's next. After five years of building other people's stories, maybe it's time to build your own."

With that, he turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door. "Just do me a favor? Let me know before I hear it from someone else."

After he left, Y/N sat motionless, processing their conversation. Joe's reaction had been unexpected—not anger or indifference, but a complex mix of disappointment and understanding. And beneath it all, a question she couldn't fully answer: was there anything keeping her in Cincinnati beyond professional opportunity?

The answer, she knew, was both simpler and more complicated than she wanted to admit.

* * *

Word spread quickly after that, despite Kayla's desire for discretion. By the following week, Y/N noticed the shifts in how people interacted with her—the careful questions about New York, the subtle inquiries about her timeline, the occasional comments about loyalty and opportunity.

She maintained her professional focus, refusing to indulge speculation or make promises she couldn't keep. The Giants continued their pursuit, scheduling her visit for mid-October and sending increasingly detailed information about their vision for the role.

"They've sent the official visit itinerary," Y/N told Sam over drinks after work. "Two days in New York, meetings with ownership, tours of their facilities, dinner with the executive team."

"Sounds like they're rolling out the red carpet," Sam observed, studying the email on Y/N's phone. "When do you leave?"

"Next Thursday," Y/N confirmed. "Back Friday night."

Sam took a sip of her wine. "And how are you feeling about it?"

Y/N considered the question carefully. "Excited. Nervous. Torn. All the things you'd expect when contemplating a major life change."

"And have you told..."

"Joe knows," Y/N confirmed, anticipating her friend's question. "He asked for a heads-up before I make any final decisions."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That's interesting. Any particular reason why he cares so much?"

"Professional courtesy," Y/N replied automatically, then sighed at Sam's skeptical expression. "And whatever complicated history exists between us. But it doesn't change anything. This decision has to be about my career, not about Joe Burrow."

"Agreed," Sam said, refilling their glasses. "But it's interesting that he sought you out specifically to discuss it. That's not typical quarterback behavior for a staff member's potential departure."

Y/N changed the subject, unwilling to examine the implications too closely. Her relationship with Joe had finally reached a stable, professional place. Overthinking his reaction to her potential departure would only complicate things unnecessarily.

Besides, she reminded herself, Joe had Ellie. Whatever his concerns about Y/N leaving, they were professional, not personal. The sooner she accepted that reality, the clearer her decision-making process would become.

* * *

October 2025 - Decision Point

The days before Y/N's New York visit passed in a blur of preparations, both professional and personal. She carefully organized ongoing projects for her team to handle in her absence, created detailed status reports for Kayla, and prepared a portfolio highlighting her most significant content innovations with the Bengals.

At home, she researched New York neighborhoods, cost of living adjustments, and potential apartment options, trying to imagine herself in this new environment. After five years in Cincinnati, the prospect of starting over in a city like New York was both exhilarating and daunting.

The morning of her departure, Y/N arrived early at the facility to tie up loose ends before heading to the airport. The building was quiet, most staff not yet arrived for the day. She was reviewing final notes in her office when a knock came at her door.

Joe stood there, practice gear already on, a coffee cup in his hand. His early-morning training sessions were legendary, often beginning hours before other players arrived.

"Heading out today?" he asked, his tone casual though his eyes were serious.

"Flight's at 11," Y/N confirmed, surprised by his appearance at her office.

Joe nodded, considering something before speaking again. "New York's a big move."

"It would be," she agreed, unsure where he was going with this observation.

He seemed to weigh his words carefully. "The Giants are getting a lot of buzz this season. New coaching staff, strong draft picks. Good time to join their organization."

"That's part of the appeal," Y/N acknowledged. "Building something during a period of transition and growth."

Joe nodded again, his expression thoughtful. "Well, good luck with the meetings. Hope they show you the real picture, not just the recruiting highlight reel."

"Thanks," Y/N said, touched by his concern despite her determination to maintain professional boundaries. "I plan to ask tough questions."

"You always do," he replied with the hint of a smile. "It's what makes your content authentic."

He turned to leave, then paused. "When do you get back?"

"Tomorrow night," Y/N told him. "Late flight after the final meetings."

"Would you..." he hesitated, then committed. "Would you let me know how it goes? After you've processed it."

The request was simple, yet loaded with implications neither of them had directly addressed. Y/N found herself nodding despite her reservations.

"I will."

After he left, Y/N sat quietly, processing the brief interaction. Joe rarely sought her out for non-content conversations these days, both of them careful to maintain the professional distance established after the charity gala confrontation. Yet here he was, checking in before her Giants visit, expressing interest in her experience there.

She pushed the analysis aside, focusing instead on final preparations for her trip. Joe's interest was likely professional courtesy, nothing more. And regardless of his motives, her decision would be based on career opportunity, not complicated feelings for someone who had chosen someone else.

* * *

New York exceeded expectations. From the moment Y/N landed at LaGuardia, the Giants organization treated her with the consideration reserved for high-priority recruits—private car service, luxury hotel accommodations, meticulously planned itinerary that balanced professional substance with city experiences.

The facilities tour impressed her with both technology and vision. The executive meetings revealed an ownership group genuinely committed to transforming their content approach. The creative team openly acknowledged the need for new leadership and direction.

"We've seen what you built in Cincinnati," the Chief Marketing Officer told her during one session. "The player narratives, the community connections, the authentic voice. We want that here, but adapted for the New York market and culture."

By the end of the first day, Y/N found herself genuinely excited about the possibilities. Over dinner with the executive team, conversation flowed from content strategy to market differentiation to personal experiences, revealing a group of leaders she could envision working alongside.

In her hotel room that night, she called Sam for a reality check.

"They're saying all the right things," Y/N admitted. "Creative control, budget authority, seat at the executive table. It's everything I've worked toward professionally."

"And the city?" Sam asked. "Could you see yourself living there?"

Y/N glanced out her hotel window at the Manhattan skyline, lights twinkling against the night sky. "It's overwhelming but exciting. Different energy than Cincinnati, but not in a bad way."

"You sound like you're leaning toward yes," Sam observed.

"I think I am," Y/N admitted. "There's just..."

"Joe," Sam finished for her.

Y/N sighed, unable to deny it any longer. "Four years, Sam. Four years of loving someone who chose someone else. Twice." She stared out at the city lights. "Part of me wonders if I'll ever fully move on if I stay in Cincinnati. If I'll always be the woman who fell in love with Joe Burrow and couldn't let go."

"Or maybe," Sam suggested carefully, "it's about finally writing the ending yourself, instead of waiting for him to determine it. About choosing your own happiness instead of orbiting his."

The observation lingered with Y/N long after they hung up. Perhaps that was exactly what this opportunity represented, the chance to define her own story rather than remaining a secondary character in Joe Burrow's narrative.

The second day of meetings focused on specifics, compensation package, relocation assistance, start date discussions, transition planning. By the time Y/N boarded her flight back to Cincinnati that evening, she had a formal offer in hand, one even more substantial than initially discussed.

Two weeks to decide. Two weeks to choose between the familiar foundation she'd built in Cincinnati and an exciting but uncertain future in New York.

As the plane descended toward Cincinnati, Y/N gazed out at the city she'd called home for five years. The place where she'd built her career, established meaningful relationships, and yes—fallen in love with someone who didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't love her back.

Would leaving feel like escape or evolution? Running from complications or running toward opportunities?

* * *

The leadership meeting was supposed to be routine, winter content planning, playoff contingencies, draft strategy preliminary discussion. Y/N attended with her usual professional focus, presenting social media performance metrics and engagement strategies for the coming months.

She was wrapping up her presentation when someone asked about content leadership continuity through the winter.

"That's a fair question," Kayla acknowledged. "As some of you may have heard, Y/N is considering an opportunity with another organization. We're in discussions about retention, but we also need contingency planning in case she accepts this new role."

The room went quiet, all eyes shifting to Y/N. She maintained her composure, though the public acknowledgment of her potential departure felt unexpectedly exposing.

"Nothing's been decided yet," she said calmly. "I'm weighing options carefully, and regardless of my decision, I'm committed to ensuring a smooth transition if that becomes necessary."

The meeting continued, but Y/N could feel the shift in energy, the sidelong glances, the subtle reactions to this now-public development. Most surprising was Joe's expression from across the table: not shock or confusion, but a kind of contained intensity she hadn't seen from him in months.

As the meeting concluded, Y/N gathered her materials quickly, hoping to avoid uncomfortable conversations. She had nearly reached the door when Joe's voice stopped her.

"So that's it?" he asked, loud enough for those still in the room to hear. "Everyone just finds out in a meeting that you might be gone next month?"

Y/N turned slowly, aware of the remaining staff watching this exchange with barely concealed interest. "This isn't the place, Joe."

"When is the place?" he pressed, an edge to his voice she rarely heard. "After you've already accepted? After you're already gone?"

"I haven't made any decisions yet," Y/N replied evenly, conscious of their audience. "And this is a professional matter I'm handling appropriately."

Joe took a step closer, frustration evident in his posture. "Is it? Because it feels like you're making a major decision that affects a lot of people here without any real conversation."

"I've had those conversations with the appropriate leadership," Y/N countered, her own frustration rising. "With Kayla, with the content team. My career decisions don't require facility-wide consultation."

"So we just lose the person who's built our entire content strategy for five years, and that's supposed to be fine?" The challenge in Joe's voice was unmistakable now, his usual composed demeanor slipping.

Y/N felt her professional mask wavering in the face of his unexpected confrontation. "Why do you care so much?" she asked, the question escaping before she could contain it. "Why does this matter to you specifically?"

The question hung in the air between them, more pointed than she'd intended, more revealing than was professionally prudent. Joe stared at her, clearly caught between authentic response and awareness of their still-present audience.

"Because some things should matter more than titles and market size," he said finally. "Some connections are worth more than whatever the Giants are offering."

The implication in his words, connections, not just professional value, sent a jolt through Y/N's carefully maintained composure. Before she could respond, Kayla stepped forward, intervening with practiced diplomacy.

"Let's table this discussion," she suggested firmly. "Y/N hasn't made her decision yet, and we'll have appropriate transition conversations when and if that becomes necessary."

Joe held Y/N's gaze for a moment longer, something unresolved burning in his expression, before turning and walking out without another word.

The room emptied quickly after that, staff dispersing with the awkward energy that follows public tension. Y/N remained frozen in place, processing what had just happened. Joe had never confronted her so directly, so publicly, about anything—let alone her career choices.

"Well," Sam said, appearing beside her as the room cleared, "that wasn't subtle."

Y/N exhaled slowly, her heart still racing from the unexpected confrontation. "What was he thinking? That was completely unprofessional."

"It was," Sam agreed, "and also completely revealing."

"Of what?"

Sam gave her a look that suggested the answer should be obvious. "Of the fact that your potential departure matters to him. A lot. More than it probably should to a quarterback discussing a staff member."

Y/N shook her head, unwilling to read too much into Joe's uncharacteristic outburst. "He values continuity. Consistency. That's all."

"Sure," Sam said skeptically. "That's why he publicly challenged you in front of leadership. Because of workflow continuity."

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed with a text. She glanced down to see Joe's name on the screen:

Joe: I'm sorry. That was out of line. Can we talk? For real this time.

Y/N stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Their coffee shop conversation had already pushed against carefully established boundaries. Another private discussion, especially after his public display of emotion, felt dangerous in ways she couldn't quite articulate.

Y/N: Not a good time. Need to focus on work.

His response came immediately:

Joe: I understand. But we need to talk before you decide. Please.

The request simple yet loaded with implication lingered on her screen. Y/N tucked her phone away without responding, unwilling to commit to a conversation that might only complicate her already difficult decision.

"What did he say?" Sam asked, noting her friend's expression.

"He wants to talk," Y/N replied. "Before I decide about New York."

"And will you?"

Y/N gathered her materials, mind already spinning with potential scenarios and complications. "I don't know. Probably not the smartest move professionally."

"And personally?" Sam pressed gently.

To that, Y/N had no answer at all

* * *

Late October 2025 - The Breaking Point

For three days, Y/N successfully avoided being alone with Joe. She scheduled meetings during times he'd be in practice, worked remotely when possible, and managed to slip away whenever he appeared in common areas. The facility had become a tactical battlefield, with Y/N constantly aware of Joe's location as she navigated around him.

Sam watched this strategic avoidance with growing concern. "You realize you can't keep this up until you decide about New York, right?" she asked as they reviewed content in the edit bay. "The facility isn't that big."

"I don't need to avoid him forever," Y/N replied, eyes on the footage they were reviewing. "Just until I've made my decision without additional complications."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "And his feelings aren't already a complication?"

"His feelings?" Y/N looked up, expression carefully neutral. "He's concerned about maintaining content continuity. It's professional."

"Right," Sam said skeptically. "That's why he confronted you publicly in the middle of a leadership meeting. Because of content continuity."

Y/N didn't respond, returning her attention to the screen. The truth was, she didn't know what to make of Joe's uncharacteristic outburst or his persistent attempts to speak with her privately. And she wasn't sure she wanted to find out not when she was so close to making a decision that could finally free her from the gravitational pull she'd been fighting for years.

Late that afternoon, as the facility emptied for the day, Y/N remained in her office, reviewing the latest correspondence from the Giants. Their offer was extraordinary, substantially higher salary, creative control, direct reporting line to ownership, the prestige of a New York market. The kind of opportunity that came along once in a career, if ever.

Yet something kept her from immediate acceptance. She'd built something meaningful in Cincinnati, had relationships and understanding that couldn't be replicated overnight. And then there was Joe, complicated, frustrating, impossible to fully leave behind.

A knock at her door interrupted these thoughts. Y/N looked up to find Joe standing in the doorway, practice clothes replaced by casual street wear, his expression resolved.

"Got a minute?" he asked, though his tone suggested this wasn't really a question.

Y/N considered deflecting, mentioning a deadline, pleading exhaustion, finding some reason to escape. But the determination in his stance told her he wasn't easily dissuaded this time.

"About content strategy?" she asked, knowing full well it wasn't.

"You could call it that," Joe replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him—an unusual move that immediately put Y/N on alert.

She straightened in her chair, maintaining her professional composure. "What's on your mind?"

Joe remained standing, hands in his pockets, a tension in his shoulders that Y/N had rarely seen outside of game situations.

"I'll get straight to the point," he said after a moment. "I broke up with Ellie."

The statement hung in the air between them, simple but loaded with implication. Y/N kept her expression carefully neutral, though her heartbeat quickened against her will.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, her voice measured and professional. "But I don't see how that's relevant to content strategy."

A flicker of frustration crossed Joe's features. "It's not. But it is relevant to you potentially leaving for New York."

"How so?" Y/N asked, a defensive edge creeping into her voice despite her efforts to maintain distance.

Joe took a step closer to her desk. "Because it changes things between us."

"There is no 'us,' Joe," Y/N responded, the words coming out more sharply than she'd intended. "There never was."

"That's not true and you know it," he countered, his own composure showing cracks. "We've always been more than just colleagues."

Y/N felt a sudden surge of anger, at his timing, at his presumption, at the years she'd spent carefully containing feelings he now seemed to be acknowledging far too late.

"Friends, then," she amended, pushing back from her desk to stand. "But that doesn't give you any say in my career decisions."

"I'm not claiming it does," Joe said, frustration evident in his voice. "I'm just asking you to consider everything before you leave."

"Consider what, exactly?" Y/N asked, her carefully maintained professional mask beginning to slip. "That you're suddenly single again? That after five years, after I'm finally moving forward with my career, you've decided I matter?"

Joe's eyes widened slightly at her tone, unused to such directness from her. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Joe?" The question came out with all the pent-up emotion of years spent watching, waiting, hoping. "Because from where I'm standing, the timing seems pretty convenient."

“Ellie and I had been off for a while,” he said, his voice dropping. “But after the charity gala… things just got clearer.”

Y/N froze, the implications of this timing not lost on her. "The charity gala."

"When you finally told me how you felt about me hiding Ellie from you," Joe continued, holding her gaze. "When I realized what I'd done."

Y/N felt something crack inside her, the last restraint holding back years of carefully contained feelings.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" she asked, her voice rising despite the empty facility around them. "That you broke up with your girlfriend because what, you suddenly noticed I was hurt? That's not exactly a compelling reason for me to stay in Cincinnati."

"That's not what I'm saying," Joe insisted, taking another step forward.

"Then what are you saying?" Y/N challenged, fully losing her composure now. "Because I'm having a hard time understanding what you want from me. For years, I was right there, Joe. Through your ACL tear, through the Super Bowl run, through every high and low of your career. I was the person who saw you, who understood you, who was there for everything. And you never once saw me as anything more than the woman behind the camera."

Joe looked stunned by her outburst, his carefully crafted QB1 composure completely abandoned. "That's not true. I saw you. I've always seen you."

"No," Y/N said firmly, anger giving way to a more painful honesty. "You didn't. Because if you had, you wouldn't have hidden Ellie from me for months. You wouldn't have let me find out about your relationship from a break-in report. And you certainly wouldn't be standing here now, only after I'm considering leaving, suddenly claiming there's something between us worth staying for."

Her words hung in the air between them, raw and unavoidable. Joe's expression shifted from defensive to something more vulnerable.

"You're right," he said quietly. "My timing is terrible. And I handled everything with Ellie all wrong. But that doesn't change how I feel now."

"And how is that, exactly?" Y/N asked, needing to hear him actually say it after years of implication and assumption.

Joe took a deep breath, seeming to gather courage for words that didn't come easily to him. "I realized after the charity gala, after you actually called me out instead of just accepting whatever I did like everyone else does, that you were the only person in my life who saw me as me. Not as the quarterback, not as some image to protect. Just me." He paused, visibly struggling. "And I realized I've been fighting how I feel about you for a long time."

Under different circumstances, these would have been the words Y/N had longed to hear. But now, with the Giants offer in her email and years of hurt between them, they felt almost cruel in their timing.

"You don't get to do this," she said, voice trembling slightly with emotion. "You don't get to jerk me around like this again. Not when I'm finally moving forward. Not when I've finally found a way to build my career, my life, without organizing it around your orbit."

"I'm not trying to jerk you around," Joe insisted, genuine frustration in his voice. "I'm trying to be honest with you."

"Five years too late," Y/N countered, gathering her things as emotion threatened to overwhelm her entirely. "I have final meetings in New York this week. I'd appreciate it if you respected whatever decision I make."

Joe stood still, visibly processing her words. "So that's it? You've already decided?"

"No," Y/N admitted, pausing at the door. "But for the first time in five years, I'm making this decision for me. Not based on how I feel about you, or how you might feel about me. Just about what's best for my future."

"And if that's New York?" Joe asked quietly.

Y/N met his gaze directly, allowing herself to really look at him without her protective professional mask. "Then it's New York. And this—whatever this is—becomes another what-if that we both have to live with."

She didn't wait for his response, instead walking out with as much composure as she could muster. It wasn't until she reached her car that the full weight of the conversation hit her, tears finally falling as years of carefully contained emotion spilled over.

For so long, she had wanted Joe to see her, to acknowledge whatever existed between them. Now that he finally had, it felt like the cruelest twist yet, right when she was poised to finally build a life beyond his shadow.

As she drove home through the darkness, Y/N wondered if there could ever be good timing for them, or if they were destined to keep missing each other at critical moments. The one thing she knew with certainty was that her decision about New York had just become infinitely more complicated.

* * *

Early November 2025 - The Offer

The second New York trip passed in a blur of final meetings, facility tours, and relationship-building with the Giants' executive team. Y/N threw herself into these encounters with almost desperate focus, grateful for the professional distraction from her unresolved confrontation with Joe.

"We're prepared to improve the offer," the Giants' CEO told her during their final dinner, sliding a folder across the table. "After meeting with you again, the ownership group is even more convinced you're exactly who we need."

Inside, Y/N found an updated compensation package that exceeded her already high expectations. Along with the substantial salary increase came an expanded budget authority, a dedicated content team reporting directly to her, and a signing bonus that would more than cover relocation expenses.

"We understand this is a significant move," Brian Reynolds added. "But we're confident it's the right next step for someone with your vision and talent."

"I'm flattered," Y/N replied honestly. "And impressed by the organization's commitment."

“We know we initially gave you two weeks,” the CEO said. “But if you need more time, we’re prepared to extend it by another two. We’re eager to have you on board before the end of the season.”

Another two weeks. Fourteen days to decide whether to leave everything she'd built in Cincinnati, her career foundation, her friendships, and whatever complicated potential existed with Joe Burrow.

On the flight home, Y/N stared out the window at the clouds below, turning over her options with clinical precision. The Giants offer represented everything she'd worked toward professionally. A vice president title at her age was exceptional. Creative control over a major market team's entire content approach was the kind of opportunity that career trajectories were built on.

Yet Cincinnati had become home. She understood the Bengals culture intimately, had relationships throughout the organization, had built a content strategy that was recognized league-wide. And Kayla's counteroffer was substantial in its own right—perhaps not matching the Giants financially, but offering the director title and creative authority she'd earned.

And then there was Joe.

Y/N closed her eyes, recalling their confrontation. The raw honesty of it had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. For years, she'd imagined what it would be like if Joe finally saw her as more than a colleague, more than the person behind the camera. Now that he seemingly had, the timing felt almost deliberately cruel.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam:

Sam: Landed yet? Need intel on final offer and emotional state.

Y/N smiled despite her turmoil.

Y/N: Wheels down in 20. Offer is incredible. Emotional state is complicated.

Sam: Wine and debrief at your place tonight?

Y/N: Yes please. Bring reinforcements.

Later that evening, settled on her couch with wine glasses in hand, Y/N filled Sam in on the Giants' improved offer and the two-week decision timeline.

"So professionally, it's a no-brainer," Sam observed, refilling their glasses. "VP title, New York market, obscene salary."

"Basically," Y/N agreed. "Though Kayla's counteroffer is still very strong for staying."

Sam studied her friend's face. "And what about the Joe situation? Any contact since the confrontation?"

Y/N shook her head. "Radio silence. Which is probably for the best."

"Is it, though?" Sam asked. "You finally had the honest conversation you've been avoiding for years. Doesn't that deserve some follow-up?"

Y/N stared into her wine glass. "What's there to follow up on? His timing is impossible, as usual. I'm literally weighing a career-defining opportunity, and he chooses now to reveal he broke up with Ellie because of me?"

"Not because of you," Sam corrected gently. "Because of how he feels about you. There's a difference."

Y/N sighed, letting her head fall back against the couch. "Either way, it doesn't change the fact that the Giants are offering me exactly what I've been working toward."

"True," Sam acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean you can just ignore what happened with Joe."

"I'm not ignoring it," Y/N insisted. "I'm just... compartmentalizing. Making sure my decision is based on career considerations, not complicated feelings."

Sam gave her a skeptical look. "And you really think you can separate those things completely?"

"I have to," Y/N replied firmly. "Otherwise I'm right back where I started, defining my choices in relation to Joe Burrow instead of what's best for me."

"Fair enough," Sam conceded. "But just for the record, I think there's a difference between making a decision because of how you feel about someone, and acknowledging that your feelings are part of a complex decision."

Y/N didn't immediately respond, knowing there was truth in Sam's words. The reality was more complicated than a simple binary between career and relationship. Her feelings for Joe, long suppressed, deeply rooted, recently disrupted—were inextricably part of her Cincinnati experience. Pretending otherwise was perhaps as dishonest as ignoring the professional opportunity in New York.

"Two weeks," Y/N said finally. "Two weeks to figure out where I actually want to be, and why."

"For what it's worth," Sam added, "I'll support whatever you decide. Even if it means I have to find a new lunch buddy."

Y/N smiled gratefully, thankful for at least one uncomplicated relationship in her life.

Later, after Sam had left, Y/N stood on her balcony looking out at the Cincinnati skyline. The city had become home in ways she hadn't expected when she arrived as a newly-minted master's graduate five years ago. These lights, these buildings, these streets held her history now—professional triumphs, personal connections, and years of complicated feelings for a quarterback who had only just acknowledged what had existed between them all along.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her from these thoughts. Y/N's heart raced slightly as she checked the screen, half-expecting Joe's name. Instead, she found a message from Brian Reynolds:

Brian: Just checking if you arrived home safely. The entire team is excited about the possibility of you joining us. Let me know if you have any additional questions as you consider the offer.

Y/N typed a polite, professional response, confirming her safe return and reiterating her timeline for decision. As she hit send, she wondered if Joe would reach out again before she decided, or if their confrontation had created a gulf too wide to cross so quickly.

Perhaps that silence was answer enough.

* * *

Mid-November 2025 - The Breaking Point

The days following Y/N's return from New York settled into a strange rhythm at the facility. She maintained her professional responsibilities with focused precision, overseeing content production for the upcoming divisional matchup while simultaneously organizing transition documents in case she accepted the Giants' offer.

Joe kept his distance, respecting her implied request for space. They encountered each other in meetings and team settings, maintaining cordial professionalism that revealed nothing of their confrontation to observers. Only the careful way they avoided direct interaction, the deliberate physical distance they maintained in shared spaces, hinted at the unresolved tension between them.

"Have you decided yet?" Kayla asked during their weekly check-in, the question casual despite its significance.

"Still weighing options," Y/N replied honestly. "Both opportunities have considerable merits."

Kayla nodded, studying her thoughtfully. "For what it's worth, I understand the appeal of New York. The title, the market size, building something from the ground up." She paused. "But I also know what you've built here matters to you. And to us."

"It does," Y/N acknowledged. "That's what makes this so difficult."

"Well, my offer stands," Kayla said. "Director of Content Strategy, creative authority, budget oversight. We can't match their salary completely, but we can get closer than my initial proposal."

Y/N appreciated the directness. "Thank you. I'll have my decision by next week, as promised."

Later that evening, Y/N remained in the edit bay, reviewing footage for the upcoming game package. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, leaving the facility quiet except for the occasional sounds of cleaning crews or security making their rounds. She welcomed the solitude, finding clarity in the familiar rhythm of work that had defined her career with the Bengals.

The door to the edit bay opened without warning. Y/N turned to find Joe standing in the doorway, still in practice clothes, his expression a mixture of determination and something she couldn't quite define.

"We need to talk," he said simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Y/N tensed immediately. "Joe, I think we've said everything that needs to be said."

"No," he countered, moving further into the room. "We haven't. Not by a long shot."

"I have work to finish," Y/N said, gesturing to the screens in front of her. It was a weak excuse and they both knew it.

"The Raiders content can wait," Joe replied, stopping directly across from her. "This can't."

Y/N sighed, finally turning to face him fully. "What more is there to say? You've made your feelings clear. I've made my position clear. I have a decision to make about my future."

"That's just it," Joe said, his voice taking on an intensity she rarely heard outside of crucial game situations. "You keep talking about your future like it's this separate thing from everything else. Like it's just job titles and salaries and market size."

"Because that's what a career decision should be based on," Y/N countered, her own frustration building. "Not complicated feelings or bad timing."

"Is that really what you think?" Joe asked, moving around the desk until there was nothing between them. "That feelings and timing are just distractions from the 'real' decision?"

"That's not what I meant," Y/N said, standing her ground despite his proximity. "But I can't make a life-changing choice based on something that might not even—"

"Might not what?" Joe pressed when she stopped abruptly. "Might not be real? Might not last? Is that what you think this is?"

"I don't know what this is!" Y/N exclaimed, her careful composure finally cracking. "All I know is that for years, I've been right here, feeling things I shouldn't feel, wanting things I couldn't have. And now, right when I have a chance to start fresh, to build something that's just about me and my career, you're telling me you've had feelings for me all along?"

Joe didn't back down, his gaze steady on hers. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm telling you. And I'm sorry the timing is terrible. I'm sorry I didn't figure it out sooner, or have the courage to say something before now. But that doesn't make it any less true."

"How am I supposed to believe that?" Y/N asked, the question emerging with all the pain and doubt she'd been carrying. "How do I know this isn't just about you not wanting me to leave? About you suddenly realizing you might lose someone who's always been there, always supported you, always—"

“Because I’ve been in love with you since my rookie year.” His voice cracked the space between them, louder than usual, sharper. Not angry. Just honest in a way that felt like it cost him something. “Every time I tried to keep my distance. Every time I told myself we were just coworkers, just friends. I was lying. To you. To myself.”

Y/N stared at him, momentarily shocked by the raw honesty in his declaration. This wasn't the measured, careful Joe Burrow who spoke in calculated press conferences and maintained professional composure. This was something else entirely, unfiltered, unguarded, desperately sincere.

"If that's true," she began, her voice shaking slightly, "then why Ellie? Why hide her from me specifically? Why let me find out about your relationship from a break-in report?"

Joe ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "Because I was trying to prove to myself that what I felt for you wasn't real. That I could build something with someone else and finally stop thinking about you all the time." He shook his head, regret clear in his expression. "It was cowardly. And it was unfair to both you and Ellie."

"And now what?" Y/N challenged, taking a step closer despite herself. "Now I'm supposed to turn down a career-defining opportunity because you've finally decided to be honest about your feelings?"

"I'm not asking you to turn down anything," Joe countered. "I'm just asking you to admit that there's more to this decision than job titles and salary packages. That what's between us matters too."

"Of course it matters!" Y/N's voice rose to match his, years of carefully contained emotion finally breaking free. "It's mattered to me for five years! Through every game, every interview, every content shoot. Through watching you with other women, through maintaining professional boundaries, through creating distance when it hurt too much to be close to you. It's always mattered, Joe. That's the problem!"

The confession hung in the air between them, more direct than anything she'd ever admitted aloud. Joe's expression shifted, something like hope flaring in his eyes.

"If it matters," he said, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper, "then why are we still pretending it doesn't?"

Something changed in Joe's expression at her admission—a flicker of hope, then resolve. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides. His hands framed her face, warm, certain, and then his mouth was on hers. No hesitation. No preamble. Just five years of restraint breaking open all at once.

It wasn't a soft kiss. It wasn't slow. It was urgent, deep, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn't let himself touch her. Y/N froze for a second, the shock of it holding her still then her hands were on him, gripping the collar of his hoodie, pulling him closer.

He groaned against her mouth, low and unguarded, like even he hadn't realized how much he needed this.

The backs of her thighs hit the desk behind her, and he didn't stop, just pressed her into it with the full weight of his body, kissing her harder now, deeper, like he didn't trust himself to let go. Her hands slid under his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. The muscle in his back flexed beneath her palms. Her legs parted instinctively and he stepped between them, one hand sliding down to her hip, anchoring her like he was afraid she'd disappear.

She kissed him back like she meant it. Like she'd been waiting. Years of waiting. Her lips moved with his in a rhythm they'd never practiced but somehow already knew.

When he broke the kiss, it was only to breathe. His forehead dropped to hers, chest heaving, thumb brushing along her jaw like he couldn't quite stop touching her.

Joe didn't say anything.

Y/N couldn't speak. Could barely think. All she could do was tug him back down and kiss him again, deeper this time, slower, a little reckless now. Her fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, and his hands slid up her thighs like muscle memory, like this had always been coming.

The kiss didn't cool off. It burned. Got messier. Hungrier.

She made a sound, soft, desperate, and that pushed him further. He kissed down her neck, open-mouthed and hot, dragging his teeth lightly along her collarbone, and her head tipped back against the wall, breath shuddering out of her chest.

"Joe," she gasped, barely recognizing her own voice.

The sound of his name seemed to intensify his hunger his mouth reclaimed hers with renewed desperation. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, lost in sensations she'd only allowed herself to imagine in her weakest moments.

The sudden buzz of her phone vibrating against the desk shattered the moment. Reality crashed back with brutal clarity as Y/N recognized Kayla's ringtone, an after-hours call from her boss that couldn't be ignored.

She pulled back, breathing heavily, her lips swollen from their kisses. "I have to—" she gestured toward the phone, her professional instincts kicking in despite the situation.

Joe stepped back, giving her space though his eyes never left her face. As Y/N answered the call, keeping her voice remarkably steady, Joe ran a hand over his face, visibly trying to regain his own composure.

The call was brief, a question about the game package deadline that Y/N answered professionally, without any hint of the emotional chaos she was experiencing. After hanging up, she set the phone down carefully, aware of Joe watching her, waiting for her reaction.

"That was..." she began, then stopped, unsure how to characterize what had just happened between them.

"Real," Joe finished for her. "That was real, Y/N. Everything I've said, everything I feel for you—it's real."

Y/N slid off the desk, straightening her clothes with shaking hands. "This complicates everything."

"Maybe," Joe acknowledged. "Or maybe it simplifies it. Maybe it helps you see what matters most."

Y/N looked up at him, at the man she'd loved from behind a camera for years, now standing before her with his heart finally exposed. "I still need to make this decision for the right reasons. My career matters too, Joe. What I've worked for matters."

"I'm not asking you to stay for me," he said, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "That wouldn't be fair to either of us. I'm just asking you to be honest with yourself about what you really want." He paused, meeting her gaze directly. "And if that's New York, I'll understand. But I need you to know that what just happened between us? That wasn't just about tonight. That's been there for years."

The simple truth, spoken without qualification or defense, landed with the weight of everything they'd been avoiding. Y/N felt tears threatening and blinked them back.

"I need time," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need to think clearly, not with my heart racing and my body still..." she trailed off, feeling heat rise to her cheeks at the memory of his touch.

Joe nodded, taking a deliberate step back. "Take all the time you need." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you decide."

As he turned to leave, Y/N called after him, "Joe?"

He paused, looking back at her.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For finally being honest. Even if the timing is impossible."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Maybe the timing isn't as bad as you think. Maybe it's exactly when we both needed to stop hiding."

After he left, Y/N sank into her chair, her fingers touching her lips, still feeling the imprint of his kisses. The Giants offer represented everything she'd worked toward professionally. But for the first time since receiving it, she allowed herself to consider what staying in Cincinnati might mean, not just for her career, but for her heart.

One week remained to decide where her future truly lay. And now that decision included not just which job to take, but whether she was brave enough to risk everything on a love that had survived five years of denial, distance, and misdirection.

♡♡part four♡

[demie90s]

(I LOVVVEEE THIS CAUSE I HAVE BROTHERSSS)

Soft Spot

UConn x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re the team menace. Trash talker. Trouble starter. But when your baby brother shows up to watch you play and accidentally runs onto the court mid-possession—only to get hurt—you lose it.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: emotional angst, sibling bond, tough-girl vulnerability

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: injury (not graphic), swearing, intense emotion, reader shows rage then softness

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.6k

They never knew what to expect from me. One day I’m practicing full-speed in a weighted vest, the next I’m handing out glittery slap bracelets pregame just to throw off the other team’s rhythm. I didn’t talk the most, but when I did, it was sharp, calculated, said like I already knew how the play would end. I moved different. Never sat still on the bench. Wore gold grills with my warmups. Smiled during free throws. The team just let me do me—mostly because I produced. And because nobody wanted to be on the other side of my mood.

My little brother had been begging to come see me play. He was four—smart as hell, dramatic, and loud. My twin in every way except height. I had begged my mom to bring him tonight. Just one game. She finally said yes.

I saw him before tip-off. Front row, bouncing in his tiny jersey with my number on it, clutching a little pack of gummy bears like it was gold. I tapped my chest twice, winked at him, and got in formation.

The first half was chaos. I was locked in—breaking presses, rotating like I had eight arms, jaw clenched with every bucket I hit. We were up ten. The crowd was loud. I was louder.

Then it happened.

Mid-transition, I heard someone yell—high-pitched, panicked. I turned in time to see a flash of red and navy dart across the court. At first I thought it was some wild fan. Then I realized—his curls, his chubby little legs, the way he was holding up the gummy bears like he wanted to give them to me.

“Shit—no!”

He got maybe ten feet before his foot clipped the edge of the paint. The floor met him hard. The pack flew. His tiny arms braced but not fast enough, and his head bounced once against the court before he stopped moving.

The gym fell dead silent. And I broke.

I shoved past a ref, nearly knocked over a cheerleader. Someone grabbed my shoulder—maybe Geno—and I swung my arm back so fast they let go. My vision blurred, chest heaving. I yelled something—don’t even remember what. The words were hot and harsh and flying out of my mouth before I could stop them. I wasn’t yelling at him. I was yelling at the world. At the ref. At myself.

“WHY THE FUCK WASN’T ANYONE WATCHING HIM?!”

He started crying. Loud. That little hiccup-sob that sounds too big for his chest. I stopped moving. Just dropped.

My knees hit the court with a thud, and suddenly I wasn’t the player with the stare, or the girl with the edge. I was just a big sister. Scrambling. Gently lifting his body off the floor with shaking hands. He clung to my jersey so tight it almost ripped. He wasn’t bleeding, but his lip was busted and he was scared—really scared.

“I’m right here, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I held him like he was glass. Rocked with him. Whispered against his curls while the rest of the world just stood there, watching something they never thought I had in me.

I felt Azzi kneel beside me. She didn’t say anything—just put a hand on my back. Paige hovered nearby, frozen. Even Nika looked heartbroken. Nobody knew what to do. They’d never seen me quiet.

Geno didn’t yell. Didn’t rush. He just stood with his hands on his hips, like maybe he finally understood what made me tick.

I stayed there until my mom reached us. Until he calmed down. Until I could breathe again.

And even then, I didn’t get up right away.

The locker room was too quiet.

No speaker, no music, no jokes, no yelling. The usual noise that echoed off the walls after a win was gone. We’d taken the game by double digits, but nobody was celebrating. They were still looking at me like I might snap again. Or fall apart. Or both.

I sat at my locker, head down, jersey half off, arms still tense like I hadn’t unclenched since I carried my baby brother off the court. My knee bounced. My palms were still sticky from where his tears soaked into them. He was okay—my mom texted me already. He was eating fries and watching Bluey like nothing happened. But I was still in that moment. That damn scream still ringing in my ears.

KK was the first to move. She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over and dropped a water bottle by my feet.

“You good?” she asked, voice low.

I nodded, but it didn’t feel real. “He’s fine.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

I didn’t answer.

The rest of the team slowly filtered back to their usual routines—shower, tape off, slides on—but their eyes kept flicking over to me like I might crumble into the floor. Paige was whispering with Nika. Azzi hadn’t taken her shoes off yet. Geno was talking to a trainer outside the door, but I could tell he kept glancing in.

Finally, Ice sat down across from me. Elbows on her knees. Serious.

“We didn’t know you had that in you,” she said. “The soft part.”

I looked up at her. “I don’t show it.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause the second people know it’s there, they think they can touch it.”

She nodded like she got it. And I think she did.

Paige stepped over, slow, like she was approaching a wild animal.

“You scared us,” she said. “Like… genuinely. You were—”

“I know.”

And I did. I knew what I looked like. Feral. Screaming. Crying. On my knees in front of thousands. It wasn’t just rage—it was fear. The kind I’d buried deep. The kind that only surfaced when someone I loved bled in front of me.

“He’s your baby,” Azzi said softly, finally speaking up. “You were just being his sister.”

I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand, breathing deep through my nose. “He brought me gummy bears.”

Paige smiled a little. “Of course he did.”

I reached into my duffle and pulled out the half-crushed pack. Put it right in my locker like it belonged there. Nobody said anything else. They didn’t have to.

They saw the realest part of me tonight. Not the menace. Not the monster.

Just me.

@draculara-vonvamp @non3ofurbusiness @toorealrai

[secretlittlerandezvous]

Better Than I Do - Will Smith

Summary: After Will's girlfriend surprises him by attending one of his home games wearing his jersey, he can't keep his eyes off her. The sight of her in his shirt drives him wild,

Words: 714

Note: Slightly nsfw.

The moment he stepped onto the ice for warmups, his eyes instinctively scanned the lower bowl, even though he already knew she wouldn’t be there. She called him earlier, something about work, maybe school, deadlines piling up, her voice thick with frustration through the phone. He told her it was okay. That she didn’t have to be at every home game. That he’d see her after and that would be more than enough. He never wanted to be the type of a guy to pressure her into something.

But it wasn’t the same without her.

His game-day routine felt slightly off. The pregame meal. The warmup music. Even tying his skates felt mechanical. Detached. And he hated that. He hated how much he’d gotten used to her being there, waiting for him after games with a cheerful smile no matter if they won or lost.

So, he dropped his head and focused. One game. One night.

But then he spotted her. Front row. Wearing his jersey.

It was his away white oversized jersey, nearly drowning her, the sleeves bunched at her wrists. Her hair was loose, cheeks rosy from the cold, and she was nursing a hot drink, lips curved in a soft smile the second their eyes met.

Will nearly stumbled on the ice.

For a second, he just stared. Then he smiled, wide and shameless, and shook his head in disbelief.

She came. She lied.

And God, she looked good.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

The boys teased him for it. “Yo, lover boy, focus!” one of the defensemen yelled.

But he didn’t care. He had his girl in the crowd and his name on her back. That was all the motivation he needed.

He played one of the best games of his season. Fast. Sharp. Scored a goal. Set up another. His confidence was through the roof. It was her. Sitting there, cheering for him like he was something special.

By the time he hit the showers, he was already texting her: “You’re in trouble.”

Her response: “You’ll have to catch me first.”

She was already curled up on the couch when he got home, his jersey still clinging to her like it belonged there. Her legs were bare, knees tucked under her, hair messy from the beanie she wore earlier. She looked so effortlessly comfortable in his space, like she didn’t just belong in the arena but here, with him.

Will leaned against the doorframe for a second, just watching her, something warm and possessive blooming in his chest.

“I can’t believe you lied to me,” he said, walking toward her.

“You seemed tired. I wanted it to be a surprise.” She smiled, that familiar sparkle in her eyes. “Did it work?”

He reached for her, tugging her up gently by the hands until she stood in front of him. “Yeah,” he said, brushing her hair away from her face. “You wrecked me out there.”

She tilted her head. “Wrecked you?”

He smirked. “Every time I looked up and saw you in my jersey, I forgot where I was. I could barely focus.” His fingers toyed with the hem.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

He hummed, pulling her closer, his hands resting on her hips. “You should know what it does to me,” he murmured, voice low now. “Seeing you like this.”

She pretended to think. “Might’ve had an idea.”

His lips were on her neck a second later, slow and warm, and her breath hitched. His hands slipped under the jersey, dragging up the backs of her thighs as he whispered against her skin, “You’re not taking this off tonight.”

“Oh no?” she teased, leaning into him.

“Nope,” he said between kisses, moving them backward toward the bedroom. “Not even gonna let you. You’re mine tonight. All mine.”

She laughed softly, breathless now, tugging at his hoodie. “You’ve got this whole possessive thing going on…”

Will grinned. “Can you blame me? Look at you.” He pressed her down gently onto the bed, climbing over her with that same wild look he had on the ice when he was seconds from scoring. “Tell me you don’t know what this is doing to me.”

“I do,” she whispered.

“Then keep it on.” His voice dropped, gravelly and low.

[oscquinn]

this is the first of many mags 😁

❛ don’t mind me. just enjoying the view. ❜ + sway where reader is lowkey turned on by his little water routine/him outting his jersey in mouth or wtv

SWAYBAEEEEE

"don’t mind me. just enjoying the view." from this subtle smut list. part of my mini writing event, now closed!

jeremy swayman x reader, rated t. jeremy being a menace, he knows what he's doing fr. i need that goalie real bad AMEN 🙏🏻

glass seats at a bruins game, all thanks to your lovely boyfriend. he'd asked if you'd rather sit by the goal or the bench, you chose the latter for a better view of the ice. definitely not because you'd recently seen a fan's video of his little pregame routine.

so you wanted your boyfriend to wink at you with that stupid sexy smile. who could blame you?

you feel giddy—like a schoolgirl with a brand new crush as opposed to someone in a steady relationship—as he skates from the goal back to the bench after warmups.

jeremy takes the bottle and throws a little wave in your direction as he lifts his helmet up. your eyes follow him ask he takes his jersey between his teeth, lets go, then sprays water in his mouth. something about his expression has you moving in your seat, squeezing your thighs together for a hint of relief to the sudden warmth you feel.

he goes on, looking in the opposite direction and scanning the crowd. then his head turns in your direction. he searches the crowd around you, no doubt making sure his skills are on point, then his eyes meet yours. and he winks.

you giggle, blushing at his simple gesture. after handing the water bottle off to a teammate he skates your way, handling a puck on the end of his stick.

jeremy raises an eyebrow at you, noting the way your eyes scan over his body.

"don't mind me, just enjoying the view," you mouth with a teasing smile.

with another wink he tosses the puck up and over the glass, where it lands safely in your hands. you can't help but laugh, you have tons of these at home, no reason for him to toss you another. but you hold on to it like it's precious. this one will go on display on your mantle, you think.

© oscquinn, 2025. click here for my inbox.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which kate couldn't help her eyes keep drifting

Kate Martin wasn’t sure what made this game different at first.

She had played in crypto.com Arena before. The lights, the noise, the sheer weight of legacy that clung to every rafter—none of it was new. The Valkyries were locked in a tough stretch, and tonight’s matchup against the Sparks wasn’t supposed to be about anything except execution.

But then she saw you.

It was during pregame warmups. The music was blaring through the speakers, her teammates were going through shooting drills, and Kate was locking into her rhythm—feet planted, elbow up, follow through sharp—when something in her peripheral distracted her.

You were on the court. Dancing.

Not casually. Not the way fans danced in the stands, not the way Kate sometimes danced alone in her hotel room when she thought no one was watching.

You danced like the music moved through you.

And for a moment, Kate missed her catch. The ball thudded against her chest, not her hands. She barely noticed.

“Oh my god,” she muttered.

“What?” Kayla asked, nudging her. “You forget how to dribble?”

Kate blinked, snapped out of it, and offered a sheepish laugh. “Nah. Just—uh. Forgot how gravity works for a second.”

But even as she turned away, her eyes flicked back toward you. The dancer in the golden-yellow two-piece, Sparks logo shining on your hip, spinning with effortless confidence.

Kate had never believed in love at first sight before. But this? This might change her mind.

She played like she had something to prove.

Which was weird, because she didn’t—not to anyone on the court. But every time she sank a three, she found herself looking not toward her bench, not toward the scoreboard, but toward the baseline where the Sparks Crew stood watching the game, high-fiving each other, breaking into routines during every timeout.

Where you stood.

Where you smiled when she made that and-one drive.

She swore you smiled at her. She swore it.

And in a split second, her competitive brain turned traitor and said, “Do it again. Impress her again.”

The fourth quarter was a blur of adrenaline and hustle. Valkyries down by two. Kate got the ball at the wing. Pump fake. Step back. Swish.

She looked for you before she even celebrated with her team.

You were already looking.

After the game, the teams mingled a little—some dapped up old teammates and friends, some signed shirts for kids lingering in the lower rows. Kate wandered the sideline pretending to look for a water bottle, but really?

She was looking for you.

And then—there you were. Walking past the court entrance with the rest of the Sparks Crew, bag slung over your shoulder, laughing about something one of your girls had said.

Kate hesitated for exactly one second. Then jogged up behind you.

“Hey—wait. Sorry—hey, excuse me?”

You turned.

And up close? It was so much worse. Or better. Kate couldn’t decide. Your face glowed, sweat-slicked in a way that made you look alive, magnetic. She felt like an idiot for being winded, and she hadn’t even run that hard.

“Hey,” you said. “You need something?”

She laughed nervously. “I—uh. I swear I’m not a creep. I’m Kate. Martin.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “From the Valkyries.”

“That’s me.”

You smiled—playful. “You were looking for me?”

Kate flushed. “I—okay. Yes. That’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not,” you said, eyes kind. “It’s cute.”

Kate rubbed the back of her neck. “I didn’t know how to say this without sounding like a fan, but I think I’m a fan. Of you.”

You tilted your head. “You watched me dance.”

“Watched you dance. Couldn’t look away, honestly. I think I missed three rebounds because I was too busy staring.”

You laughed, then bit your lip. “I noticed.”

“Yeah?” Kate grinned. “I wasn’t subtle, was I?”

“Not even a little.”

You shifted your weight, then added, “But it was flattering.”

Kate’s breath caught. She wanted to say something smooth, but her brain felt like scrambled eggs. So instead, she blurted, “Are you seeing anyone?”

You raised a brow. “That’s direct.”

Kate blinked. “Too direct?”

“Maybe. But I’ll answer anyway.”

You leaned closer and whispered, “I’m not.”

Kate couldn’t help the smile that stretched across her face. “Can I take you out sometime?”

You pretended to think. “Are you always this confident after games?”

Kate looked sheepish. “Honestly? No. But tonight I felt like if I didn’t ask, I’d regret it.”

“Well,” you said, writing on a loose scrap of paper you found and holding it out to her, “if you text me, I might say yes.”

Kate took it, staring at the number you’d scribbled onto it in blue pen. “This is the coolest way I’ve ever gotten someone’s number.”

You winked. “You better shoot your shot.”

Kate twirled the band around her fingers. “That’s the plan.”

Back in the locker room, Kayla clocked her blush from a mile away.

“Oh my god. You did talk to her.”

Kate grinned like an idiot, pulling her phone out and typing your number into her contacts under Dancer Girl.

“Yeah,” she said. “I really did.”

Kelsey Plum: We’re hitting VIOLET after midnight. Bring the girls. Let’s be legends.

Kate grinned and fired back a thumbs-up and flame emoji before glancing toward her duffel, where a certain elastic band still sat with your number written in blue pen.

Could she bring someone?

Could she bring you?

Her fingers hesitated just a moment before she texted you.

Kate: Hey, totally random but… wanna come out with us tonight? High-end place. Good music. I promise to keep pretending I’m not obsessed with you.

You replied two minutes later.

You: Send me the location. I’ll pretend I don’t already know you watched me dance for a full hour today.

You: Also… I look really good in sparkles.

Kate audibly groaned and flopped back on the hotel bed, kicking her legs like a teenager.

The bar was upscale, a velvet-and-glass kind of spot with too many mirrors and not enough lighting. Kelsey was already there, sipping a drink with Derica Hamby and a few Valkyries players clustered around a booth in the corner.

Kate walked in just before midnight, but her eyes were already scanning the crowd for you.

And then she saw you.

Standing by the bar in boots and a short blue sparkly dress, that hugged your body in ways Kate wasn’t emotionally prepared for.

Her mouth dried out.

You spotted her and smirked—this cocky little quirk of your lips like you knew what you were doing to her.

You walked over slowly, hips swaying, and leaned in like you were about to whisper something into her ear.

Instead, you kissed her cheek.

“Hi,” you murmured.

Kate blinked like a deer in headlights. “You weren’t kidding about the sparkles.”

You twirled once for dramatic effect. “Told you.”

She chuckled and rubbed the back of her neck. “Everyone’s over there. Kelsey’s probably gonna flirt with you just to mess with me, fair warning.”

“I’ll let her,” you said with a grin, “if you get jealous.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

It started innocent.

A drink. A shared laugh at someone’s bad dance move. You rested a hand on her knee while telling a story, and Kate had to fight to keep her breath even.

But then the music shifted. Slowed. Thick bass, pulsing heat, the kind of rhythm that filled your ribs and made your spine ache to move.

You tugged her hand. “Come dance with me.”

Kate hesitated. “I don’t really—”

“I’ve seen you do a spin move in transition, Kate,” you teased. “You can handle one dance.”

She followed you onto the floor like a moth to flame.

You started close.

Then closer.

Your hips moved in sync, slow and sultry. Her hands landed on your waist like they were drawn there by gravity itself.

You pressed into her, back to chest, rolling your body with the beat. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly, and she had to suppress a groan.

“You okay?” you asked over your shoulder, feigning innocence.

Kate leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Not even a little bit.”

You turned to face her, chest-to-chest, and danced like no one was watching—even though she knew they were.

You danced like you’d done this with her a hundred times before, like you belonged against her body.

Her hands slid from your waist to your hips. You looped your arms around her neck and dipped lower, grinding against her like you were testing her restraint.

She failed.

Kate leaned in, nose grazing your jawline.

“I’m not kissing you here,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

You smiled, lips brushing her skin. “Good. Because I’m not kissing you here either.”

Her breath hitched.

“I want the first time to be quiet,” you murmured. “Private. Like something we keep for ourselves.”

Kate swallowed hard. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“I hope so.”

Eventually, you both drifted off the dance floor, breathless, laughing at nothing. Her hand never left your lower back. Yours never left her side.

When Kelsey passed by, she raised a brow. “So… that happenin’?”

Kate didn’t even try to deny it. “That’s the plan.”

Kelsey winked. “About damn time.”

As the night ended and she walked you to your car, Kate lingered beside you, hand still resting on your hip. The street was quiet. The tension? Loud.

You smiled up at her. “Still not gonna kiss me?”

Kate smiled back. “Still not here.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to text me again.”

“Oh, I’m gonna text the hell out of you.”

You climbed into your car, winked, and rolled the window down. “Sleep tight, Martin.”

Kate stood in the curbside glow of your taillights, heart pounding like she’d just come off a fourth quarter buzzer-beater.

Yeah.

She was so gone for you.

[postgamevibes]

6:30 PM- Pre-Game Routine

Your apartment was quiet, that soft, lived-in quiet that only came from being alone but not lonely.

The lamp casts a soft glow over the room as you tucked yourself into the couch, blanket pulled over your legs, TV already set to the pregame show. You were pretending to care about the analysis — you were just waiting to see him.

Your phone buzzed, right on schedule.

Jack 🏒:

-warmups in 10

-kiss the TV for luck

You

-that’s between me and Sportsnet

Jack 🏒:

-rude

-can’t wait to come home to you. save me the good blanket

You:

-only if you score

Jack 🏒:

-you drive a hard bargain

You smiled, heart already full, even from miles away, he still felt close.

Overtime-9:44 PM

The game was tied. Of course it was tied.

You gripped the blanket tighter as Jack flew up the ice in overtime, skating like he had wings. One fake, one filthy backhand. Goal.

You shrieked, heart pounding as his teammates mobbed him. The camera caught him beaming flushed, breathless, and scanning the crowd like he always did.

He couldn’t see you, but you raised your tea anyway. “Good job, baby.”

Coming Home-11:40 PM

Jack 🏒:

-OT hero reporting in

-this is a cuddle emergency

-are you awake

You:

-door’s unlocked

-come home to me

Back In Your Arms-12:20 AM

He came in quiet, hoodie off one shoulder, curls damp, eyes tired.

You held your arms out. He dropped everything and melted into you.

Wrapped up in his favorite blanket and your arms, Jack finally let himself exhale. “Missed you.”

“You say that after every game.”

“And I mean it every time.”

He buried his face in your neck. “The noise out there, it gets to me sometimes. But then I come home, and you’re here, and suddenly none of it matters.”

You cradled his face. “You don’t have to earn being loved, Jack. Not from me.”

He blinked up at you like you’d handed him the moon.

Pillow Talk-12:45 AM

“I don’t get to be this soft with anyone else.”

“Soft looks really good on you,” you whispered.

Jack smirked, then went quiet. “If I asked you to move in, what would you say?”

Your heart stuttered. “I’d say yes.”

His whole face lit up, a rare kind of glow. “Good. I want you here. Always.”

Team Chirps- Next Morning

Nico:

-bro are you alive?

-we’ve been waiting for 20 minutes

Daws:

-he’s 100% still at her place

-someone’s in LOVE

Luke:

-confirmed. he brought her snacks from the plane.

-softest man alive

Jack:

-shut up

They didn’t shut up.

At the rink, chirps flew like pucks. Nico smirked. “You been on fire since she showed up.”

Luke: “You’re one Sharpie away from putting her name on your helmet.”

Jack just grinned. “Maybe I will.”

Back Home

You were already in his hoodie when he walked in. Dinner on the stove, your playlist humming through the apartment.

“Where’s my post-chirp cuddle?” he teased.

“Come earn it.”

You kissed him slow. You always did.

Later at Night

You lay on the couch, his head on your lap, his fingers wrapped around your wrist like he needed proof you were real.

“This,” Jack whispered, “is the best part of my day.”

You kissed his forehead. “Mine too.”

“Stay forever?”

“That was always the plan.”

And with your love wrapped around him like the warmest blanket, Jack Hughes finally, truly, came home.