#OR KNIES. OR AUSTON. OR ANYONE THAT WOULD LIKE TO

[3416]

we're coming back to win this game btw

[lightsoutmatthews]

Stick Season - Matthew Knies

summary: you and Matthew bought tickets for a concert together, unfortunately life had other plans between then and the concert, but what happens when you still decide to go together?

pairing: Matthew Knies x female!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings: -

authors note:

in honor of the Leafs clinching a playoff spot last night!!!!

-----------------------------

The two pieces of paper that were pinned to your fridge burned in your sight. There was a time where you looked forward to seeing your favorite artist in concert. Especially with your now ex-boyfriend.

You were so excited when he gifted you the tickets on your birthday last year. You didn’t know the two of you wouldn’t make it to your next birthday, or the concert.

It wasn’t a really bad breakup. More like the two of you growing apart. Realizing both of you would need to figure out how to live life on your own.

He was leaving for Arizona while you stayed in Toronto. You wished you could have gone with him, but work kept you. That was the first time you realized that your lives grew in different directions and would not really align anymore even when he returned to Toronto.

He was stressed enough trying to figure out how to manage being a full time NHLer after being thrown into the position on a whim. You were still trying to navigate your new job. Seeing each other less and less before he left.

Not on purpose, life just got in the way and that´s when you knew it could not go on like this.

You broke up when he was back in Canada. It wasn’t a hard conversation, both of you knowing things were coming to an end.

------------------

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not seen him being a stretch given his face was plastered all over the city, the radio and tv talking about the season he was having.

You were happy for him. Game after game he grew as a new player in the big leagues. Eventually he even got promoted to the top line alongside Auston Matthews and Mitch Marner. An unsent congratulatory message for that probably still a draft in your iMessage chat.

That was the first time you really missed him. Celebrating achievements together was one of the things you loved about being with him. No matter how small they were, either of you made it a big deal for the other.

There were a few other times throughout the months since the breakup where you thought about him. When your coworkers invited you to the restaurant you had so many dates at. When you drove past Scotiabank Arena, memories of the times you saw him in the Leafs uniform flicking through your mind.

The concert tickets at your fridge the worst reminder of what you had lost. It was a weird feeling. On the one hand you knew you had made the right decision but at the same time it felt like a piece of you was missing. Maybe you had been wrong? Maybe it was just a product of not seeing him for a while.

-----------------

You debated back and forth what you should do with the tickets. Of course, you still wanted to go, but you didn’t have anyone to go with. You could text Matthew. You knew the concert was during all-star break.

Would it be weird? Probably. But technically it was his ticket. He paid for it after all.

The decision laid heavy in your stomach for a few days. You asked around your friend group for a bit, seeing if anyone had time that day without mentioning what event you were actually talking about.

No one did.

A few days later the unsent congratulatory message was deleted, and a new one put in its place. It went unsent for another day, but you knew that you should send it eventually. For planning purposes alone.

I Hey, this might be surprising or weird, but I still have your Noah Kahan ticket. I would hate for it to go unused.

He didn’t reply for over a day. You were thinking that he was ignoring you, but when a text with his name at the top of the notification came through late on the next day you let out a shaky breath.

Matt Knies: Hey, not weird for me if it’s not weird for you. I forgot about that concert to be completely honest; you can give it to someone else if you want to.

You swallowed hard. You should’ve expected him to not jump at the opportunity immediately. You texted back regardless.

I Already asked basically everyone I know, and no one has time. If you don’t want it, I´ll put it up on resale and send you the money back.

You knew how this sounded. Like texting him was the last resort before putting the ticket up for sale. It kind of was. You weren’t screaming in joy about texting you ex about going to a concert together.

Matt Knies: Okay fine, I don’t want the ticket to go to waste. Let me check my schedule.

A few seconds later another message came through.

Matt Knies: What date was that again?

You chuckled.

--------------------

A week later you were on your way to the venue. Matthew agreed to come in the end, but you didn’t make any plans of meeting up until last night.

He texted, saying he´d pick you up but you argued that you were in the area beforehand anyways (you weren’t). So, you met up in front of the arena.

An awkward hug was shared as you approached him. Mumbled greetings and pleasantries were exchanged. You looked him over.

He gained muscle since you last saw him. The backwards cap on his head hid his hair which was slightly longer than you were used to. But it suited him.

It wasn’t lost on you that he was looking you over too. His gaze lingered on your legs for a little longer than it would be polite. You smirked. The loose leather pants were the right decision after all.

--------------

You entered the venue quietly, neither of you really knowing what to say. The hum and buzz of the rest of the concert crows a welcome distraction from your thoughts.

“Do you want something to drink? My treat.” His words made your head snap around. Starring at him like he said the most outrageous thing in the world.

“Woah, I asked you for a drink, not if you want to rob a bank with me.” A soft chuckle left his mouth at your expression. “I… uh… sure…”

You yelped when he grabbed your arm and dragged you towards one of the many drinks stands around the entrance of the arena. His touch immediately sending shivers down your spine. It was warm, familiar, full of memories that kept crawling back to you.

Minutes later he handed you a cup of Sprite. Your favorite.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to drink so I took the save option.” He smiled and took a sip from his own cup. A familiar prickle started to simmer in your stomach. You tried to blink it away, but it immediately bubbled back up when you looked at him.

His features were foreign but so familiar at the same time. “Do I have something between my teeth?” you snapped back to reality at his sudden question. “What…?” perplexity written all over your face.

“You were staring like I had something between my teeth, I had some spinach for lunch, but I swear I brushed my teeth after so usually there shouldn’t be any left.” You blinked once, twice, three times to process how easy he fell back into your familiar rhythm.

Talking to him used to be easy but it felt wrong to immediately slip back into this familiar rhythm.

Seeing him laugh spreading a warmth trough you that you had been missing without really realizing it.

“So?” You snapped back into reality once again starring at him with a confused look. “Spinach?”

“Uh, no, no spinach,” you mumbled but didn’t go into it any further, luckily, he let it go.

----------------

The two of you found a space in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t too crowded yet, so you opted to lean against the rail at the audio guys area.

You took in the buzzling atmosphere, trying to avoid looking in his direction so he wouldn’t ask about your starring again.

You wanted to look at him. Take in his familiar frame and strong build. Sleeping nestled into his warm hold something you missed to this day.

Making small talk until the show started felt easier the longer you talked. You asked about adjusting to his first full season in the NHL, he asked about your job.

The stories he told were exciting, filled with memories from road trips to striking up friendships with his teammates. He told you a lot about Joseph Woll who apparently became his new best friend given they were both in their first full season.

You patted his arm softly when he said how sad he was when he got injured a few weeks ago and wasn’t joining the team on trips but that there were a few others he got along with great.

You hadn’t met many of his teammates. Auston Matthews once when you were in Arizona two years ago, John Tavares last season when you visited Matthew at his house during the playoffs when he was first called up to play for the Leafs after losing in the Frozen Four.

He was just about to break into another story from the road trip out West when the lights dimmed, and the opener took the stage.

You weren’t familiar with the artist, but you enjoyed their music and made a mental note to look them up on Spotify later.

In the break between their set and Noah you didn’t pick the earlier conversation back up, rather sharing opinions about the opener and the songs they performed.

Matthew and you always had similar music taste but today your opinion was divided. Him not having enjoyed it at all and you advocating for them. The banter and jokingly arguing once again something you were incredibly familiar with and that brought that prickle back in your stomach.

It was easy falling back into familiar patterns. Like the past months hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t broken up on a whim.

You knew it was something that needed to happen at the same time. If you would have kept the relationship up it probably would’ve ended badly. You both needed space to grow individually.

Having been together since junior year at the University of Minnesota there was hardly a time you had spent away from each other. You grew into real adults with the other by your side.

With the rapid change that was approaching in both of your lives you knew either of you needed time to adjust. Alone.

When Noah Kahan took the stage all those thoughts were out of your mind, and you focused on the concert ahead. Until “Stick Season” came on and you were hit with a massive flashback back to the first time you spent parts of your summer with him in Arizona.

--------

It was a very warm summer night in the middle of the dessert. You and Matthew had spent the evening with his family, having a barbecue and a campfire in the Knies family backyard.

The rest of the family already went to sleep but the two of you weren’t feeling tired yet, so you decided to grab one of the picknick blankets in the pool house and laid it under the stars that were shining bright in the dimly lit neighborhood.

The new Noah Kahan single was playing quietly over the speakers on the patio. “I wish we could stay like this forever,” you whispered. Matthew tightened his grip around you, pulling your head onto his chest and placing a soft hiss on top of it. “Me too.” After a few seconds he added: “It´s nice without the stress of hockey additionally to keeping up with classes.”

You laughed out a huff. He had been drafted by the Toronto Maple Leafs last year and it was almost sure he would make the jump into the NHL at one point in his life. Classes wouldn’t matter then, but you didn’t want to tell him that, knowing he wasn’t so sure if Toronto would make the call any time soon.

“Yeah. I´m dreading going back. Theres so much on my palate this semester.” You would graduate next summer which mean additionally to all of the classes you had to take you would have to start thinking about your thesis. More stress than you had handled in your academic career before.

Another soft kiss to the top of your head. “You´ll do great, I know you will.” You snuggled deeper into his hold and let out a hard exhale. “I hope so. I have that job lined-up from my internship, and I would hate to waste it.”

Moving back to Toronto, where you were originally from, was something you looked forward too. The company you did your internship at during spring break being so impressed by your skills that they offered you a position right out of college.

You knew that also meant you would be close to Matthew when he would eventually come to play for the Leafs.

“Everything will turn out okay, I just have a feeling.”

“I love you, Matt.”

He smiled down at you. “I love you too, sweet girl.”

He tips your head up and places the softest kiss to your lips before laying back down again, neither of you saying a word, the Noah Kahan song just quietly playing in the background.

---------

“I miss you.” The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them. Matthew ripped his head around.

You weren’t sure he had heard you over the loud music but based on his reaction he did.

His lips moved but you could not focus on what he was saying, still shocked by your sudden confession.

“What…?” You mumbled, your mouth barely moving. Matthew softly smiled at you before he leaned down and did the least thing you expected him to do.

His lips felt soft against yours, moving against them felt like he was holding on to a lifeline. Warmth but also nerves and uncertainty creeped up in you.

“I said I miss you too.” He whispered against your lips when he took a second to give both of, you’re a breather.

For a minute neither of you said anything, Noah just singing in the background, the screaming crowd around you.

“You were thinking about that summer too, right?”

[misshoneyimhome]

What's up buttercups 💕

Lucky number thirteen is here—and it’s time for our Ice King, the Golden boy, to really prove what he's made of. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to bring Auston Matthews home to meet your mother… well, this is my (very shameless) take on that fantasy 🙈 Not saying I’ve imagined this scene for years… but also, not not saying that 😉

As always, I hope you enjoy every messy, steamy, awkward moment. Happy reading, babes—and sending you all the love ❤️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ smut: semi-public dry-touching, oral sex (m receiving), orgasm denial/edging, slight sub/dom-act, fingering, unprotected vag sexual intercourse (no cum inside), oral sex (m receiving), cum swallowing

Word count: 6.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven ; Chapter twelve

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

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter thirteen - A king can move one space at the time…*

::

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

The game continues. Last night, the Queen did not surrender. She rose—flushed, glorious, and kissed by fire—and the King, ever unpredictable, played a move no one saw coming. But if chess has taught us anything, it’s this: each piece has a purpose. And some, when pushed to their limit, become more dangerous than ever.

So, what now?

They’ve shared the battlefield. They’ve blurred the lines. And if last night’s performance was any indication, the Ice King is no longer playing to protect the crown—he’s playing to win her.

And yet, every kingdom has its knights.

Did anyone even recognise Lorentz or Knies on the ice? Each move made by our Queen and King is being watched—studied—by the court they keep.

But at what cost?

We move one space at a time, dear readers. And sometimes, the most powerful move is the one you don’t see coming.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

—

You woke up alone.

The November rain was steady against the windows, soft and relentless, painting streaks across the glass like the sky couldn’t make up its mind about being gentle or cruel. The light was grey and muted, seeping into the room in thin, silvery layers. Almost romantic if it weren’t so dull. If your chest didn’t feel like it had been pinned in place by something, you couldn’t quite name.

Auston was gone.

The sheets were still tangled around your legs, warm from where your bodies had been. You shifted slightly, the dull ache between your thighs blooming back to life with the movement. It was the kind of soreness that lingered, clinging to your skin like memory—tender hips, stiff neck, the faintest tremble in your limbs that told the full story of how he’d handled you. The inside of your elbows bore light pressure marks—imprints of where he’d held you down. You didn’t mind.

There was no trace of sunlight—only the soft hum of rain and the distant creak of old pipes in the walls. But the scent still lingered, curling around you like a second duvet. Auston. That familiar blend of cedar, fresh air, and the heat of skin against skin. Faint traces of your perfume, too. And the salt-sweet aftermath of everything he’d done to you. With you.

Your hand reached blindly for the other side of the bed, finding nothing but cool fabric and the ghost of his weight in the mattress.

He hadn’t even asked to stay.

And you’d let him.

There had been no cuddling. No whispered promises or tangled limbs. Just his presence, steady and firm beside you until sometime in the early hours. You remembered waking once—briefly—to the sensation of his back to you, the soft sound of his breath steady and slow. He hadn’t touched you. Just existed beside you. And somehow… that had been enough.

But now? Now he was gone, and you were left with your thoughts and the echo of last night.

You reached for your phone, half-buried in the tangle of covers, your fingers fumbling over the charger cord. The screen lit up immediately, a single message waiting for you:

Auston: See you later, boss. Just tell me when and where.

You stared at it for a long moment, your lips twitching in a quiet, disbelieving smile. It was classic him—short, cocky, a little smug—but it landed like a stone in your chest. Not because it hurt. But because it felt… certain. Like a promise.

He was still in this.

Whatever this was.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, rereading it once. Twice. Then again, like the words might shift or reveal something deeper if you looked hard enough. But they didn’t change.

And yet, they grounded you.

You sank back against the pillows, head tipping to the side, breathing in the scent of him one more time. Your skin still tingled in places—especially the ones he’d marked with his mouth, his teeth, his hands.

Last night had cracked you open.

Not just physically—though that had certainly been part of it. But emotionally. Viscerally.

You hadn’t expected to want what he gave you. You didn’t think you’d enjoy being touched like that, commanded like that. But God, the way he had looked at you—like you were made to be ruined by him, the way he’d coaxed every cry and curse out of you like it was a melody he’d memorised—he made you melt.

And the worst part?

You wanted more.

You wanted him to push further. Take more. Say the things he said with that voice that went dark and low just before he lost control. You wanted to know what else he could unlock inside you.

You weren’t scared of it anymore. You were curious.

Your phone buzzed again—this time with a message from your mother—and the real world came crashing back like a wave.

Right. Tonight.

You swung your legs out of bed, feet touching the cool floor, and tried to find your centre. To stay in control. But the second your eyes caught the soft pink bruises at your inner thigh as you passed the mirror, your stomach fluttered again.

He hadn’t just fucked you. He’d changed something in you.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, tying your robe around your waist with a sharp tug. “No spiralling. Just… dinner.”

Dinner with your family.

Dinner with Auston.

The sheer absurdity of it made you want to laugh. Or hide. Or crawl back into bed and pretend you didn’t just spend the night giving Auston Matthews control of your body in ways you never thought possible.

But you didn’t do any of those things.

You headed to the shower. Let the steam clear your head or try to. You washed him off your skin but not from your thoughts.

And you tried—really, truly tried—not to overthink.

It wouldn’t be easy. Not for you. And certainly not for him.

Meeting your family never was.

You’d grown up in a house where expectations were tucked beneath the placemats and poured into the wine glasses. Where your mother loved you loudly but judged you louder. Where your siblings always knew the right thing to say, and you were still learning how to speak without apology.

So, bringing Auston into that? Even fake Auston?

It felt like standing in front of a firing squad.

You towelled off and stared into the mirror again, this time really looking. At your still-slightly-swollen lips. At the faint love bite near your collarbone. At your eyes—wide, uncertain, and yet… excited?

You sighed.

“Get it together,” you muttered, reaching for your moisturiser. “It’s just one dinner. With your fake boyfriend. Who gave you two or three orgasms last night. No big deal.”

Totally normal.

Completely fine.

You weren’t spiralling at all.

But the nervous flutter in your chest? It didn’t lie.

Something had changed. And tonight, you’d find out just how much.

_

Auston had gone home to walk Felix. He needed the fresh air—the quiet grounding of early morning rain against concrete, the leash loose in his hand, the familiar click of claws on pavement. But more than anything, he just needed to breathe.

Your apartment still clung to him. Your scent. Your skin. The sounds you made. The softness in your voice when you said his name like it meant something real.

He hadn’t meant to stay last night. He really hadn’t. But after everything—after the game, the hallway, the car park—walking away had felt impossible. So he hadn’t. He’d stayed. Watched the curve of your back rise and fall with each breath beside him, his own heart hammering beneath ribs that had never felt so breakable.

No cuddling. No tangled limbs or whispered promises. Just presence. And yet it had felt louder than anything else.

Auston adjusted his grip on the leash as Felix paused to sniff at a streetlamp, tail wagging.

He’d crossed boundaries with you. Pushed you to your limits. And he’d loved every second of it. The way you melted beneath him, the way you begged without shame, the way your body gave in and gave back like it had always belonged to him. He’d learned something about you last night. Something about himself, too.

And he wanted more.

Not just more of your body—though fuck, that haunted him—but more of you. The you who teased and challenged and met him toe to toe. The you who looked at him like he wasn’t just the Ice King, but a man worth melting for.

His phone buzzed. A message lit up from a number he sort of recognised - Brunette #4 (or maybe it was #3, he didn’t really know):

“Hope you’ll be happy with her. Jk. You’re a dick. Hate u!”

Auston snorted under his breath. Swiped it away without replying. He didn’t care. Not anymore. Not about girls who knew his schedule better than they knew his laugh. Not about pretty distractions with perfect lips and no substance.

He pulled up your last message instead.

You: Dinner’s at 6. I’ll send the address. Be on time.

He smirked. His thumb hovered briefly before he typed:

Auston: Yes boss. I’ll be there. Game face on.

_

Back at your place, your nerves were fraying at the edges like the hem of a dress you hadn’t had time to mend. You sat cross-legged in front of your vanity, trying not to look like you were about to implode, while Jess hovered behind you like a glam squad with a grudge.

“Jess,” you snapped, batting her hand away as she reached for your face again, “if you touch my eyebrows one more time—”

“Oh my god, calm down,” Jess groaned, rolling her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. “I’m not carving them off with a butter knife. I’m literally brushing them. You act like I’m trying to steal your identity.”

“I’m meeting my mum,” you hissed, eyes wide in the mirror. “With Auston. For dinner. Do you have any idea how deeply not okay I am?”

Jess’s face softened, just slightly. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair. But, babe—look at you. You’re gorgeous. Like scary, don’t-make-eye-contact-on-the-subway gorgeous. She’s gonna take one look at you two and assume he’s already picked out a ring.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to show how those words made your stomach twist. “Sure. Because nothing screams eternal love like emotionally repressed NHL captains and dinner with overbearing mothers.”

Jess gave you a look. “You joke, but seriously? What you said he said last night? To that girl - If that’s not real, then I need to see my therapist again.”

You froze. Just a little. Just enough for her to notice.

She plopped down beside you on the bed, lipstick in hand, legs crossed like she had all the time in the world. “Like, do we need to start brainstorming engagement hashtags? Because #MapleMatrimony kinda slaps.”

You laughed—too loud, too sharp. “Please stop. I can’t breathe in this blouse, let alone process a fictional wedding.”

Jess just grinned, unbothered. “I’m only half-joking. He looks at you like he’d move mountains. Or at least miss a morning skate, which for him? Basically the same thing.”

You didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, you focused on your eyeliner, smudging it just enough to look like you weren’t trying too hard. “He’s just good at playing the part,” you said, voice breezy. “We’ve had to… navigate a lot lately.”

Jess leaned in, peering at you. “Yeah, and most guys don’t navigate their way into your bed and your family dinner in the same weekend. Just saying.”

You grabbed the pillow next to you and whacked her with it. She yelped, laughing.

“Okay, okay!” she said through giggles. “Fine, I’ll shut up. But I’m not blind, and neither is your mum. And I swear, if he pulls the whole ‘let me help with the dishes’ move after dinner? I’m starting a Pinterest board.”

You shook your head, but the smile tugging at your lips was reluctant. “You’re impossible.”

Jess shrugged. “And you’re in denial.”

There was a pause. Then, casually, she added, “Oh—and guess who asked about you again?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Ryan,” she sing-songed. “Mr. ‘Just One Date’ is now Mr. ‘Persistent Since Wednesday.’ He’s clearly not over it.”

You groaned, tossing the pillow at her again. “Don’t start.”

Jess caught it this time. “What? You’ve got options, babe. Even if one of them is currently playing doting boyfriend and giving your mum grandkid fever.”

You stared down at your phone. Fingers hovering. Thinking.

“I should text him what wine she likes,” you muttered.

Jess grinned, satisfied. “Oh yeah. Nothing to see here at all.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the truth? You weren’t sure where the performance ended anymore either.

_

“Our Queen has left the palace gates. Destination? Home turf. But family dinners are rarely just that, especially when love—or the illusion of it—is on the menu.

Tonight, the Ice King faces a far more dangerous opponent than any rival team: the Queen’s mother. A woman known to wield passive-aggression with the skill of a seasoned general. And while our King might be fluent in post-game interviews and press charm, is he ready for the battlefield of Sunday roasts and sibling shade?

One wrong answer and the royal illusion could come crashing down. - The Benchwarmer”

_

The drive to your mother’s house—just over an hour outside of Toronto—felt longer than usual, even with the November dusk softening the edges of the highway in moody streaks of grey and fading gold. The rain had stopped earlier, but the clouds still hung low, like they were waiting for an excuse to open up again.

Auston was behind the wheel, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other lazily tapping against the gearshift to the rhythm of a song you barely heard. He looked frustratingly relaxed, like he was driving to a pre-game skate and not straight into the lion’s den of your family dinner.

You, on the other hand, were wound so tight your fingers had gone numb from fidgeting with the seam of your skirt.

It wasn’t Auston you were nervous about.

It was everything else.

Your mother wasn’t cruel. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t throw tantrums or make scenes. But she could disarm a person with a single look, a question phrased too politely to be anything but loaded. Her wine glass was her weapon, her smile the misdirection. And Auston—cocky, confident Auston—wouldn’t see it coming until he was already bleeding out on the dining room floor.

You could practically hear her now:

“And what exactly is your long-term plan?” “Do you think professional hockey is a real career?” “What does a man with no stability offer my daughter?”

All delivered with silk-gloved precision while she passed the roasted vegetables and offered seconds like it was all completely civil.

Your older brothers weren’t much better. Two walking LinkedIn profiles with perfectly pressed collars and curated families, ready to pounce under the guise of protectiveness. They’d test Auston’s patience, push his buttons, try to make him squirm just enough to feel like they’d done their big-brotherly duty.

And the twins? Seventeen and already halfway viral on TikTok. They’d either flirt shamelessly or roast him within an inch of his life—maybe both. If they weren’t already drafting a group chat called Matthews Watch 2025, you’d be shocked.

You exhaled sharply and glanced over.

Auston was focused on the road, one hand casually adjusting the volume. His jaw was relaxed, his leg bouncing lightly to the beat. If he was nervous, he sure as hell didn’t show it.

“You good?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

He glanced your way and smirked. “Game face on.”

You let out a humourless laugh, nerves bubbling just beneath the surface. “This isn’t a game.”

Auston shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond. You just turned your face back toward the window, watching as the city slipped away behind you and suburbia crept closer with every mile. Your heart pounded louder than the bass in the car, every street sign a countdown.

Tonight, you weren’t just pretending to be Auston’s girlfriend.

You were pretending that you could handle the weight of all this. The chaos. The closeness. The quiet questions clawing their way up your throat.

Because deep down, you weren’t sure if this was still about pretending anymore.

You pulled into the driveway a few minutes before six. The sun was already beginning to dip behind the neighbour’s maple trees, casting long shadows across the familiar brick path that led to the front door. Auston shifted beside you in the driver's seat, gaze fixed on the modest two-storey house that had been home for most of your life. It wasn’t extravagant, not like some of the places he knew, but it was warm, lived-in—paint slightly chipped around the doorframe, wind chimes clinking lazily near the porch light.

“This it?” he asked, a touch of amusement in his voice.

“This is it,” you replied, inhaling deeply. “The arena of maternal judgment.”

He smirked, one brow rising. “Can’t wait.”

Inside, it was everything you remembered—faintly scented with lemon polish and lavender, the hum of an old dishwasher in the background, the faint creak of floorboards under soft slippers. Your mother appeared in the hallway almost instantly, all smiles and carefully curated cheer.

“Auston, welcome,” she said with a tone that could only be described as formal hospitality laced with subtle suspicion. She extended her hand—her grip was firm, brief.

“Thank you, Mrs—”

“Oh, none of that. Call me Janice,” she interrupted. “We’re not so formal here.”

You exchanged a look with Auston. Oh yes, she was in performance mode.

The introductions followed in rapid succession. Your eldest brother, Daniel, shook Auston’s hand with a nod that barely concealed his “I’m watching you” energy. His wife, Samira, was sweet, if a little wide-eyed. Your second brother, Thomas, had his baby on one hip and didn’t even try to hide his smirk as he muttered, “So this is the guy,” before disappearing into the living room.

The twins—Chloe and Claire—barely looked up from their phones, though Chloe offered a distracted, “We’ve seen you on TikTok,” and Claire added with a smirk, “We liked you better without the moustache. Makes you look like a creep.”

Auston took it all in stride, unbothered and smiling just enough. He gave each person just the right amount of charm, nodded at the right moments, and even asked about the dog that no longer lived there.

Your mother ushered you both down the hallway like a tour guide, pointing out where the new wallpaper had gone up, how the fireplace had finally been repaired. And then, just before dinner, she opened the door to your old bedroom.

“This used to be hers,” she said with a fond glance at you. “Now it’s where the kids keep all their toys. Can’t let any space go to waste.”

You blinked at the bright foam alphabet tiles covering your once carefully curated posters and polaroids. Auston stepped inside, smiling faintly at the worn-out Beatrix Potter books and abandoned LEGO sets.

“So this is where the magic happened?” he teased under his breath, glancing at you.

“Don’t,” you warned, shooting him a look—but your lips twitched.

Your mother appeared behind you with a perfectly timed glass of white wine. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said. “Now don’t drink it all at once.”

You accepted the glass gratefully, only for her to add with a slightly raised brow, “Though I do hope it’s not a nightly habit now that you’re dating a professional athlete.”

You didn’t answer. Just took a very long sip.

Auston bit back a grin.

Game on.

_

Dinner had started surprisingly well. Your brothers, of course, couldn’t resist giving Auston a hard time—sarcastic questions about his “hobby” turned career, jabs about his skating, jokes about his salary. But Auston, to your complete lack of surprise, took it all in stride. He handled them with the same cool detachment he gave reporters in scrums—smiling when appropriate, firing off one-liners that made even your stiffest sibling crack a grin.

And somehow, you were right there with him.

Trading barbs. Meeting teasing with sass. You weren’t just surviving the family dinner—tonight, you were thriving in it. For once, you felt calm, composed. Powerful, even. Like something about Auston’s presence grounded you, amplified you.

Or maybe it was the wine.

Or the fact that you still hadn’t fully shaken the memory of him last night—his mouth, his hands, the way he’d made you feel like the only woman in the world.

Your skin buzzed with that memory as you passed the potatoes and laughed at something Thomas said. But then—then—you felt it.

Auston’s hand.

Low and steady, it landed gently on your thigh beneath the table. His pinky brushed against the hem of your skirt. Innocent enough. Until it wasn’t.

His fingertips dragged upward, slow and deliberate, until they slipped under the fabric entirely. He didn’t go far—just grazed the edge of your inner thigh, barely there, before retreating and starting again. Lazy circles. Featherlight teasing.

Your fork paused mid-air. You didn’t even blink.

You pressed your legs together instinctively, but it only made it worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

So you retaliated.

You mimicked his motions, letting your hand drop onto his knee under the table, soft and casual. His thigh was warm beneath your touch. Solid. You traced light patterns there, fingertips dancing higher and higher, until you reached the seam of his trousers. You gave the inside of his leg a slight squeeze.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a beat as he answered Daniel’s question about locker room politics.

But you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The tight clench of his jaw.

Oh, so this was how he wanted to play it.

His hand moved again, bolder this time, sliding further up your thigh. Your breath hitched when his fingers pressed against the heat between your legs—just for a second. Just enough to remind you that he could ruin you with a single move. Then he pulled back like nothing had happened.

“Tell me, Auston,” your mother chimed in from across the table, setting her wine glass down with a faint clink. “Do you ever think about what comes after hockey? I mean, it’s not exactly… a sustainable lifestyle, is it?”

You rolled your eyes. Here we go.

Auston didn’t even blink. “That’s fair. I’ve started thinking about long-term investments, actually. Property. Some charity initiatives, too.”

“Oh?” your mother pressed, eyebrows raised. “And how do you plan to balance that with… family?”

And that’s when you did it.

Your palm slid slowly over his crotch under the table. He was slowly hardening beneath your touch.

You kept your expression neutral as you sipped your wine.

Auston coughed once. Covered it as a laugh. “I guess it comes down to good support systems. And priorities.”

You watched your mother nod, unimpressed. Your brothers had already lost interest and launched into some story about a neighbour’s divorce.

You turned toward Auston slightly, lips barely parted, voice just low enough to vibrate beneath the buzz of conversation. “You’re doing great.”

His eyes slid to yours. Dangerous. Hungry.

“You’re playing with fire, boss,” he murmured, leaning in like he was adjusting his chair. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You smiled sweetly, brushing your hand just a little firmer across him, enough to draw a subtle breath from his lips.

“Maybe I want to finish it,” you whispered back. Then, after a pause, “Maybe I want to finish you�� with my mouth.”

He exhaled slowly. Closed his eyes for half a second.

You felt him swell fully against your hand. Felt the tension in his thigh. The deliberate stillness in his posture.

And you—well, you sat there like nothing was happening at all.

Just a woman. At dinner. With her mother and siblings.

And the man whose self-control you were absolutely annihilating under a perfectly ironed tablecloth.

The opportunity came when your eldest brother launched into his third monologue of the evening—something about a new executive title, a cross-border investment, or his firm’s sixth-figure quarterly bonus. You didn’t really catch the details. You just saw Auston’s gaze flick to yours, jaw tight, pulse visible in his neck, and you knew. It was time.

You leaned toward your mother with a polite excuse, murmuring something about needing the bathroom. And Auston followed less than a minute later, slipping away while the table erupted into a discussion about mortgage rates.

The hallway was narrow. Quiet. You led him toward the guest bathroom at the back of the house—furthest from the dining room, furthest from voices. And you barely managed to click the door shut before Auston’s mouth crashed into yours.

It was heat. Desperation. Tongues tangled. Teeth clashed. His hands found your hips and pushed you against the wall with a groan that vibrated through your spine.

“You think you can get away with that?” he rasped against your mouth. “Touching me like that while your mum talked about fatherhood?”

You didn’t answer. You just dropped to your knees instead.

And oh, the look on his face—shock melting into pure, ravenous hunger—burned itself into your memory.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands, unfastening it with a confidence you rarely felt. The second you freed him from the constraints of his trousers, he was already hard—So thick, flushed, desperate, it made your mouth water.

You wanted to taste him so badly. To show him you could unravel him just like he could you. 

You took him in, slow at first, your lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling in a soft, maddening tease. His groan cracked in his throat. One hand slapped to the door behind you. The other found your hair, fingers tightening just enough to remind you he wasn’t in the mood for slow and sweet.

You stroked him with one hand while your mouth worked the rest—hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, bobbing your head in an unrelenting rhythm that had his knees locking.

“Fuck—” he hissed, biting down on the inside of his fist.

You glanced up at him through your lashes. He was flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as he stared down at you with something that looked dangerously close to reverence.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

But you did. For just a second. Just to drag your tongue along the underside of his cock and blow softly against the tip. The way he twitched in your hand made you smirk.

He groaned—louder this time—and you had to reach up with your free hand, press a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” you whispered, licking a drop of precome off your bottom lip. “You want your ‘future mother-in-law’ to hear?”

“Jesus,” he growled, his hips bucking forward.

You took him deeper this time. All the way down. Gagged around him. Drooled messily down your chin as your throat tightened and your fingers dug into the meat of his thighs.

Auston’s head tipped back. His fingers fisted in your hair, dragging you closer, harder, until you could barely breathe. You didn’t care. You wanted to ruin him. You wanted him undone and breathless and at your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the tremble of his thighs. The twitch of his cock against your tongue. The broken sounds falling from his lips.

And then—

“Dessert, anyone?” your mother’s voice called out faintly from the kitchen.

You froze.

Auston’s breath hitched.

And then you pulled back. Slowly and gently. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“What the fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth. His hand was still braced against the door. His cock, swollen and red, was still slick with your spit. His jaw was clenched like he could crack a tooth.

You stood, adjusted your skirt with a wicked smirk, and leaned in close to whisper against his jaw, ”what? Dessert’s ready.”

And just like that you left him to himself. Hard and needy. Completely blue balled. 

You walked back into the dining room like you hadn’t just left Auston Matthews on the verge of orgasm in your childhood bathroom. Sat back in your chair, reached for your wine, and smiled at your sisters like nothing had happened at all.

But Auston?

He sat beside you moments later, composed only in appearance. His eyes were dark. His body was still wound tight with frustration. And you could feel the fury in the way he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he murmured.

You sipped your wine. “Promises, promises.”

His hand slid beneath the table again, but this time it wasn’t playful.

It was a warning.

_

The silence in the car was thick.

Not the kind that begged to be broken, but the kind that said more than any words could. Auston hadn’t spoken since the moment your mother waved goodbye from the porch, a slice of pie in one hand and suspicion still stitched into her parting smile. You hadn’t expected warmth from her—not really—but the tension she brought to the table had taken its toll.

Still, it hadn’t been your mother’s scrutiny that turned Auston cold. You knew exactly what it was. The tease. The touch. The look on his face when your mother had called from the kitchen just before he could unravel completely in your mouth.

He was furious. You could feel it in every rigid turn of the steering wheel, every calculated blink in your direction that never quite landed. And you… well, you couldn’t decide if you were sorry or smug.

The highway stretched out in a blur of taillights and twilight. You sat with your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying not to squirm under the weight of his silence. Until, without warning, Auston took a sharp exit—one you didn’t recognise.

“Aus?” you said, voice hesitant.

He didn’t answer. Just kept driving—off the main road, down a gravel path that led to nowhere in particular. Trees lined the edge of the clearing, the sky above now dipped in deep navy, only the dashboard casting a faint glow between you.

The car slowed to a stop, and you turned to him, your heart already in your throat. “Where are we—?”

“I’m not done with you,” he said.

His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous in the way it coiled around your spine.

“I had to sit through dinner with your entire family,” he continued, still not looking at you. “Had to smile while your mum called me irresponsible, while your brothers grilled me about my future, and your sisters tried to trip me up with questions like it was a game.”

You swallowed hard. “You handled it like a pro.”

His jaw ticked. “I always do.”

And then he turned to you, finally—his gaze like a live wire sparking against your skin.

“But what I can’t handle,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “is being left hanging with a hard-on the size of my ego and a mother asking me if I want whipped cream on my pie.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed.

His hand was on your jaw in an instant. Firm. Possessive. “You think that’s funny?”

“No,” you whispered, biting your lip.

“Because you’ve been playing games all night, boss. But I don’t think you really understand what it means to play with fire.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Until he said, “Back seat. Now.”

And something inside you snapped like a live wire—sharp, electric, alive. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just… heat. Thrumming low in your belly, rising like a tide you had no desire to stop.

Because the version of you that might’ve once laughed nervously, who would’ve deflected or joked her way out of something this intense? She was gone. Left behind somewhere between last night’s hallway, this morning’s sheets, and the exact moment Auston’s fingers slid up your thigh under your mother’s dinner table. In her place was someone braver. Bolder. Someone who wanted to see what happened when you let yourself burn.

You climbed over the centre console without a word, heart hammering, breath shallow. The seat was cool against the backs of your thighs, the leather creaking softly as you adjusted yourself, skirt riding high. Your legs spread, just slightly, as if inviting him. Daring him.

The passenger door clicked shut behind him, followed by the low sound of the lock sliding into place.

And then he was on you.

No warning. No sweet nothings. Just heat and hands and hunger.

Auston’s body crowded you instantly, the weight of him pressing you into the leather as if he needed to stake a claim. His mouth brushed the line of your jaw, not quite a kiss—more a threat, soft and searing. One hand palmed your hip, dragging your skirt higher until the cool air kissed the backs of your thighs. The other pressed to the seat beside your head, anchoring him above you, his breath skating across your lips.

“You don’t get to start something like that,” he growled, low and sharp, “and not finish it.”

You met his eyes—dark, wild, furious with want—and whispered, “Then finish it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His mouth crashed to yours, and it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was possession, full and messy and open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that swallowed sound and left nothing untouched. His tongue slid against yours with practiced intent, tasting you, claiming you.

Auston didn’t undress you, not fully. He didn’t need to. His fingers worked with fast, controlled precision—skirt pushed up, blouse tugged open at the buttons, bra shifted just enough for him to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple like it was instinct.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

Every move he made was calculated. Every shift of his hips, every scrape of his fingers—deliberate and punishing. He had something to prove, and your body was the battleground.

You barely noticed your legs spreading wider to accommodate the press of his knee. All you could focus on was the press of his fingers between your thighs, dragging through your folds like he already knew exactly how wet you were. How ready. And he groaned when he found you—low and primal, the kind of sound that made your spine arch and your hands fist in his jacket.

He teased you first, because of course he did. Auston was many things, but merciful was not one of them—not when you’d left him hard and needy and furious in your mother’s bathroom.

His fingers slid through you with maddening control. Circles. Pressure. Just enough to make your hips lift off the seat. Just enough to make your lips part around a silent plea.

“Already soaked,” he murmured against your throat, voice thick. “Knew you’d be like this.”

You whimpered. He chuckled, dark and dangerous, before slipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right—making your eyes slam shut and your walls clench.

“You gonna beg now, boss?” he whispered, dragging his mouth to your collarbone. “Or you still think you’re in charge?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your mouth had gone slack, your body arching into his like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. And when he pulled his fingers away—leaving you empty, aching—you almost sobbed.

He made you wait. Just long enough to drive you mad.

And then, finally, he undid his trousers with one hand, shoved them low enough to free himself, and lined up without ceremony—just the heat of him pressing at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your folds like a warning.

When he finally thrust inside, it was with one, deep, devastating stroke.

You cried out—high and sharp, the sound muffled by the crook of his shoulder as your body split around him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t soft.

It was punishment. And it was perfect.

His pace was relentless. The windows fogged instantly, your moans caught in the thick, humid air, your fingers scrabbling against the car door, the seatbelt strap, his shoulders—anything to ground yourself. But he didn’t give you a moment to adjust. He just took. Again and again, until your mind blurred and your muscles locked and you couldn’t remember a world that didn’t have him inside you.

“You like pushing me?” he rasped, snapping his hips forward so hard your breath caught. “This what you wanted?”

You could barely nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

But he felt it. The way your body clenched around him, the way your legs wrapped tighter, your cries becoming desperate now.

And he rewarded you.

One hand snaked between you, pressing to your clit with just the right pressure, and your vision went white.

You came with a shudder, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and a curse all at once. But Auston didn’t stop. Not until your orgasm had rippled through every inch of your body. Not until you sagged beneath him, boneless and shaking.

Only then did he pull out.

And the way he looked at you—hair a mess, sweat at his temples, eyes blown wide with control and something almost… tender?

That was almost more intimate than anything else.

Almost.

Because he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

You were breathless, dazed, legs still wrapped loosely around his hips when he sat back, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“Not done,” he said simply.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He reached down, tugging gently at your chin until you were sitting upright, your body still humming. His other hand slipped into your hair.

“On your knees,” he murmured. “And finish what you started.”

And so, you did.

With no hesitation. No shame. Just pure lust.

You took him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, eyes locked with his as you teased the sensitive tip with your tongue. The moment he moaned—low and broken, fingers tangling in your hair—you gave him more. Let him feel the shift from control to surrender, inch by inch, until there was nothing left between you but want.

You gagged as he hit the back of your throat, drool dripping and your lips slick with spit, your jaw aching from the stretch. But you didn’t stop. You focused—breathing through your nose, relaxing your throat, working him with every ounce of skill you had.

And the sounds he made—deep, raw, shameless—only spurred you on. Each moan felt like a reward. Each choked whisper of your name a spark down your spine. You’d never known giving pleasure could feel like this. Like power. Like intimacy.

His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his body tightening as he fought the losing battle for composure. His grip in your hair was desperate.

And when he finally came, it was with your name torn from his lips and a full-body shudder that seemed to ripple all the way through his chest.

“Fuuuck….” 

Then silence returned, but it felt different now. Calmer and sated.

And slowly, Auston tucked himself back into his jeans and reached for your hand. “Back up front,” he said softly, a touch of humour finally returning to his voice. “Before we both end up sleeping in the parking lot.”

You couldn't help but laugh, breathless. “Not the worst night I’ve ever had.”

He smirked. “Yeah, me neither.”

_

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

There are games, and then there are matches. And make no mistake—what we witnessed tonight was no mere exhibition. It was war. It was seduction. It was strategy wrapped in silk sheets and served with a side of family dysfunction.

The Queen has led the King into her past—into the trenches of old bedrooms, relentless siblings, and mothers who wield judgement sharper than any hockey blade. But it was he who took the upper hand, responding not with charm alone, but with heat, with control, with a level of desire that could scorch through even the most carefully built walls.

And the Queen? She did not falter. She flirted with fire, then begged to be burned.

But readers… beware. Because the Ice King is melting, and if we’ve learned anything from the great chess masters of history, it’s this: when the most reserved piece begins to feel, the board is never the same.

One space at a time, remember?

But after tonight, we wonder—who’s really making the moves?

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

[puck-luck]

I’m obsessed with your writing!! You write smut so well! I’d love to send in some requests, are there specific players you will/won’t write for?

THIS IS SUCH A GOOD QUESTION! AND THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE!

i'm willing to TRY and write for any player that someone requests (i responded to someone the other day who mentioned Matthew Knies with a daddy kink, so i'm going to try that out), but my philosophy is that if i feel like i can't figure out who the player is by watching some interviews and stuff, then i probably can't write about them.

TL;DR willing to try anything, might switch it up if i can't get down with the player or a component of the request (like an action or k!nk that i'm just like... nah). there's one trope that i'm not super into and it's a first time fic– i have a whole series about "inexperienced reader x trevor zegras" on my masterlist, but i won't be writing any more content for inexperienced readers because it drains me. i'm sure there are plenty of first time fics out there for you guys!

as for players i specifically will NOT write for: - connor bedard looks like a kid i know and he's a BABY (18), so i won't write for him. - anyone under the age of 21 is a head scratcher for me because i'm 23– if i wouldn't date someone two or more years younger than me, then why would i write them? - i'm not an auston matthews fan. i don't think i can convince myself to like him for a fic. - anyone that i can't see the appeal of. which is a stupid thing to say. but i'm shallow so frankly, if i think they're an uggo, i will respectfully change the person that i'm writing the request about.

i really think that's it!

so the moral of the story is send in anything and i'll try to make it work! i've got a couple in my inbox now that i'm excited about and will be working on soon.

[muirneach]

🌎🧊🧸 for the ask game - shapovalovvs 💌

🌎 is tennis popular where you live?

i would say yes!! benefits of having (iirc) the worlds second oldest continuing tournament maybe? i mean i might be biased because i'm very present in the local tennis community lol but i think it's pretty popular there are a lot of tennis clubs and the rogers cup is packed always and i just like. see it around

🧊 if you could make a tennis player come back from retirement, which one would it be?

mmm. assuming coming back in their peak form and all that. atp domi cause i love him dearly. wta steffi i wanna see her go head to head with iga. honestly i'd like to take anyone back from however many decades ago who can actually volley and use net game like ugh it really is so lacking rn

🧸 if you could choose any athlete from a different sport to become a professional tennis player, which one would it be?

this is a good question because i think a lot about what tennis players would be good in hockey but i don't consider it in the other direction. auston matthews and william nylander are both famously tennis heads but i don't actually care to see them play although i'd like to hear their takes. however auston apparently keeps losing matches to matthew knies who doesn't strike me as the tennis type but i think i would actually like to see him play i feel like he would have a really great serve. and also of course mitch marner too cause he would absolutely have great footwork and hands (im always pushing my mitch demon agenda)

[misshoneyimhome]

Struck by Lighting I William Nylander

Tropes; Angry!William; Friends-to-lovers; bestfriend!TimothyLiljegren; Fluff

Summary: In the midst of a difficult game, William appears to lose his composure, suggesting more than just frustration over a bad loss; [credits: inspired by a scene from Ted Lasso]

Author's Note: I wrote this a little while ago and just decided to share it today 😉 It follows the familiar friends-to-lovers plot, yet a little different, you know? 😅 Nonetheless, I hope you'll find it enjoyable; By the way, a quick thank you to everyone reading my work! I never imagined anyone would enjoy what I write, and I'm incredibly grateful to be able to share my thoughts and ideas with all of you! Having 1️⃣0️⃣0️⃣ followers might not seem like a lot to some, but to me, it's beyond anything I could have imagined 🫶🏻

Word count: 3.4K

➼｡ﾟ

The atmosphere was crisp as the five of you strolled through the streets of Toronto on a regular Friday evening.

The lad's hockey season had started just a month ago, and tonight, you were out with your group of friends: William Nylander, Timothy Liljegren, Pierre Engvall, along with his girlfriend Mathilda. Yet, this evening wasn't solely about the five of you chilling together; it was also a chance for Willy to introduce his new romantic interest to the tight-knit group. Being his close friends, he valued your opinion on this matter.

_

William had become, quite unexpectedly, one of your closest friends. It was something you hadn't quite anticipated from the day you were introduced to the inner circle of the Toronto Maple Leafs – particularly the inner circle of the Swedes.

Morgan had been your entry point, having known him back in Vancouver, and upon your move to Toronto, he graciously showed you around, and after a few months, he introduced you to his team. It was a bit surreal to suddenly find yourself among friends and partners of an NHL team, but undeniably, you felt like you belonged.

The entire team had been incredibly kind and welcoming. You hit it off particularly well with most of them. Auston and Mitchy were an absolute riot, always incredibly funny. Woll, alongside Mo, was among the kindest individuals you'd ever encountered. Tavares was the living legend, and the new guy, Knies – those eyes and that smirk – had a way of making anyone feel weak in the knees.

Everyone treated you kindly, but you could also sense a closer bond among the Swedes. It wasn't something frowned upon by the guys; in fact, it seemed this group genuinely encouraged everyone to become more open and mingle better with the rest of the team. Timothy, in particular, stood out as a genuine sweetheart, perhaps a tad less outgoing than the others.

And it was Tim that was the one who paved the way for you to join the Scandinavian friends' circle. You were consistently kind to him, offering help whenever needed, and being there to support him if he ever felt anxious. It all began with a simple, clumsy mishap in the hallways where he had lost his things, and you swiftly lent a hand. From there, it blossomed into casual conversations about various topics. And soon enough, you found yourself getting him a coffee, guiding him through breathing exercises before facing cameras, and keeping him company after tough losses.

And your efforts had earned you a cherished place in the hearts of the Swedes.

William, on the other hand, was a different story. He had to grow on you.

At first, you genuinely found him rather off-putting. With that way too satisfied, smug smirk on his face all the time, the way he knew all too well how good he was at hockey, and how he so effortlessly just sashayed onto the ice, scored a couple of goals, and became the hero of the day.

However, as time passed and you spent more moments with Tim's friends, you gradually peeled back the layers of William Nylander beyond the dazzling performances and mischievous grins. The more you hung around him, the clearer it became that it wasn't an act; it was simply his natural way of being - in a good way.

After each match, road trip, and workout session, you began to grasp the immense effort he invested in his training. How he'd show up early, stay late for workouts, constantly study technique videos, and engage in discussions with his father about his game.

You witnessed the sheer amount of energy required to uphold his positive mindset. In fact, it amazed you how he managed to stay so rooted and composed, even after a tough loss or demanding day filled with media responsibilities. And what struck you even more was his indifference to the attention and accolades he received; his primary focus remained on playing the sport he adored, striving to perform his best, and feeling proud of his achievements. He aimed high and held himself accountable to those lofty expectations and goals he'd set.

He simply impressed you.

On William's end, he hadn't given much thought to you initially. You were there, seemed nice, and that was about it. He wasn't one to dwell on things, so as he noticed your genuine friendship with his close friends, he didn't really have any negative opinions about you.

But much like he grew on you, you gradually made an impression on him. At first, he didn't pay much attention to you. But as you integrated further into the group, he began to notice your playful nature, your sense of humour, and the banter that developed among the lads. What initially elicited a light chuckle soon evolved into hearty laughter, echoing through the halls of the Scotiabank Arena after almost every home game, and Willy found himself thoroughly enjoying it.

Yet, beyond the good times, the real turning point occurred when William allowed you to see his more vulnerable side.

It had been a terrible game. For him at least, and he just wasn’t feeling good about it. And while he’d normally remain composed and all calm despite the challenging night, he’d involuntarily spat at his teammates about something regarding the play. 

And though there was a mutual understanding among the teammates, that outbursts like these were rather common and no one should take it personally, as it’d all be forgotten the following day, you couldn’t help but stand up to him. He’d said something that was clearly targeted towards Tim, and you were just not having it. 

So, after the match as everyone besides William had left, being one of the last ones as always, you’d stayed back just to offer him a quick remark. 

“You know you can’t talk to him like that,” you’d spoken in a low voice, yet your words been firm and sharp as you’d confronted him in the hallway on your way out. “He played his heart out and you know it. Everyone made mistakes tonight, even you, and you shouldn’t be saying things like these to him.”

William had been slightly baffled by your words. And though he knew you were right; he didn’t think it was your place to talk back to him like this.

“Timmy’s a grown man, he can take it.” He’d said in response. “He needs to know what he did wrong so he can do better next time.” 

In a way you knew he was right too. This was simply the way the boys showed their love and affection for each other as teammates, but you just couldn’t accept the way he’d speak to his close friend.

“I know, Willy. And I know you mean well, it’s just… Tim looks so much up to you, and we all know that you’re an amazing player, who gets a lot of attention, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk down to the others. You’re a team, and you also need to support each other in down times like these.” 

And your words had had a way to walk straight to William’s heart. The way you showed so much care for your mutual friend had really opened his eyes for you. You were more than just giggles and funny puns. You were indeed caring and protective of the ones you loved – just like him. 

“I’m sorry…” he’d murmured, which had taken you slightly by surprise. You hadn’t expected for him to give in to your confrontation so easily. But the softness in his eyes had given away that he might just feel a little regret of how he’d spoken to the lads, and quickly you found yourself feeling softening your facial expression as well. 

Though there’d been no yelling or shouting, you’d unintentionally tightened the muscles in your face, raised your shoulders, as you’d gathered the confident to speak to him. But then as you saw his expression exude a hint of vulnerability and his composure softened, you instead tried to flash him a gentle smile and simply show that this was all about your shared love for a person. 

And as concern and frustrations slowly faded away, you both shared smiles and light chuckles. And yet to another surprise, William had suggested for you to grab a late dinner snack, which you’d enjoyed at his place, while talking for hours about pretty much anything. 

You’d shared family details, stories from the past, future aspirations, along with casual dating experiences and ups and downs from what had you both still at the single stage. 

From that day on, your friendship had become almost closer than yours and Tim’s. 

You’d be the one to confront him when he was merely being a brat, just as you were there to shower with love and affection whenever needed. 

_

So, as the evening of the triple-“date” (you were there with Tim, though you weren’t romantically involved), was coming to an end, William turned to face you all, mentally preparing for the virduct of his new flirt.

“So, what do you think?” he timidly asked. 

“I think she’s sweet,” Mathilda had started out. “She seems kind and nice… friendly and funny, I suppose.” 

“Yeah, she’s got a nice laughter, doesn’t seem dum or without ideas,” Pierre had added. 

“And she’s attractive.” Tim chimed in with a lightning spirit. 

William nodded at the feedback, taking in that everyone seemed to approve of the girl he was becoming interested in. 

“Yeah, you could be a good match,” Mathilda spoke once again with her sweet, gentle tone of voice, as she tried to reassure William that he had found someone good. However, as much as you tried to remain composed, you just couldn’t hold it back.

“Oh, come on,” you blurted out. “Tell him the truth.” 

The group of friends looked stunned at you as you’d broken the silence, you’d maintain during the walk from the restaurant, earning you to elaborate. 

“She’s fine… that’s it,” you spoke gently, before continuing. “Which there’s nothing wrong with. Most people settle for fine. The question is just why the fuck you think she deserves you. I mean, you’re William bloody Nylander – you’re gorgeous, talented, funny, and overall, not too empty headed. Honestly, you deserve someone who makes you feel like you’ve been struck by fucking lightning.” 

Your words echoed through the heads of your friends as your bold honesty slowly sank in, and the others couldn’t contain their amusement. In fact, they just smiled and nodded in agreement as William maintained an intense gaze at you. 

“Anyway, that’s just my opinion,” you offered a sweet smile, and shrug your shoulders. 

And in the evening, William couldn’t help but reflect on your words. It was incredible how you’d always have a talent of speaking so freely and directly to him. And he couldn’t help but deeply appreciate it.

_

A couple of weeks later, the lads were back in Toronto for a home game after a lengthy stretch on the road.

And this time around, it was your turn to spill some news about someone you'd been seeing.

His name was Matt, a few years older than you, working as a chef. He had a kind and sweet nature, and in your view, he was an all-round good guy. Just what you needed after a string of let-downs. Each person you'd dated before had been either completely unfazed or overly dramatic about every little thing. You'd been with all sorts, from the typical sales rep to the cliché sports jock, the soft-spoken preschool teacher, and the imaginative journalist. Yet none of them shared your zest for life and love for outdoor activities or your calm and drama-free outlook on life.

But Matt seemed to be the right fit.

Even your friends' reactions seemed to back it up.

You all shared laughter and excitement during a coffee break - known as "Fika" as the Swedes called it. And soon after, he joined you and Mathilda among the other partners of the team for a home game.

However, the match turned out to be rather awful. The Leafs were trailing 4-0 at the start of the third period, and their gameplay displayed no signs of a potential comeback strategy or strength.

The atmosphere weighed heavy on everyone, evident in the collective sighs as the Senators once again slipped the puck past Woll and into the net. Fans covered their faces in resignation, acknowledging the likely outcome of tonight's game. Equally frustrated were the players, especially when Mitch received a 2-minute penalty for holding, granting the Senators another Power Play opportunity.

The tension only seemed to ratchet up from there.

Then came William; he pushed himself, maintaining a rapid pace, maneuvering around opponents with confidence, controlling the puck as he charged towards the opposite end. He searched for an opening to take a shot, almost finding the perfect opportunity. With an intense focus, he swung his stick high, eyes fixed on the target, aiming and letting loose his shot.

But the puck didn't find its mark.

And a resounding disappointment reverberated throughout the arena.

William, unable to contain his usual composed demeanor, vented his frustrations, taking it out on his stick. He forcefully slammed it against the boards, the rage causing it to snap into two pieces. It seemed like nothing was going right for him tonight.

And your heart sank as you witnessed his outburst.

You'd never seen him this angry or out of character. Typically, he was the one who kept his teammates grounded, but in that moment, he held nothing back.

The game ended with a harsh 7-1 scoreline, and while Auston managed to net a goal, it did little to lift the spirits of the team.

One by one, they departed from the arena after their showers and media commitments. Partners took their hands, quietly making their way towards the exit, understanding that the night ahead would be spent in quietness at home, focused on care and relaxation, as the lads mentally geared up for the next match.

Finding yourself among the last few standing, you exchanged concerned glances with Tim and Pierre, aware that Willy was likely still in the locker room, possibly berating himself.

Offering a reassuring nod to their unspoken worry, you turned to Matt.

"I'll go check on him. This isn't like Willy, and I just want to make sure he's alright," you said to him.

He gave you an understanding smile as you slowly walked towards the locker room.

Inside, you found William, seated in his stall with his head bowed, almost completely removing his gear. His body still gleamed from post-match sweat, hair damp and sticking to the sides of his face.

With cautious steps, you approached him, prompting him to glance up.

"Hey," you said in a hushed tone.

You knew how hard he was on himself after such games. There was no need to vocalize it. But you wanted to convey unwavering support to your friend, so you attempted to offer your best, concerned, and caring smile.

"Hey," he replied, his tone subdued.

There fell a brief silence between you two.

"Alright?" you asked gently.

"Yeah, sure..." he shrugged, his voice lacking its usual spark.

But you knew him too well.

"Babe, I know it might not mean much, but tonight wasn't your fault," you offered in an attempt to console him.

"I know," he mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Really? Because it seems like you're shouldering blame that isn't yours to carry," you ventured further, aware you were nearing sensitive ground. Yet, seeing him like this hurt, and you couldn't hold back your concern.

"I said I know, y/n," he replied firmly, his tone indicating an end to the discussion. "You don't need to keep digging.”

"I'm sorry. I just want to ensure you're not getting lost in self-pity. This was a team effort, and you all had a tough night," you persisted, trying to express your worries.

"And what do you know about that, huh?" he suddenly snapped, rising to his feet.

William was completely unlike his composed self. He was on edge, filled with an anger so unlike him. And it startled you.

"I don't..." you attempted to speak. "I'm just worried... Willy, I've never seen you like this before, and I just want to make sure you're okay," your voice quivered, conveying your genuine concern.

"Well, I'm not okay!" he burst out.

Never before had William raised his voice at you like this, not even following a devastating game. Something deeper seemed to be at play here than just the outcome of a hockey match.

"Then please, let me help you..." you urged, hoping to diffuse the tension.

"You can’t,” he retorted.

"Why not?" confusion laced your words.

"Because it's you I'm pissed at," he declared.

You were taken aback. He was angry with you?

“Why? What have I done to piss you off like this?” you questioned, bewildered by his accusation.

William struggled to steady his breath, trying to contain the fury coursing through him. Slightly lowering his voice to a more controlled but still assertive level, he continued.

"You always tell us that we deserve someone who makes us feel like we've been struck by lightning... yet you're with a dull, ordinary guy who isn't even close to your league, and you expect me to believe that he makes you happy?"

Wait, what?

"It that with this is all about… you playing a shitty game because I'm seeing someone you don't approve of?" you expressed disbelief. How dared he?

William exhaled sharply, standing with his hands on his hips.

"That's not… no, we just played a shitty game, we'll get over it," he attempted to gather his thoughts. "I just don't understand why you feel entitled to dictate what the rest of us deserve when you don't hold yourself to the same standard."

You struggled to fully grasp his words.

"What are you trying to say, Willy?"

"Don't you see... you should be with someone... not like him... someone who also makes you feel the way you want the rest of us to feel..."

"Well, I'm sorry, but that just won't happen," you spoke loudly, your mind racing faster than you could rationalize.

"Why not?"

"Because the only person who'd ever made me feel that way is you!"

A heavy silence filled the room as your confession hung in the air. 

You were left breathless, realizing you had verbalized something you hadn't even admitted to yourself before. A fleeting thought that had crossed your mind briefly but had never lingered for more than a moment. However, as the words escaped, they felt undeniably true.

And the truth was, you had deep feelings for William.

The laghter and playful banter between you. The affection you both had for your friends and families. How he always showed his genuine self with you, offering a listening ear and a supportive shoulder. You simply liked every part of him.

And as William gradually absorbed the sudden confession, he regained control of his breathing following his emotional outburst. He gazed intently at you, focusing on your worried expression, acknowledging your unintentional heartfelt disclosure.

Yet, he found himself speechless. There were no witty remarks or playful comebacks. He didn't feel compelled to challenge you or demand explanations. Instead, he took a step forward, gently cupping your head with his hands, leaning in to tenderly kiss you.

As your lips met, you couldn't resist, placing your hands on his chest, feeling all frustrations and negativity dissipate from your mind.

Relaxation flooded your body, sinking deeper into his touch. His hands moved down to your hips, drawing you closer, while yours wrapped around his neck.

His tongue delicately sought permission to explore beyond your lips, and you eagerly welcomed the intimacy.

It was an true, heartfelt moment where you both surrendered to desire and passion.

As you parted from the kiss, both breathing in the air that was momentarily lost, smiles couldn't be contained as you stood close.

Being in his arms felt incredibly right, and you wished for that feeling to never end.

However, reality beckoned, so you looked up at him with a gentle smile, brushing a strand of hair away from his handsome face.

"I suppose... I should let Matt know that I can't see him anymore," you chuckled lightly.

"Yeah, he should probably know that you’re already taken,” William replied with a hearty laugh.