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tonyspep · 6 months ago

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walkin' with his head down, i'm the one he's walking to

A/N: this is for the summer fic exchange!!! it started out as something completely different, but here we are. This is for the amazing @laurenairay I really hope you like it and that your summer is going well. This is my first time writing for Quinn Hughes so here's to trying something different. Quinn is so cute, so I hope I did him justice. This was inspired by “Call It What You Want” by Taylor Swift, which is so hurt/comfort to me. So here we are with Quinn being comforted after the game seven loss to the Oilers this year. thank you to @wyattjohnston for hosting this amazing exchange!!

Walkin' with his head down, i'm the one he's walkin' to

summary: the series didn't end the way you or quinn was hoping, but you weren't going to let him hang his head for too long

rating: t

i'm laughin' with my lover, makin' forts under covers

trust him like a brother, yeah, you know I did one thing right

starry eyes sparkin' up my darkest nights

“call it what you want” - by taylor swift

The final seconds ticked away and it was obvious this game wasn't going to end the way you or Quinn wanted it to. He and the rest of the Canucks gave the series everything they had, but McDavid and Draisaitl and company proved to be too much in the end. You felt Brock's girlfriend Bella wrap her arms around your middle, a soft sob escaping her as she rested her head against your back. It was hard for you not to cry, too. The boys had worked so hard to get to this point, they had fought all the way back to take the series lead, only to falter in the most important game and now the off season would be starting.

“I thought they had it,” Bella murmured and you could only nod. You really believed this year was going to be their year. They won the Pacific Divison. They beat the Preadators 4-2 and had home ice advantage in this series, which you knew would be tough, but still..

A tear couldn't help but trickle down your cheek. They had all the pieces to go far, maybe even all the way, and instead they would be packing up their lockers, doing exit interviews and the summer would be starting earlier than any of you anticipated.

“Me, too, Bells,” You agreed with the blonde who had become your best friend since you started dating Quinn just a little over a year ago. The two of you hugged each other tight, watching as the fans made their way out of the arena. You separated from each other after giving each other a kiss on the cheek and went down the steps to the locker room.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion as you waited for Quinn to appear. Out came Elias, skull cap pulled over his buzzed blonde hair, flashing you just a brief smile before his handsome face transformed into more of a grimace. JT was not standing tall, but hunched until he was embraced by his family. Brock gave you the best grin he could muster, nothing like his usual sparkling grin that you had come to know almost as well as Quinn's soft smile.

Then came a familiar head of soft brown hair, longer than it was when you first met Quinn in the hallway of your shared apartment building in downtown Vancouver. His head was down, his shoulders slumped, like they were holding the weight of the world. Your heart couldn't help but break. You knew how hard Quinn had worked to get to this point, how he took on the burden of being Captain and how seriously he took the C on his chest. He didn't want the Cup for himself, he wanted it for Brock, for Elias, JT, Thatcher, for Coach Rick Tocchect. He was so selfless and put the team first above anything and everything else.

All you wanted to do was take his pain away, to put the bashfully sweet smile you knew so well back on his face.

“Hey, you,” Quinn gave a weak laugh and there was a hint of the smile you fell in love with on his lips, making your heart lift slightly. “You can really smile you know,” You tease, reaching for Quinn's hand. “I know this didn't go the way we wanted to, but if you don't smile I'll think you're not happy to see me,” You joke and Quinn does laugh, for real this time. “Y/N,” Quinn's voice is tender as he cups your cheek in his other hand. “I'm always happy to see you. If you weren't here right now, I'd be going home to a dark apartment to just sit on my couch and think about all the things I could have done better. Instead, I'm going home with you, which makes this easier than it would be otherwise.”

You flush from Quinn's words. You want this to be easier for him, to ease some of the weight he carries and you think you know just how to do it.

Quinn can see the wheels turning in your head, see the spark that's suddenly taken over your deep eyes. He arches a brow and you kiss his cheek, teasing, “Just wait. I know just how to make this not seem so bad, but you tell me if it's too much, okay? I just want to be here for you, however you want me to be, Quinny,”

His cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink, showing through the playoff beard he's grown. Your heart skips a beat; even a bit run down after a hard fought series, Quinn is still the cutest boy you've ever known. With his big sad puppy eyes, his soft mop of dark hair that curls over his ears, his pink lips and warmly handsome face.

“Relax,” You say as you unlock your shared apartment's front door. “Just sit on the couch, don't do anything except take off your shoes, take a shower if you want, change into something comfy but leave everything else to me, okay?”

Quinn chuckles to himself and gives a joking salute, “Yes ma'am, but there is one other thing I want to do before you do whatever it is you're going to do.”

You blink curiously as you tilt your head, wondering what this one thing could be and then Quinn is touching your cheek, so gently as he presses his lips against yours. This kiss is the sweetest, softest kiss you've ever experienced. You continue kissing each other softly, neither of you wanting to pull away as your fingers sink into Quinn's wonderfully soft, thick dark hair. He nips on your bottom lip, gently, making you moan his name as his other hand wraps around your waist, anchoring you to strong frame.

You break apart out of necessity and Quinn says, “Now I'll go relax and leave you to your surprise,” and you're so tempted to follow him, heat thrumming through your veins, want clouding your thoughts as your eyes follow Quinn until he disappears down the hall.

Somehow you resist the urge, remembering that this night is about Quinn, that even though the game ended in disappointing fashion, you weren't going to let the night end that way.

Flipping through your contacts, you find the one you were looking for and you can only hope you have all the ingredients for the recipe you're planning. Talking to Ellen Hughes feels so much like talking to your own Mom. Her warmth radiates from the other side of the phone as you facetime and you feel relieved that you do have all the ingredients for her famous Kugle, which is Quinn's favorite food.

You're not the best cook but Kugle is easier than you expected. You laugh with Ellen as she goes over the recipe step by step with you and after the casserole goes into the oven, you see Quinn standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking adorably cozy in a t-shirt and plaid pajama pants.

“Is that my Mom?” He asks, his voice so childlike his big brown eyes lit up with hopefulness and Ellen answers for you saying, “Hi, Sweetie. Y/N just called me. I'm so sorry...” and you leave the kitchen, letting mother and son have this time together, knowing Quinn needs the comfort of his Mom now more than ever.

“You made Kugle,” Quinn's voice is full of wonder as you reappear in the kitchen after changing into something comfortable yourself. “Is that why you called my Mom? So you would know how to make it? I could have helped,” He huffed a little, a pout forming on his beautiful lips, which made you laugh. “I'm the only one of us that knows how to make it. Mom shared her secrets with me,” He's proud, his chest puffing a little and how did you get such a sweet guy to call her your own?

“If you made it that would defeat the purpose of you relaxing,” You shake your head as you and Quinn walk toward each other and share another kiss unable to resist each other.

While the Kugle continues baking, you reveal part two of your of your surprise. After changing into your comfiest outfit – a shirt that used to be Quinn's and a pair of well worn shorts – you set up a fort in the living room with all the blankets and pillows in the apartment. “A fort?” Quinn's eyes are bright like they should always be and you smile just as bright. “A fort,” You confirm. “Figured after tonight you could use something fun like a fort and something comforting like your Mom's Kugle,”

Quinn wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I like the way you think,” He kisses your cheek and you blush.

Getting under the blankets, you fire up Disney Plus and land on Toy Story. You know Quinn as well as you know yourself after having been together for nearly two years now and you know how much he loves this movie. Just like if the roles were reversed, Quinn would know to put on Pretty Woman or Tangled.

The familiar credits start just as the oven dings and before Quinn can get up, you push his shoulder gently saying, “I don't think so, you stay right here,” and he knows better to argue with you, so he stays put, laughing as the toys in Andy's room start to move around, letting the audience in that they're alive.

“You're a Toy!” Quinn shouts along with Woody after the new spaceman toy “lands” in Andy's room and you laugh, getting in a few Bo Peep lines and Slinky moments as Quinn can't help but get in the Woody lines before they happen. It's no surprise the cowboy is your boyfriend's favorite and you can't help but remember your first Halloween together this year when you dressed as Woody and Bo Peep to the Canucks party.

You enjoy the Kugle even stealing some of Quinn's who says, “Hey,” and shields his plate from you.

You're snuggled up together as the last credits play, Quinn humming along with “You've Got A Friend In Me.” He kisses you on the forehead and sings in your ear, “Some other folks might be a little bit smarter than I am, bigger and stronger too, maybe but none of them will ever love you the way I do, it's me and you,”

You giggle sweetly as you finish the song with the familiar refrain, beaming up at Quinn, “Boy and as the years go by our friendship will never die. You're gonna see it's our destiny. You've got a friend in me. You've got a friend in me. You've got a friend in me,”

You kiss each other softly, your tongues meeting as your hands move over each other's bodies. Your foreheads come to rest against each other's, your breath coming in soft pants as you look lovingly at each other, Quinn's big hand on your back, his fingers moving over your spine as you sigh, “I love you so much, Quinn,”

His cheeks flush – even though you've been saying I love you for months, it still makes him blush, like he can't believe you love him, which is insane, how can he love you – and your heart flutters like always whenever you're under the stare of his warm brown eyes. “I love you, too. This was amazing; just what I needed after tonight,” He says softly, his voice so tender and honest.

In your fort it's like nothing can touch you here, like, what happened tonight – the devastating loss – didn't happen. You hope you've given Quinn just a little relief, that his heart doesn't feel as heavy as it did when he watched the last seconds tick away or when he was in the handshake line or addressing the team in the locker room after, and the soft smile on his face as he holds you close tells you, you may have done all of that.

The next morning, you wake up in Quinn's arms, the safest place in the world and you smile at how serene he looks sleeping. The worry he carries with him is gone, the lines in his face smoothed away while his long, thick lashes resting on his cheeks. You see the smile creep across Quinn's lips telling you he's awake and his voice, thick with sleep, teases you, “Take a picture it'll last longer,”.

Quinn's humor is sneaky and you poke him in the ribs. “Like you haven't been staring at me too,”

Quinn's eyes open as he stretches and he says, “Can you blame me? I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you,”

“Smooth,” You remark and Quinn laughs. “It's not often, I am,” He admits and after a lazy kiss you find yourself sitting on the stools of your kitchen's island as Quinn makes breakfast.

Last night may not have ended the way both of you wanted, but today was a new day and there would be a new season on the horizon and you would make sure Quinn's days leading up to training camp and then opening night would be the brightest. You wouldn't let him get down on himself or believe he could have done more. You were going to make him believe in himself and believe in the team he had help build up to be one of the best, and that started today.

#the summer fic exchange 2k24 #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #hockey rpf #fanfiction #vancouver canucks

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roosterforme · 1 year ago

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How You Play the Game Part 8 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley was miserable without you, and the pain just wasn't lessening even though you left him weeks ago. He needed to find a way to move on, because you didn't want him, and you weren't coming back. But he should have known there was no substitute for the best thing he'd ever had.

Warnings: Swears, broken heart, angst, consensual sex, sex with a condom while intoxicated (18+)

Length: 5000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! How You Play the Game masterlist. Banner by @thedroneranger

Weeks later...

As you flew to Vancouver from Detroit, you thought about that six hour flight to Boston where you hadn't stopped crying for a single minute. You thought about leaving San Diego and how it broke your heart to move on to the next city and the next assignment. At least this time you had a window seat instead of the middle seat in the last row. And this time you weren't continually wiping your tears on Bradley's Padres jersey.

You had his jersey on again today, but this time you felt calm as you reached into your bag to take out your computer and read over the research you'd outlined about the Vancouver Canucks. Your eyes caught on the blue golf ball, and after a second of hesitation, you reached for that instead.

You'd taken it everywhere with you. It joined you in every hotel room, on every flight and in every rental car. You had it with you in your tote bag when you were in Boston about a month ago working on the exclusive with the Bruins' coaching staff. You were carrying it when you bumped into Abigail Archer for the first time in person.

With your article completely forgotten now, you dug your phone out of your pocket. It was in airplane mode, but you took a deep breath and unlocked it. You had to scroll a bit to get to the text thread with Bradley, and then you tapped his name and you almost let the tears rise to the surface. You held them back as you read the series of sporadic messages he'd sent you since early November.

I miss you.

Did you make it to Boston safely?

Ace, please call me back. I miss you so much.

I have this whole weekend off, and I can't help but think it would be easy for me to fly to wherever you are. If you would want that.

I still miss you.

I hope you're doing well.

You hadn't responded to a single one of them. And you never called him back either. But sometimes, when you were in a hotel room in a city that you couldn't even identify without looking at your calendar app, you'd get lonely enough to listen to his voicemail message. See ya, Ace.

It took until you met Bradley Bradshaw for you to really understand just how lonely you were. Going back to your apartment in New York City didn't feel like going home. There was nothing there that made you smile. There were no baseball cards or too small Angels tee shirts. There was no Bradley making sure you were taking a break when you needed one.

And he was part of the reason why you let yourself start to be convinced that you could have more out of your career. Maybe he was right. Somebody else might have something better to offer than Greg or the New York Times. When you talked to Abigail and started to test the waters, it wasn't as terrifying as you thought it would be. Making some calls to see what else was out there ended up validating one fact for you: Bradley was right, your writing was in high demand.

But you had to complete your contract with Greg before you could do much else. And that included Detroit and Vancouver. But you hoped after this, your work-life balance might improve. If you decided to take this information back to Bradley, you hoped he would listen to you. Maybe he would even see what you wrote about your career change in your Detroit Red Wings article. If he was even still reading your articles. There was a chance he might still miss you now, and maybe he'd understand that you needed to see the bigger picture for yourself first.

Before you left him alone in his bed, he told you that you knew where to find him. He made you feel like it was still okay to go there.

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Bradley walked past his coffee table dressed in his flight suit with his travel mug of coffee in his hand. He paused at the front door and looked back at the mess he still couldn't bring himself to clean up. You left him weeks ago, damn near a month ago, but he just couldn't bring himself to clean up all of the fucking baseball cards.

He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. He was being ridiculous. He was never ridiculous before he met you, so you must have made him this way. Every time he tried to clean them up and put them back out in his garage, his hands faltered and he left the cards out on the table. It was like some sort of sick reminder that you'd really been here with him. It was a way to convince himself he didn't imagine up the perfect woman in his mind and then have to live through the aftermath of watching her leave.

He tightened his fingers around his mug and rubbed the heel of his other hand against his eyes. Then he took his phone out. He knew he shouldn't do it since you never answered his other messages before, but he texted you anyway.

I hope you're doing well.

When he re-read what he'd sent, he started to panic. It sort of sounded like he meant it with an air of finality. The last thing he wanted was for you to think that he didn't want to hear from you, because it was quite the opposite. There were times when he felt so lonely, he'd have done anything for you to write to him or call him back.

He swore he could still smell you in his house, and right now it felt a little too much like you were there. He wrenched his front door open and slammed it closed behind him, breathing in the crisp December morning air. He had to start making some changes, and he needed to do it this week. You weren't going to respond to him. After four weeks he should accept that as a fact and stop bugging you.

He'd been skipping Hard Deck nights and leaving the locker room after work without really talking to anyone. Nat knew why he was miserable, but even she seemed surprised it had gone on for this long.

A few days ago, she said, "You've never behaved like this over a woman before. This has all just been very surprising, and I don't know how to help you."

Bradley had shrugged and laughed sarcastically. "Well, I fell in love with her. First time for everything, right? I'll know better for next time."

And that was the truly fucked up part. He had fallen in love with you over the course of ten days. As he drove to work, he thought about your face and your voice. He knew exactly how many miles he put on his Bronco driving back and forth to see you at the games in Anaheim. He knew exactly how much money he spent on all the tickets. He knew how badly it hurt right now to be without you. And he knew he'd repeat everything all over again if he could see you for five minutes.

Just like every other day, he had to collect himself before he could head inside to the locker room. There was no getting his time with you back. There was no second chance. There was no communication. He needed to stop. He took off his aviators that you'd liked so much and set them in his cup holder. When he checked the time on his phone, he had a notification that a new article from you had been posted eight minutes ago. It was like this every day. He'd wait to see each morning if you'd written anything, and then after it was posted, he'd read it at least three times.

Your final World Series article was the worst one. It was released two days after you left. He must have read it a hundred times. He'd even take a screenshot of the short passage he was certain was about him.

This World Series was exciting and dynamic for so many reasons. We witnessed some of the best major league pitching in the last decade, and there were more stolen bases than the past three finals combined. Professionally, I may never witness anything like this again. And I can even tell you that on a personal level, I was profoundly changed for the better by everything I allowed myself to experience and enjoy between San Diego and Anaheim over the course of the series.

Bradley looked at his phone screen now. It had to stop. He desperately wanted to read your article on the Detroit Red Wings, but he needed to make this feeling stop. It was like he was constantly in pain every time he thought about you or even simply read your name on his phone. Your written words were never going to help him move on, so he needed to do something about it right now while he felt like he could.

He deleted the New York Times app. He thought about deleting your number as well, but he needed to save some of his strength to get through his workday. So he just tucked his phone in his pocket and climbed out of the Bronco.

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When Bradley walked into the Hard Deck on Friday night after work, he felt defeated and exhausted. He managed to delete the app you wrote for, but he still couldn't bring himself to delete your phone number. Moving on was a necessity right now. He didn't even know why he bothered to come to the bar, but staying home and looking at baseball cards on his coffee table didn't seem to be helping him.

"You're here!" Nat called out as soon as he walked inside. The bar was decorated for Christmas. Was it that close to the holidays? He'd completely lost track of the weeks, but at the same time, he knew exactly how many days it had been since he'd seen you. His mind was too aware of that number, and it tacked a new one on each day.

"Hey," Bradley managed to grunt when his friend came over to him and wrapped him up in a hug. The Christmas tree and the strings of lights blurred, and he had to close his eyes. He was missing the feel of your arms around him and the way you smelled. None of this was Nat's fault or anyone's fault really. Bradley didn't even blame you. He couldn't. You and he were nothing.

"Let me get you a drink," Nat whispered, and she took him by the hand. He recognized the upbeat Christmas song, and he saw the guys waving from the pool table. But when he turned to face the bar, Shannon was right there with her usual smile and a pint glass in her hand. He didn't know why he wasn't expecting her. The last time he saw her was when he brought you here, and he'd give anything to go back to that night.

Bradley just shook his head. "Something stronger. Please." Shannon raised one eyebrow at him and set the pint glass down in favor of a whiskey tumbler and a bottle of Johnnie Walker. "Yeah."

"Haven't seen you around in a few weeks," she said, watching the amber liquid slosh neatly up the side of the glass as she poured. "Kinda missed you." She met his eyes as she pushed the glass across the bar. "You look so sad."

He held eye contact with her, trying his best to push the intrusive thoughts away. "Maybe I'll be around more now," he muttered, downing the whole drink in one go and setting the glass down again.

Shannon was familiar to him. Comfortable. He'd been messing around with women for damn near two decades without any deep feelings. You were really his first foray into something... more. But you were gone. You didn't want to talk to him. You weren't coming back.

She refilled his glass and said, "Take this one a little slower, Bradley." He nodded before downing it just like the first one, and she kind of smirked and shook her head. "You'll pay for this in the morning."

He laughed sardonically. "That's the idea." He left the empty glass on the bar with a little nod indicating that he would be back. He desperately needed to clear his head, but he'd been trying everything for weeks. Taking a walk outside, having a cold shower, going for a drive. Nothing fucking helped.

He needed to forget the feel of your body and the sound of your voice. So he drank an extravagant amount of Johnnie Walker on Nat's tab, and he started to feel looser. He laughed at her when she asked how many he had so far.

"Don't worry. I'll pay you back," he rasped with a smile that he knew could charm every woman except for his best friend.

She just rubbed her hand up and down his arm and said, "I hope you know what you're doing. Let me know when you want me to get you home."

He kissed her cheek. "I'm fine, Nat. Just fine." He finished his tumbler and tried to remember if that was his fifth or his sixth, but it didn't matter. He was warm now, and his lips were a little numb. This was exactly what he needed tonight. After he shot a round of pool and lost, he flipped through the jukebox, but it was all bullshit Christmas music. He wasn't in the mood. He thought about playing the piano, but there was an empty stool at the bar now, so he headed in that direction.

"One more?" Bradley asked Shannon as he sat, and she reached out to touch his cheek.

"You sure you really need one?"

"Yep," he said, swallowing against the lump in his throat as she swam out of focus for a split second. "Just one more. It'll make it easier."

She turned away from him to get one more clean glass. Then she filled it for him. "Thanks, Shannon," he muttered when she set it down in front of him. He was leaning on his propped up hand, and he knew she was kind of pretty. But he knew you were prettier and funnier and smarter.

"You can't have what you want," he mumbled to himself after Shannon walked away. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it and just looked at the screen. Delete it. He had to. He opened his contacts, and there you were right at the fucking top.

Ace

You'd always be at the top, wouldn't you?

Instead of deleting your number, he sent you a text before he could reconsider.

Ace, I fell in love with you.

Fuck. Fuck! You didn't want him. And there was no way to take that message back now. He closed his eyes and shook his head, because he couldn't tell if he was about to cry or laugh. He was fucking miserable. Truly, he'd never experienced this before, and it hurt like hell. His thumb hovered over your name once again, but he couldn't delete it. He drank the whiskey and tried again. But still nothing.

He watched Shannon move around behind the bar. She wasn't you. She wasn't what he wanted, but when she announced that it was last call, she made her way over to him.

"But no more for you," she teased, reaching to take his glass away. But he had her wrist in his hand before he registered what he was doing. She looked a little surprised. The tears were in his eyes again, but maybe it wasn't so obvious to her. He couldn't say the words. He needed her to be the one. When he licked his lips, she leaned a little closer. "I'm done in fifteen. Are you interested? Or are you too drunk?"

He took a deep breath as his eyes closed. He needed to try to move on. The pain needed to stop, or else he didn't know what he would do. Right now he was numb enough. It was now or never. "I'm interested."

Bradley was very aware of what he was doing, it just vaguely seemed like someone else was doing it. He gave his keys to Shannon once they were outside. "Remember where I live?" he asked, walking toward the Bronco.

"Of course I do," she whispered.

He found himself with his back against the passenger side door with Shannon's lips on his. It felt fine. Would probably feel better the more he got used to it again. He could do this. He kissed her back and told her to drive, because he knew he shouldn't.

She drove and parked and took him by the hand, leading him inside his house. As soon as he saw the baseball cards, he wanted to upend his coffee table. He wanted to do this and get it over with and go to sleep for a week. And if he didn't feel better after that, then he didn't know what he was going to do.

When Shannon tried to turn on his bedroom light, he took her hand in his and guided it away from the switch. "Too bright," he mumbled, and she started to get undressed. He stumbled across the hallway to the bathroom and closed the door. When he looked in the mirror, he'd never seen anything quite so pitiful. He splashed a little water on his face, but it just made his flushed cheeks stand out more. He dug around under the sink for some condoms he thought he still had. When his hand closed around the box, he sat back against the wall and cried.

He had no idea how long he was in the bathroom. He took his shirt off and used it to wipe his face. You didn't want him. He went back to his bedroom where Shannon was naked on his bed, her skin glowing in the light filtering in from the bathroom where he forgot to flip the switch off.

"Fuck," he grunted, running his fingers through his hair. But she must have taken that as a sign that he was ready to go. He wasn't, but he told himself he was. She touched him, and he let her. She kissed him some more, and he let her do that, too. He reciprocated. He knew to do that much. But it didn't feel like anything. He fucked her, but it just wasn't right. And then he fell asleep with a throbbing head and an aching heart and the wrong woman next to him.

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It had been years since Bradley had a hangover. When he opened his eyes, his left arm was hanging off of his bed, and his face was halfway smashed in his pillow. His mouth was completely dry, and he tried to press his lips together and swallow. He had no idea how he got home or what time it was.

"Oh, shit," he groaned. He texted you last night. When he was sitting at the bar. He was pretty sure he told you he fell in love with you. He knew you wouldn't write back. You must have blocked his number by now. He was probably texting nobody by this point, but it still hurt like hell that you didn't want him the way he wanted you.

Then he remembered what he did after he texted you, and the bile rose in his throat so quickly. Shannon was right there next to him when he turned his head. He let her sleep over. He never let her sleep over before this. She was in your spot. He needed her gone immediately.

"Hey," he grunted, his throat like sandpaper. "Shannon. You need to leave."

She rolled over and glared at him. "Still tired," she whispered, completely naked in his bed.

"Please," he begged. He was so fucking stupid, it was incredible. Now he was miserable and hungover and angry with himself. "I need you to."

She sighed and stretched, and Bradley made a beeline for the bathroom, stepping on a condom wrapper on the way. At least there was that. Then he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He sat back against the wall for a few minutes, afraid there might be more he had to throw up. He knew his head was throbbing due more to the fact that he regretted everything he did last night with Shannon than him drinking most of a bottle of whiskey.

There was tapping on the door. "If you want me to leave, I need to use the bathroom."

"Give me a minute," he groaned, standing up and looking at himself in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked pale. When he brushed his teeth, he felt the tears burning behind his eyes once again. Was this ever going to stop? It had been more than a month.

Bradley rinsed his mouth and opened the door, barely looking at Shannon as she walked past him, still naked. He went back into his bedroom for a pair of clean underwear and some gym shorts and fought the urge to put all of his bedding in the washing machine. He couldn't even be in here right now, so he left for the kitchen. And he passed the fucking baseball cards again. He would have to throw them away or ask someone to come get them, because he needed them gone as much as he needed Shannon to leave.

As he turned on his coffee maker, he heard someone knocking on his front door. He already wanted this fucking day to end. He tried not to look at the baseball cards as he passed the table and wrenched his front door open, and then his jaw dropped in surprise.

"Bradley. Hi."

He braced his hand against the door frame as he looked at you standing there on his tiny porch. You were wearing his Padres jersey. He had to be hallucinating. This had to be a dream. You were here.

"Ace."

He watched your face light up at the nickname, and you laughed softly as you examined him like you'd been dying to see him. He gripped the doorframe a little harder as he reached his other hand out to cup your chin and feel your silky skin.

"Holy shit, Baby. What are you doing here?" His heart was pounding, but he felt somehow normal again. Just like he had five weeks ago before you left him in a state of panic.

"I came to see you." He stroked his thumb along your lip, but you didn't back away. In fact you took a tiny step closer as you added, "I have to be up in Anaheim tomorrow afternoon for some Ducks interviews, but I wanted to see you first. I thought we could talk."

Your eyes were open and earnest, and Bradley felt weak as he looked at his jersey on you. He let his hand drop away from your face, because he had no idea what to say to you right now. He had convinced himself he'd never see you again. "Did you get my texts? Or did you block my number?"

You pressed your lips together and then whispered, "I got your texts. And I've listened to your voicemail a lot. I've missed you." Bradley watched you smile tentatively and give him a little shrug.

"You missed me," he said in disbelief. "And you got my messages. And you missed me. And you're wearing my jersey."

You looked down at yourself and laughed. "I've been wearing pretty frequently, actually. Turns out I don't have a dress code at my new office, which ironically is in Houston now, but I hardly ever have to be there in person."

When you met his eyes again, he asked. "New office?" He was so confused as he reached out and stroked your cheek with his fingers again just to try to make sure you were still real.

"Yeah," you said softly, taking another step closer to him. "I have you to thank for that. I have you to thank for a lot of things." You bit your lip before you said, "I left the New York Times. I just finished my last assignment for Greg yesterday. I'm working on a brand new piece now. I actually begged my new employer to let me come back to California for the Anaheim Ducks article even though it's a bit of a fluff piece, because it meant I could come here and tell you that I'm happier now."

"You are?" he asked, unsure what you meant by that. He was having a hard time listening to your voice and looking at your face at the same time, and he wondered how he'd managed ten days in your presence for the World Series. You were just so overwhelmingly perfect.

"Yes, Bradley. You made me think about my career, and I kind of took the time to change some of my priorities. Because if there's a man as incredible as you who is willing to take a chance on me, then I can take the same kind of chance on myself."

"Ace."

You smiled up at what he was sure was a look of longing on his face. "I'm working for Velocity Report now, and I'm going to have a lot more time off between assignments. Which is important, because you reminded me that I need to take breaks and eat and take care of myself. Even when you're not around."

"I loved doing that for you," he gasped, suddenly dying to kiss you.

"Yeah, well, you were really good at it," you said as your smile faded a little bit. "But that's why I'm here. To tell you all of this in person. You deserve to hear it in person instead of over the phone, especially since I never responded to you. I wanted to, but I just wasn't ready until now. And I don't know if you read what I said about you in my Detroit Red Wings article... but, I still miss you. And I love you."

His heart was pounding so hard, he thought he was going to pass out. "You love me?" he asked, absolutely needing you to say it again for him as your eyes drifted to where the box of baseball cards was still out on the coffee table.

Your smile grew as you reached out for his hand and tugged him closer like you were going to kiss him. "Yes, I do. I love-"

Bradley heard a noise behind him, and his heart sank as his eyes went wide. You were looking off to the side, and he heard Shannon's voice. "Oh, sorry." He turned to see her with a puzzled look on her face. He had completely forgotten she was even here. After a few minutes in your presence, you were the only thing that mattered.

"Oh my god," you gasped, wrenching yourself away from Bradley. "Oh, fuck." You looked at him with your hands on your forehead and tears in your eyes. "You know what? Forget I was even here. I'm sorry," you gasped, turning on your heel and walking full speed across his yard to the black car that was parked at his curb.

It took him a second, but then he was right behind you. "Ace! No, Baby, you don't understand." But it didn't look like you were listening as you dug the keys to your rental car out of your pocket. "Ace! Please!" He ran barefoot out onto the street to try to beat you to the car door, but you were too fast. When he reached for your hand and spun you around to face him, you had tears streaming down your cheeks.

He was frozen, clinging to your hand as you whispered, "She's the bartender. I should have never come here."

"No," he begged, stepping into your personal space, but you kept dodging him. "It's nothing. I want you here. I need you here."

But you pulled your hand free and reached for the door handle as you sobbed, and it broke Bradley's heart. "I need to go."

He was ready to drop to his knees. "She doesn't mean anything, Ace! Please! I missed you too, Baby! I've been miserable without you, okay? You have no idea."

You wouldn't even look at him now as you pushed him out of the way so you could climb in the car. He felt all of his dreams slipping through his fingers twice now as you slammed the door closed, started the engine and drove.

"Ace!" he shouted running alongside your door until you hit the accelerator and left him standing in the middle of his street without shoes on. "Ace. I love you," he whispered as you turned left at the end of his block, and then you were out of sight.

Bradley sank down until he was squatting with his face buried in his palms. "Fuck!" he screamed, the sound only slightly muffled as he jumped up to his feet and made his way back to his house where Shannon was standing on his porch. She looked disgusted as another car pulled up in front of his house.

"Why are we sleeping together if you're clearly in love with her?" she asked, barely looking at him as she headed toward her Uber. "You should go take care of that."

As Bradley watched her away, he tried to pinpoint exactly how he'd fucked all of this up. He wondered if there was any way to fix it. Once again, he couldn't breathe correctly as that crushing feeling returned to his lungs. This feeling has vanished for those few minutes he was with you again.

"Maybe you don't even deserve her," he told himself as he walked back inside alone, thinking about how for a minute there, you'd loved him back.

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

Oh, Bradley. Oh, you sweet thing. Should I add one more part? Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 9

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