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imaginingsoftly · 5 years ago

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Home Videos - Tyson Jost

Type: childhood friends to lovers, Y/N insert shorts

Requested: Yes

Warnings: swearing

(Y/N = Your name)

A/N: From prompt list, #59 (“How is it that you’re so stupid and so hot at the same time?”)

You hated summertime. For 9 months out of the year you could go about your life in Edmonton completely unbothered, minus the couple of trips Tyson made to play the Oilers, but those three months always came too soon. When Tyson had been drafted and everyone else had moved away for college or to start their careers you had all agreed to meet up at least once a year for a week of catching up, a promise that no one had broken in the three years since. For the third time that week, you were holding your finger over the green button to call Tyson and tell him you were busy and wouldn’t make it to the cabin. It wasn’t necessarily a lie; you were an ER nurse, and getting a week off wasn’t easy if you were to have tried to get it on short notice, but Tyson knew you. He knew that you wouldn’t have forgotten that week, and that something else was happening.

You’d already told Syd you wouldn’t be there. She had yelled at you over the course of the last week for being an idiot, that you just needed to tell Tyson you were in love with him, but you knew better. He was bringing a girl home with him this year. He’d called you after their first date over the moon, raving about how much you’d love her and how he couldn’t wait to bring her around. Syd had talked to you for hours that night as you’d cried. It was irrational, and you knew that, but that knowledge didn’t make hearing about Tyson kissing another girl any easier. You also felt guilty. This was your best friend, your oldest friend, and he really wanted you to meet this girl. You wanted to be happy for him, to welcome her into the friend group with a smile and the multitude of embarrassing stories you had about Tyson from your years living next door to each other, but you didn’t think you could do it. Honestly, just thinking about it had you almost in tears.

You clicked out of Tyson’s contact.

Not tonight.

Two days later, you were staring down at your phone screen as Tyson’s contact photo again lit up your face in the darkness of your living room. You were sitting alone in a small pity party, watching an old home video, a hockey game between all of the neighborhood kids from when you and Tyson were eight or nine. You mom had been in a home video phase then, and you had some great footage of yours and Tyson’s shenanigans over the years. Somewhere there was a video of the time Tyson decided to shovel the snow off of his roof by himself, and had gotten himself stuck in the snow headfirst when he fell off of the roof. You had run over there laughing, and the video captured the hilarity of the two of you as he had yelled for help and you had grabbed his ankles and pulled ineffectively. Your dad had eventually gone out there to help, clearing out the snow enough for Tyson to get himself upright again. It was one your parents never failed to pull out every winter, to which Tyson would declare it his proudest moment.

Your phone lit up again with a voicemail, and you turned it facedown and snuggled deeper into your blanket. The pickup game was still happening, and you and Tyson were dominating the game. It had always been like that; Tyson had been the only one of you to go pro, but he had done his best to convince you to play as well. You were good, and you knew that when you could keep up with and even beat a lot of the boys as you guys got older. Tyson was your favorite centerman. He knew where you were going to be, and you knew the same about him. It was probably because your dad had taught the two of you how to play, but you liked to think it was some kind of special connection forged over all that time spent together dreaming and skating around whatever ice surface you could find.

A knock at your door almost made you fall off your couch. It was almost one am, and there was no one in Edmonton who would be knocking on your door at that time of night. You crept off the couch cautiously, and another knock, louder this time, made you jump again. “Y/N come on! I know you’re in there.” Tyson’s voice sounded through the door, and you stopped short before hurrying to open the door. “Tys? What’re you doing here?” His curls flopped in his eyes as he stared down at you tiredly. “Well Syd told me you couldn’t get the time off to come visit, but I know that’s bullshit, so spill.” He shoved past you as he spoke, closing the door and pulling you into him in one motion. You sighed into the soft cotton of his shirt, and his arms wrapped around you a little tighter. This was what made lying so hard. Besides how familiar his hugs were, Tyson had a knack for getting under your guard without you even realizing it. If he asked you right now why you weren’t in St. Albert you knew you’d probably tell him without much thought. “I missed you,” he whispered, “and there was no way in hell I wasn’t gonna see you, even if I have to smother the truth out of you.” You pulled back to look at him incredulously. “Smother it out of me?” He smirked at you, nodding. “I know you’re lying, and I want to know why. Who is he?”

Tyson was heading for your kitchen as he spoke, and you knew he was looking for the Oreos you always had on hand. “Top left cabinet. What do you mean who is he? You’re the one with the relationship, not me.” You tried not to sound too upset, but Tyson saw right through you. Oreo fell out of Tyson’s mouth as he spoke, and he waved the Oreo in his left hand dismissively. “Yeah we didn’t last. She wanted me to change my phone background after like the third date. Got pissed when I wouldn’t do it.” He held up his phone, and you smiled. It was a picture of the two of you from last summer, when you’d made a trip out to Maine to enjoy the New England coast and Tyson had convinced you to go to every lobster shack in Portland, of which there were many. The two of you were standing on one of the rocky beaches in Portland, in front of an old lighthouse that Tyson had loved. “You know, Tys, she probably didn’t like the fact that she was dating someone who had another girl on his lockscreen.” Tyson shrugged, putting his phone back in his pocket and shoving another Oreo in his mouth. “My lockscreen is for pictures that are important to me. That picture is one of my favorite recent memories of us. Katie and I didn’t have any photos together that were worth a lockscreen.” You cringed a little bit. Hopefully he didn’t word it to her that way, because otherwise he was deserving of a smack, not just a breakup.

It was hard to come up with a response to that, so you stared into your living room instead. Tyson looked out there too, and visibly brightened when he saw what was on the TV. “You’re watching that? I have to see this.” He ran into the living room and fell back onto the couch, gesturing at you. “C’mon shorty, reminisce with me!” Tyson pulled you into him when you sat on the couch, and you rested your head on his shoulder. It was nice to sit and watch these videos alone, but watching them with Tyson was even better. This was your shared history, and getting to chirp him for all of the stupid shit he did was so nice it was almost like high school again. The video ended and you started to get up to play another one when Tyson tightened his arm around your waist. “Why did you decide not to come out, Y/N?”

“Tys,”

“No, Y/N,” he interrupted, “don’t call me that and then give me some bullshit excuse. We never get to see each other all at once anymore, except this one week out of an entire year, and you bailed for no good reason. I know you could’ve gotten the time off, so stop lying to me and tell me the damn truth!”

Tyson’s eyes were lit up in anger, something you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of. He never looked at you like this, except maybe that time you’d walked home by yourself after his game one night and one of his teammates saw you and called him. He’d shown up at your parents house that night so mad he was shaking, and he was getting close to that point right now. You stood, and this time he let you. His eyes tracked your movements as you walked to the window, staring out at the city rather than looking at him. “I thought you were bringing Katie. I know you wanted me to meet her, Tys, but I couldn’t do it.”

You paused, trying to decide how you were going to do this. It was probably going to put a ton of strain on a lifelong friendship, but he deserved the truth. Tyson stood, coming to stand behind you. He grabbed your shoulder gently to turn you around, and his eyes had become impossibly soft. “How is it that you’re so stupid and so hot at the same time?” You smacked his shoulder, an instant reaction after a lifetime of chirps. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He cupped your cheeks.

“I’m in love with you, dumbass. Why do you think girls never last? Do you know how many of them tell me to choose between you and them? Like I’m gonna give up my person for a girl I’ve known for like two months.” He cocked his head, shaking his head at you. “I need my emotional support Y/N in my life. I’ve been trying to man up enough to tell you, and EJ has started threatening bodily harm. He’s tired of me pining and circling our Edmonton trip on my calendar.” That definitely sounded like EJ.

The two of you stared into each other’s eyes for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. It had been years since you two had really laughed like this, definitely since before Tyson had been drafted. You hit his shoulder again. “I can’t believe you didn’t just tell me.”

“Me?! What about you?” Fair enough. “Well how about I tell you now? I love you and I’m gonna be really pissed if the next girl you take out isn’t me.” Tyson rubbed his thumb across your cheek before leaning down to kiss you gently. It felt right, like the piece of you that left with him three years ago was back in place. “I love you too,” he whispered against your lips. You pulled him in close for a hug, and breathed in his cologne. “I guess I owe everybody an apology, eh?” Tyson nodded against your head. “We’ll head out there tomorrow. They’ll be happy when they know why.”

Tomorrow sounded good. Tyson walked over to your pile of home videos, shuffling through them until he saw one that made him laugh. The two of you settled into the couch again, and you laughed as well when you saw what he had put on. There was a summer where you and Tyson and the others had decided you were going to be a band, and had gotten hold of Syd’s older brother’s instruments. The sound was awful, Syd the only one who could play any instruments, and Tyson’s singing voice had been enough for Syd’s cranky old neighbor to call the cops because she thought somebody was getting murdered. The concert you’d recorded was perfectly horrible, the kind of thing you considered sending to EJ so that he could give it to the Avs video people for their jumbotron.

This was the kind of scene you had been hoping was in your future, and you were glad it was finally happening for real.

#NHL Imagine #nhl imagines #Tyson Jost imagine

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago

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Anon!!! You!! Are!! The!! Nicest!! Honestly, if my time on this website means that some people are interested in hockey and the lovable mess that is the New York Rangers, then it will have been time well spent. I have just so many Blue Line one shots languishing in my drafts and bouncing around my brain and...uh, here’s one. Based entirely on this Brady Tkachuk goal and both his brother and dad (who play/played in the NHL) being asked about it.

Even though we don’t like Brady when he tried to check all my kids a couple games ago, but that’s neither here nor there.

-----

“I think you’ve got to move your leg forward a little more.”

“Banana, what kind of dexterity do you think I have in my hips?”

“Good word!”

Killian gnashed his teeth, trying to remember how he’d gotten to this point. The details were starting to get a little fuzzy — and that might have been because it was somewhere in the realm of one in the morning, back after a road trip and Anna had landed far later than she expected and he could already smell garlic wafting across the entire apartment.

Will had bought three loaves of bread.

One for each of them.

Like a totally normal, vaguely familial tradition that ended with Anna suggesting that Killian practice shooting the puck between his legs.

Eventually he would guarantee that he was too exhausted to realize what was going on, but that would only kind of be a lie and he was a competitive idiot whose eyes had gone very wide when he’d seen that highlight out of Edmonton.

It was a good goal.

He wanted to score a goal like that.

And, so. There he was. With Anna playing that goal approximately twenty-seven times, a stick he probably wasn’t supposed to have in his hands and a crumpled ball of aluminum foil at his feet.

“Right, right, right, just like that” Anna shouted, circling him like some kind of hockey-mom vulture. Will snickered in the kitchen. “Ok, so—the guy on the Oilers—“

“—Does he not have a name or are we just going to call him Oilers guy all night?” Will called.

Killian’s back was starting to ache. “I think Oilers guy has a certain kind of charm to it, don’t you?”

“That’s because you don’t know his name.”

“Banana’s the one with the phone not me.”

Anna clicked her tongue in reproach, a quick kick to the side of Killian’s ankle like that would get him to move his legs and not glare at her. She rolled her eyes. “The guy’s name is Haas. He’s a rookie and I think that’s a mark against you, KJ.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, you’re a rookie and this guy is a rookie and he’s showing you up.”

Will appeared to be dying in the kitchen.

Killian let his head loll to the side, standing up straight despite Anna’s protests because—“If I don’t do something about my spine, it is going to be stuck that way forever.”

“Does that sound less than ideal?” Will asked. “It’s not like you’re an old dude—“

“Did he say dude?” Anna mumbled.

Killian could not sigh loudly enough. “Scarlet, were you ever planning on coming out of the kitchen?”

“The garlic bread is not done!”

“Plus,” Anna added, the video playing again and the crowd in Edmonton had really enjoyed the goal. They were very loud. Even in YouTube form. It was a stupid good goal. “This gives you more time to work on your technique, KJ. You’re fast.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, this is all rebound. It’s not like Haas took the original shot or anything, so—“ She stuffed her phone back into her pocket, reaching out to move Killian’s limbs and he could not get his eyebrows low enough to properly express his indignation at that.

Anna was going to sprain her tongue.

“KJ, just—oh my God, hold still, you’ve got to…” Anna ducked down, grabbing the aluminum foil masquerading as the puck. “Do we not have something better to use than this?”

“Are you not happy with our equipment choices, Little Vankald?” Will grinned, finally coming out of the kitchen, laden down with, somehow, four plates of garlic bread.

“Why don’t you have pucks here?”

“Something about not taking your work home with you?”

“Yeah, how’s that working out for us?” Killian groaned. He dropped back onto the couch — a second-hand monstrosity that creaked loudly anytime someone even thought about sitting on it and he was never entirely sure how Anna managed to sleep on the stupid thing.

“Probably better if you and Little Vankald—“

“—Do you think that nickname’s super clever?” Anna hissed.

“I think it gets you to do that angry-nose scrunch thing, which I admittedly take a great amount of joy in. So. And you didn’t let me finish, I was going to insult Jones too.”

Anna waved her hand, all unspoken command and one side of Will’s mouth tugged up. Particularly when she lunged for her own loaf of garlic bread. “Oh, thanks, thanks, for the permission to keep talking in my own apartment. My point is that you guys are both crazy, competitive weirdos and—“

“—Do you think you could score while shooting through your legs?” Killian interrupted, through a mouthful of garlic bread.

“No, because I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but I am a defenseman. So. Again. You’re the one with the speed and that crazy competitive Jones streak.”

“Oh, was that lumping me in there too?” Anna asked.

“Do either of you know how to chew like normal people?”

She threw a piece of garlic bread at him. He caught it.

And the whole thing had dissolved into middle-of-the-night farce. As per usual. Anna was definitely going to stay for at least four days.

They played at home on Tuesday.

“The key is the rebound,” Will continued, jumping back up to grab the aluminum foil. “This guy scored in OT, right?” Anna nodded. “So, at that point, it’s just about attacking the zone and—ok, ok, picture it this way, I’m trying to get across the blue line, I take a one-timer, it bounces off the goalie’s pads…this still on pace, Little Vankald?”

Another nod. “How many times did you watch the video, Scarlet?”

“Enough to know Jones would have to come in at an angle for it to work.”

“Oh that’s a good point.”

“Neither of you know enough about physics to be experts on this,” Killian argued, but he had watched the video too and that actually made sense. “Ok, Banana—stand up, you can be the goalie.”

“Can’t Scarlet do that?”

“Would Scarlet be in net during a normal game?”

“Also a good point,” Will mumbled.

Anna flipped him off — and moved into the small space between the kitchen and the living room, both Killian and Will trying not to laugh too loudly when she actually crouched down. “Do not,” she warned. “This is—it’d look more normal if I had pads on.”

“Yeah, that’s what your missing,” Killian chuckled. He grabbed his stick again, the aluminum foil landing on the blade as soon as Will tossed it in the air.

“That’s not nearly as impressive as you think it is, KJ.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Will countered, “it’ll ruin his whole approach. He thinks someone’ll notice and he can woo some girl with his stick-handling skills and speed.”

“Being able to bounce something on my stick does not have anything to do with either one of those things,” Killian pointed out. He flipped his wrist, aluminum foil practically flying through the air and it was really more hand eye-coordination than anything—batting the ball out of the air so it sailed directly into Will’s right elbow.

He gasped. Loudly. Dramatically.

The whole thing really was absurd.

“Also did you say woo?”

Will hummed, and it was Anna’s turn to try and mask her laugh. “You heard me. That’s not what we’re talking about now, though?”

“Is it not?” Anna whined.

“Little Vankald, this whole exercise was your idea, so—“

“—Fine, fine, fine. Ok, so you’re the first rush, coming in. Got it?” Will saluted, and he didn’t have a stick, but Killian wasn’t sure if that would have made a difference. He kicked the fake puck towards him, the stupid thing barely moving across their hardwood floor and Killian’s left foot slid under him.

He was going to blame his socks.

And not the time.

Ot that bruise on his leg.

It really might have been the sock though.

Killian’s leg jerked out behind him, some kind of unholy and distinctly inhuman noise working its way up his throat, the stick in his hand swinging wildly in front of him. He somehow managed to hit his shin and the side of his calf, nowhere close to getting the stupid thing between his legs.

The aluminum foil was taunting him.

And his own distinct lack of balance.

Killian wobbled on his heels, trying to regain his center of gravity. He wasn’t on ice, but he was fairly certain he was only few seconds away from spinning out, breath catching loudly in his throat. And Anna’s laugh ricocheted out of her, bouncing off the walls and possibly the inside of Killian’s brain.

“I don’t think that worked,” Will muttered.

Killian twisted, another stick move and flying aluminum foil and, that time, it hit Will in the head. Anna was sitting on the floor. Presumably so she could laugh easier.

“Ok, ok, we’re going to try that again,” Killian said.

Will glanced at Anna.

“He’s definitely more competitive,” she mused.

“I’m sure the girl he’ll eventually impress with this move will be very nice.”

“I look forward to it.”

“How long do you think it’ll take for him to master it?”

“I’m standing right here,” Killian growled, but both Will and Anna made almost identical dismissive hand motions and he was fairly certain he could see Will’s eyes widen expectantly.

“Forty bucks,” Anna announced. “It’s going to take at least five seasons.”

Killian wasn’t sure there was actually a name for that particularly noise.

Will shook his head. “You’ve got to be more specific, Little Vankald. Are you taking the over on five seasons?”

“I’m not even sure you’re speaking English, honestly.”

“It’s because you’re not a degenerate like him,” Killian muttered. “Are we not going to try this again?”

“God, KJ, you sound like a crazy person. Do your other teammates know that you’re a crazy person?”

“This was your idea, Banana.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t think you’d suck so much.”

“We’ve tried it once!”

“It was pretty bad,” Will chuckled. “Also I think our puck has seen better days.”

“This is why you’ve got to bring more equipment home,” Anna shrugged. “Who’s in charge of that, by the way?”

“The equipment manager?”

“Do I know him?”

“You don’t know everyone,” Killian said, Anna nodding in a way that was only a little placating.

“Right, right. Well—only a matter of time, right? Something about a long and prosperous career and Stanly Cup championships secured with goals through the legs? Also, what if we tried socks? Or a pillow?”

“Nah, pillow is way too big,” Will objected. “But socks could work.”

“Let’s get some socks.”

They did. And it didn’t help. Neither did the golf ball they inexplicably found in the back corner of Will’s closet or a balled pair of Anna’s leggings — a last-ditch effort because “maybe he just needs a bigger target,” Will suggested, somewhere in the realm of three in the morning.

And Killian almost forgot about the bet and the night, garlic bread left on the coffee table and Anna’s head on his thigh when they both fell asleep on the couch, because there were years and seasons and expectations that came crashing down around his ears and possibly his heart, but then it got better and—

“Yeah, yeah, no, he definitely did it for her,” Will said, a phone pressed to his ear where he was tucked into the corner of the visitor’s locker room in Washington. “No, it didn’t work, but an effort was made and I think that means I get my money.”

Killian sighed.

“Little Vankald, that is how gambling works, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Killian could hear Anna’s cries of indignation on the other end of the phone, not entirely sure where she was or what she was climbing at the time, but he also knew he’d absolutely tried to shoot through his legs in some misplaced attempt to impress Emma.

But it hadn’t worked very well.

Like, at all.

He really could not twist his hips enough.

“You need to find a hobby,” Killian started, grabbing his own phone out of his locker when it started to ring. His breath caught again.

Will practically guffawed into his phone. “You want to go double or nothing because I’m pretty positive she’s calling him now.”

“He’s blushing,” Robin called. Anna’s laugh likely caused an avalanche where she was.

And Killian didn’t think before throwing the jersey he’d managed to get off already at Will, hitting him square in the face, before marching to a different corner of the locker room. He swore he could hear Emma’s smile when he answered.

That was a problem.

And not.

They weren’t really doing under the radar anymore, anyway.

“Were you trying to do that?” she asked. “Because—“

“—It didn’t work out entirely the way I planned.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“You know, Swan, it sounds like you were paying very close attention to the moves.”

“Did you call them moves?”

“Is that not what they are?”

Will might have been coughing up a lung. Robin’s whole body was shaking when Killian glanced up, a hint of light from someone’s phone that made it only too obvious that Anna had been FaceTime’d.

Killian was running out of things to throw.

“I mean,” Emma continued, “it was an impressive attempt. As long as you didn’t hurt yourself.’

“Hurt myself?”

Robin was barely standing anymore.

Emma clicked her teeth, a hiss of breath from New York. “You know what I meant.”

“No, Swan, I have no idea, I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Where are you right now?”

“The locker room. Where are you?”

“My office.”

“Mmhm, so if I were to tell you that we land at, like, one in the morning, then…”

“Something about flexibility.”

Killian nearly choked on his tongue. And the way his heart leapt into his throat, a bit of hope and a metric ton of want and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to shoot between his legs, but it didn’t really matter if Emma showed up later. He could absolutely hear her smile.

“You know, love,” he drawled, “I think this might be flirting.”

“Weird.”

“The weirdest.”

“It would have been a very impressive goal.”

“Right, right, well, I guess we’ll work on that later.”

She laughed and he might have been a competitive freak, but he was also starting to become something of an emotional hoarder and that was quickly becoming his favorite sound. In the entire goddamn universe. “Something like that,” Emma agreed. “I’ll, uh—I’ll see you later, ok? I love you.”

It didn’t catch him off guard much anymore. A string of letters Killian wasn’t getting used to, but maybe constantly waiting for. So, it wasn’t a surprise to hear it. He smiled anyway, wide enough to threaten the structural integrity of the muscles in his face and—

“Gross,” Will called.

Killian ignored him. “I love you too, Swan. I’ll let you know when we land.”

“Ok, good.”

He did. For more seasons and more years, none of which included overtime-winning between-the-leg goals, but then there were other players and kids and ice time and the whole thing happened far quicker than Killian expected it to.

“Wait, did that go in?” Ruby asked, leaning over the front of the seats in the team like that would make it easier to confirm.

Killian’s jaw cracked when it dropped.

Emma was yelling.

“Show a replay, show a replay,” she chanted, head snapping up when the highlight played on the screen above center ice.

It definitely went in.

And Killian’s phone was already buzzing in his pocket.

Will had been right about the angle.

There was more ice in overtime now than when they’d first started playing — three on three making breakaway chances easier and turnovers even more problematic and Matt wasn’t much more than a blue streak up the left wing as soon as the other forward shot into the zone.

The puck bounced off the goalie’s pad, landing almost perfectly on Matt’s stick, the same one that was, somehow, curled behind his left leg. He spun out after he shot, a near-perfect pirouette that quickly turned into wide arms and shoulders bumping against the glass, screaming fans and the end of the game. Killian shook his head, trying to figure out the logistics and the physics of it and—

“God, show it again,” Emma cried.

He chuckled, an arm around her shoulders and kiss to her temple and he was going to have half a dozen voice mails already.

They played it again.

Matt’s wrists moved quick enough that it was difficult to follow where the shot went, but Killian could see the blade of his get under he puck “Shit,” he breathed. “How did he get enough power on that?”

“I think he’s better than you, Cap,” Ruby mused.

“I mean obviously, that’s—“ Another replay started, the Garden still singing the goal song and Matt hadn’t come out from the pile again the glass, a sea of jerseys and pumping fists and celebratory glove throws. “He must have practiced that.”

Emma tilted her head up. “Wonder where he got that from.”

“What a suggestion.”

“A theory, maybe.”

“Mmhm. That was a ridiculous goal.”

He could still feel her smile when he kissed her — Ruby groaning and answering a phone and there were questions and more replays, that highlight running on nearly every sports show for a week, dissected by “professionals” and Roland Locksley was quoted as saying, “Oh, yeah, he’s been working on that forever. I think we tried every way of doing it during the offseason.”

“Would you ever try something like that on the ice?” another reporter asked, and Roland shook his head before the question was even finished.

“Nah, I’m more a straight shooter, you know? Get pucks in on net, crash the goal, that kind of thing. Matt’s the walking highlight reel.”

They asked Matt about it. Naturally.

“He said that? Ah, well—he’s the one who took all the shots when we were kids, I’m just here to work he rebound. Someone tell Rol thanks for the compliment, though. I’ll remember that at Christmas.”

And the goal never really went away. The rest of the season — worked into pre-game intros and brought up on Top 10 plays of the month and Killian didn’t really expect to get asked about it, but he wasn’t all that surprised.

Emma laughed when she read his answer.

“Strain something, huh?” she grinned, flipping her head on the pillow and her hair was everywhere.

Killian hummed. “Not as flexible as I was. Got to leave the moves to the youth.”

“God, what a line.”

“You impressed?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

She was still laughing when he flipped her, shoulders digging into the mattress and hair threatening to work into his mouth, which was only a little absurd, but might have been the perfect ending to all of it and Killian was never entirely sure if Will got his forty bucks.

#cs ff #captain swan #blue line one shots #anonymous #laura rambles #blue line rambles #honestly the sens are the worst #but that goal was ridiculous #and asking his brother about it #my mind was like ohhhhhh this is happening then huh #and the offer to send links to anything i've written still stands #seriously just message me

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drabblemesilly · 8 years ago

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Matthew Tkachuk #5

Requested by Anon(s):

1. More matthew tkachuk I beg of youuuu. Maybe it could be about giving him concert tickets for his birthday? Your last of him was absolutely fantastic [Thank you so so much!! I hope you like this one. I’m not sure if this is the one you wanted but I hope you still enjoy!:)]

2. Could yo do a matt tkachuk one where you surprise him for his birthday? [Here it is!! Enjoy!!:)]

Word count: 1, 092

The cake looked like it was a love child of a red brick and mud. Needless to say, your first foray into birthday cake making has been a bust. At least you can cook a mean spaghetti and meatballs, if it really comes down to party food. Or tacos – but those are still to be judged.

The cake, though. Ugh, it’s taking all of your self-control not to smash your face in it and wallow in self-pity. He’s going to be home in a few minutes and you have nothing to show him for his birthday because you went in over your head. Damn it, you should have just reserved a table at your favorite restaurant like he told you and not try your hand at this surprise birthday dinner thing.

The front door opened and closed and you managed a steady breath – and not shove the cake into the garbage bin – before you heard Matthew’s voice echo throughout your house.

“Babe,” he yelled from the foyer, “are you ready? Let me just change, okay?” you heard him go up the stairs and into your room.

You looked at the romantic setup you did on the patio and let out a resigned sigh. Your food can taste as bad as you think it will but at least the patio looks like it was taken out of a Pinterest board so that’s definitely a yay.

Mattew called from the room and you assumed that he just read the note you left on the bed, along with a new game day suit you had tailored for him. You can still recite the note from memory, “wear this suit like it’s a Flames versus Oilers game and come down to the patio. Your gift is waiting. ;)”

Running your hand on the invisible creases on your dress, you took the plates of salad – appetizers because your foolish self thought you can serve a four course dinner – and placed them on the table at the backyard.

Then you downed a glass of wine, just because.

Fuuuuck. Why are you even nervous? Your hands are clammy like you’re some seventh grader going to her first school dance. You’re also breathing heavily like you just got locked up in a closet with your all-time crush.

This is just dinner. With your boyfriend. Not the president of the United States of America.

You’ve smelled his farts and popped his backne. You’ll be fine.

Stop acting like this is the first time he’ll taste your cooking because if he can survive the disaster that was your all-beef burger, he can survive your cake apocalypse.

You heard footsteps descend the stairs and you just about vomited all over the carpet.

Is it too late to call your mom?

Maybe you can just get takeout? Indian food sounds amazing right now.

Finally, the broad-shouldered hockey softie rounded the corner, wearing his new suit with his hair combed to perfection.

He stopped and almost backtracked when he saw you, a smirk automatically forming on his lips, “I mean, if you’re the gift then yes,” he chuckled, walking slowly over to you, “I’ll take it,” he whispered, stopping a feet or two away. He raised his hand and cupped your cheek, “wow,” he said in a gently voice, “you look beautiful.”

You managed a small smile, casting some of the worries aside, “happy birthday, Mat-mat.”

He nodded once, “happy birthday indeed,” he said before kissing you swiftly.

When he finally pulled back, you stepped aside and waited until he noticed the open doors that led to your back porch. He stared at your backyard for a few beats before looking back at you.

Before he can even say something, you stood behind him and started pushing him forward and outside, “now I know when you told me to surprise you, you were referring to the restaurant reservations,” you said hurriedly, “but I had this crazy idea of doing a romantic dinner at home,” you sniggered awkwardly, “what I lack in cooking skills, I made up with my decorating skills, I promise,” you laughed.

You stopped just outside and stood beside him, looking out at the strung fairy lights, the wooden table and chairs, the flowers you managed to pick up this afternoon. Hell, you even did an arc thing. This is straight up an Anthropologie catalogue pictorial shit and you’re damn proud of yourself.

You looked up at Matt to gauge his reaction, “I don’t know if your lack of reaction is a good thing or a bad thing,” you chuckled.

Looking down at you, you realized that your boyfriend – the guy who’s been logging penalty minutes like they’re minutes on ice – had tears in his eyes, “you did this for me?”

You nodded, “I wouldn’t do it for anyone else,” you told him, “don’t be fooled though, the cake looks like it was made by a baby.”

“I’ll eat it,” he said with a definite tone.

“The steak may also be as hard as a rock.”

“Probably the best steak I will ever have in my entire life.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you laughed.

Mattie’s expressions softened, his gaze fixed on you, before pulling you into him, hugging you close. You felt him kiss the top of your head before leaning down to kiss your nose. Leaning even farther, kissing you on the lips tenderly, “I love you.”

You stood on your tiptoes and gave him another kiss, “say that again after the cake.”

Matt shook his head, “still probably would.”

“I love you too,” you chuckled, “you’re amazing and you deserve everything, Mattie. Happy birthday.”

He chuckled, “best birthday ever.”

“Uh, uh, uh,” you laughed, pointing to his side of the table, “it’s not even the best part yet.”

“Is the cake the best part?” he sniggered.

Rolling your eyes, you pulled him to the table and waited as he picked the passes that you tucked under the plate earlier.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” he mumbled as he read and reread the passes, “you got me tickets?” he asked, a look of awe on his face.

You shrugged, “I may or may not have called and stalked people for those,” you told him with a snort. You tapped the tickets with your finger, “VIP because you’re the VIP of my heart,” you winked, “I know you wanted to go to your favorite band’s show in Edmonton but you couldn’t get tickets so I looked for them for you.”

He grinned, “I love you.”

“I know,” you cackled, “I love you too.”

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagines #nhl imagines #hockey imagines #imagines #drabble #drabbles #my writing #fanfic #calgary flames

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olllmaatta · 8 years ago

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hang an anchor from the sun

connor didn't expect to leave the world cup as jack eichel's friend, yet here he is.

and it keeps on snowballing from there.

(this is for @dyllarkin i’m sorry this took me so damn long lmao hope you like it anyways fam)

ao3

Connor finds out about the ankle sprain from NHL.com, picking up his phone after a cooldown cycle in the gym after morning skate. Immediately, he goes to compose a text, something like that sucks or I’m sorry or hey, if you need to talk, just let me know because apparently they’re that kind of friends now. (The World Cup was weird.) But then he remembers how much he wouldn’t have appreciated texts like that back when he broke his collarbone, how much they reminded him of all that he wasn’t doing. And sure, they’re not rookies anymore, but both of them do still have the weight of failing franchises of their shoulders.

So instead, he googles o shit i’ve fallen and i can’t waddup and texts the resulting image to Jack, captioning it is this you?

He doesn’t wait for a response, resolutely putting his phone away and going to shower. If Jack doesn’t text back, that’s fine. He’s probably hopped up on drugs anyways, and Connor is almost definitely not high on Jack’s list of priorities. That’s fine. It’s fine. As long as Jack will be back on the ice in a month or so, everything will be fine.

Jack still hasn’t texted back by the time he wakes up from his pregame nap, but Connor tells himself again that it doesn’t matter. He’s got to get to the rink and focus on his own game, the weight of the C on his chest feeling like more than just a letter and a title. Last year, he was the prophesied saviour, the Next One, but now? Now he’s supposed to be the leader, and he’s not sure if he can do it.

All that fades away when he steps onto the ice, however, blood rushing and skates cutting through the fresh ice. This is their season opener, and hell if he’s going to waste it thinking about a friend on a different team who sprained his ankle. He’s got bigger fish to fry tonight.

And the game itself might not be the prettiest he’s ever played, but he comes away from it with two goals and an assist and his first win as captain of the Edmonton Oilers under his belt, so that’s good and all. He also gets Johnny asking him if he’s heard anything from Jack, as if Connor’s supposed to be keeping track of him just because – well, just because he’s Connor McDavid, he supposes. “He hasn’t texted me back,” he had said, shaking his head.

Johnny had looked surprised, as if he had expected something more from their relationship. “Me neither,” he had settled for saying, however. “If you hear anything, let me know, okay?”

Connor wonders about this, because if Jack was to text either of them back first it would definitely be Johnny, who was a. exclusively Jack’s liney throughout training camp and the first game and b. not Connor McDavid, whom Jack had apparently only very recently stopped hating. But then he’s finally on his way home, having passed on requests to go out tonight in favour of – honestly, he doesn’t know.

His place is quiet and empty when he gets back, just like he expected, but he can’t help but wonder what it would be like if there was someone here waiting for him, maybe sitting on the couch aimlessly watching whatever plays after postgame or snacking on the chips he keeps hidden from himself. But there’s nothing waiting for him at home but the darkness and the chill of heating that somehow still hasn’t kicked in.

Shedding his suit jacket and loosening his tie, he plugs his phone into the charger on the countertop and rummages in the fruit up drawer of his fridge for a snack, looking to get an early night. His phone buzzes as he rinses an apple, and he ignores it for a moment, thinking that it’s got to be someone texting to congratulate him or something. He’ll deal with that later. But then it keeps on going, telling Connor that he’s got a phone call from someone that evidently will not be dissuaded by his not coming to the phone. With a sigh, he picks up without looking at the screen. “Hey, this is Connor,” he says.

“Hey, it’s me,” Jack responds. “I – I got your text.”

Connor laughs despite himself. “Did you appreciate it?”

“You’re a few months behind the times,” Jack says. “But yes, I appreciated it anyways.”

“Good to hear,” Connor says.

Jack’s silent on the other side of the line for a moment, the two just listening to each other breathe, but then he finally says, “It sucks, you know? That it happened at practice and all.”

Connor hums in agreement, taking another bite of his apple. “You’ll be back soon,” he says despite knowing just how little statements like that actually do to help.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack says. “Good game tonight, though.”

“You watched it?” Connor asks, pleased despite himself.

Jack laughs. “Caught a few minutes in the third. You looked good.”

“Thanks,” Connor says. “You – get better soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Jack says dryly. “Whatever the great McJesus says. You sure you can’t lend me some of those godlike healing powers?”

“Healing powers my ass,” Connor responds. “You think I wouldn’t have used those when my collarbone got fucked up?”

He can hear Jack’s grin through the call. “Man, you probably just wanted a break. Lazy-ass motherfucker.”

“Fight me, see if I’m lazy,” Connor shoots back.

“Dude, you have no idea how much I would’ve paid to fight you a year ago,” Jack responds.

Connor smiles even though he knows that Jack can’t see him. “Yeah, well, what about now?” he asks before he can stop himself.

There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Connor’s worried that he’s misstepped, somehow, and Jack’s going to hang up on him and ghost him and fade out of his life and the very idea is terrifying.

But then Jack laughs again. “You’ve got the worst taste in everything, of course I’d still fight you,” and Connor breathes a sigh of relief.

(He lies awake thinking about this when he finally hangs up and goes to bed half an hour later. It scares him how much Jack’s insinuated himself into Connor’s life, made himself indispensable and irreplaceable. But he accepts it – he has to accept it, because now that Jack’s slotted himself into a hole in Connor’s life, Connor doesn’t know how to let go.)

(And that’s okay.)

Jack texts him even more than he used to while he’s in the middle of recovery, something that Connor most definitely did not expect but embraces wholeheartedly. It seems that he wakes up practically every other day to some kind of complaint about how PT fucking sucks or to some dumb meme that he found while browsing Reddit. It’s strange, this easy friendship they’ve somehow fallen into together. And, sure, this may have been what Connor was looking for when he asked Jack to hang out that one night during the pretournament games, but he can say with some certainty that he never expected to be this successful.

When Buffalo comes to Edmonton, Jack’s not on the plane (for obvious reasons). Connor tries not to be terribly disappointed by this, but it was still one of the few chances he had to hang out with Jack and it’s a shame to let it go to waste. Wish u were here, he texts before he can stop himself, and then forces himself not to avoid his phone for the next forty years. It’s completely normal thing for a guy to text his friend, right? It’s not going to – Jack isn’t –

Me too, Jack responds.

Connor’s heart swells with fondness, even when Jack adds, we’re still gonna beat ur ass tho.

“Who’s got you making such a stupid face?” Nursey asks, leaning in in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Connor’s phone screen.

“Your mom,” Connor shoots back automatically, pocketing his phone.

(He’s informed by three separate people in the next five minutes that he’s still grinning like a loon.)

Connor sends Jack a few Snapchats of his latest attempt at cooking after a game one night. He forgets about timezones, however, and doesn’t get a response until the next morning. It’s Jack, just woken up, hair messy and face still creased from the pillow. Connor thinks he’s beautiful.

He also spends too long staring at the picture to actually process the caption.

So instead of responding generically, he chooses to leave Jack on opened and call Stromer instead. “What do you want, Davo?” Stromer says, mildly miffed. “I have to leave for practice in five minutes.”

“Jack Snapped me as soon as he woke up and he looked so good,” Connor says bluntly.

Stromer cackles right into the phone, forcing Connor to pull his ear away from the speaker. “Jesus Christ, that’s why you called me? I thought you were like dying or something!”

“I am dying here,” Connor whines, flopping back on his bed, dropping his phone next to him.

Stromer probably rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re being so dramatic over Jack fucking Eichel, man, what the fuck happened to ‘he’s objectively hot but also an asshole so I’d never fuck him’?”

“Fuck you, I don’t sound like that,” Connor protests halfheartedly.

“You’re completely stupid over him,” Stromer laughs, completely ignoring Connor’s misfortunes. “I can’t believe this, oh my god, this is fucking gold.”

“Shut up and let me pine in peace,” Connor says.

Stromer laughs. “If you wanted peace, you wouldn’t have called me.”

“You’re right,” Connor sighs, rolling over onto his stomach. “Distract me. Has Brinksy done anything supremely stupid lately?”

“You don’t even know,” Stromer laughs, staying on the line even as he gets his stuff into his car and drives to practice. It’s comfortable, feels like home, and Connor can pretend that he’s not thinking about Jack at all.

When he finally gets off the phone, though, there’s another Snapchat waiting for him. Can’t believe you’re leaving me on opened, Jack says against the backdrop of an unknown road outside a car’s windshield.

Sorry, Connor responds, retaking the picture five times before he’s finally satisfied.

Amidst all the talk of another McDavid-Matthews matchup (which Connor for one thinks is dumb – Auston’s a pretty cool guy and they played on the same line on the World Cup, so the media should maybe stop), Connor gets a text from Jack that simply says I’M CLEARED!!!

And that means that Jack’s going to be playing against him when the Oilers go to Buffalo, and sure, that should be exciting, but then Auston gives him the most shit-eating grin from across the faceoff dot and says, “Got any plans in Buffalo?”

Connor may or may not shove him out of the way with a little more force than is necessary.

(Honestly, Auston’s one to talk. Connor can see the way he and Mitch look at each other. It’s disgusting. He shouldn’t be forced to suffer like this.)

(I swear to God matts and marns are trying to get into each other’s pants, he texts Jack after the game. If he has to suffer through this, Jack’s going to too.)

(Not something I want to b thinking about, Jack responds.)

Jack looks good across the faceoff dot in Buffalo. Connor wants to tell him as much, but the ref is still looking between them like he’s afraid they’ll start fighting or something, so he swallows the words and goes for the puck. But it’s good, though, all clean hits and exhilarating races for the puck, and Connor feels at home in his own skin.

He’s still mildly bitter about the OT loss, though, especially since he didn’t manage a goal of his own and the Oilers choked at the last second again, but at least he put up two points to Jack’s one so that’s something. He can work with that.

And Jack appears at the visitor locker room after the game, freshly showered and back in his game-day suit, wide grin and stupidest hair and all. Connor’s fairly certain that he’s got the dumbest look on his own face just by the way Nursey’s barely holding in his laughter in the next stall over. “Yo, Davo, want to come get dinner with me?”

“Sure,” Connor says, smiling despite himself.

Nursey wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously. “Be back before curfew! No funny business!”

“We can’t cover for you if you miss team breakfast,” Ebs adds with a shit-eating grin. “So try not to go home with him, okay?”

Connor sighs. “Get the fuck outta here,” he says, but without any real heat.

(He’s thought about it.)

(He’d never tell Ebs that, though.)

Jack takes him to get wings, because they’re in Buffalo and they’re both huge fucking clichés. No one in the restaurant pays them any mind, which Connor is supremely thankful for. “Let me order,” Jack says as soon as the waitress leaves them to pore over their menus.

Connor shrugs. “You know what’s good,” he agrees.

They’re quiet once their waitress has taken their orders and left. Both their phones are out, but it’s not as awkward as Connor might still have expected. Instead, it’s comfortable, an easy companionship, and Jack keeps on wordlessly getting his attention just to show him funny Instagram posts or dumb videos.

Then he suddenly says, “They asked you about me again?” He slides his phone across the table to show Connor an article on nhl.com about the game that they just played.

Connor shrugs. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell them about all the time you’ve wasted on Reddit when you should have been napping or the ridiculous number of dumbfuck memes you send me.”

“Excuse you, those are good memes,” Jack shoots back, mock-offended.

“There’s no such thing as a ‘good meme’,” Connor insists, complete with air-quotes and all. Nevertheless, he slides Jack’s phone back to him. “But I didn’t throw you under the bus, is what I’m saying.”

“So what did you say? ‘A good guy’?” Jack reads, laughing. “‘Always kind of talking’? ‘Always kind of the centre of attention’? Wow, what a stellar review.”

Connor laughs along with him. “Hey, they asked what you were like,” he responds.

“‘I definitely enjoyed my time with him’,” Jack continues, voice softening. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Connor says, quieter this time. “Always.”

“I – ” Jack obviously doesn’t really know what to say here, and Connor is content to let the moment stretch out between them, taut with some kind of strangely comfortable tension.

Their food comes, breaking the silence, and Connor makes the appropriate noises about the deliciousness of the food, but in all honesty he can barely taste it. He’s too busy staring at Jack’s freckles and the way he licks sauce off his fingers.

“Hey. Hey. McDavid. Connor. Earth to McJesus.” Jack snaps his fingers in front of Connor’s nose, startling him out of his reverie. When Connor blinks in surprise at him, Jack’s voice softens and he adds, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Connor responds, turning back to his food. “Just – thinking about shit, y’know?”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Because Jack has a media façade and apparently also a “friends” façade, because the Jack Eichel Connor used to think he knew back before the draft would never have asked anyone if they wanted to talk. Not even Hanifin.

Probably.

But Connor would probably die of mortification if he actually told Jack what he was thinking about, especially since there’s a spot of sauce on Jack’s chin and all Connor can think about is licking it off. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Thank you, though.”

Jack finishes another wing, wiping that smudge off his face, and grins. “So anyways, did I ever tell you about the time Reino went to Walmart when he was drunk off his ass and blew like a thousand dollars?”

“Hey,” Jack says quietly when they pull into the hotel’s parking lot, pausing the music. “Mind if we – park for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” Connor says, confused but willing to roll with it. Once Jack’s parked and turned off the ignition, he unbuckles, turns to Jack and asks, “What’s up?”

Jack sighs. “This – I – thanks for letting me take you out to dinner, I guess. I had a great time.”

“I’m glad I could bless you with my presence,” Connor says, grinning. Then, because he hates himself, he points out, “You didn’t – take me out, though. It wasn’t a date. We just – got dinner together.”

Jack mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “would’ve been nice if it was” but Connor really isn’t willing to take that chance, so he ascribes it to wishful thinking.

He also really doesn’t want to get out of Jack’s car, though. It feels – safe, somehow, like everything outside waiting for him, pressuring him, can’t reach him while he’s sitting in companionable silence with Jack Eichel. And when he looks over at Jack, the lights of the passing cars fly over his face and play off his hair and make him look ethereal, and Connor –

Connor wants to kiss him.

(Okay, fine, Connor always wants to kiss Jack now, but now? Now he can’t think about anything else, caught up in the barely-visible fan of Jack’s lashes and the bow of his lips and how much he wants.)

Suddenly he notices that Jack’s been watching him this entire time, and he thinks that – maybe – he seems some of what he’s feeling in Jack’s eyes. And he doesn’t want to say anything about it, because what if he’s wrong, but his traitorous lungs decide to breathe out a “Hey”.

Jack says something at the exact same time, maybe “So” or “Well” or another superficially-meaningless word, but it doesn’t really matter because they both burst into laughter a second later, the moment broken.

And Connor thinks that – that maybe this is it, that Jack’s going to turn the engine back on and go drop Connor off at the loop and that will be that, and there’s something inside him that rebels at the very idea of leaving Jack again like this, everything unspoken. But – but it’ll be fine, he thinks as they calm down, reduced again to dopey dumbass smiles.

Then Jack sighs, mutters “Fuck this shit”, and unbuckles his seatbelt. Before Connor can tell what’s happening, Jack’s leaned over the centre console and –

and is kissing him.

One arm tight around Connor’s shoulders, the other one cupping his face, and Connor could melt.

But by the time his shocked brain has finally processed all of this, Jack is pulling back, and Connor already misses the weight of his arm. He grabs blindly at Jack’s hand before he can get too far away. “No, please – c’mere – ” he stutters out, before pulling Jack back into him – or himself into Jack – it doesn’t matter.

They fall together like gravity this time, drawn to each other and feeling the weight in the way Jack sucks at Connor’s lip, the small sound Jack makes when Connor works a hand into his hair, the desperation with which they’re clutching at each other, trying to get as close as possible.

And it’s not perfect, the gear shift digging into Connor’s thigh and the awkward angle straining his back, but it’s also everything he could ever want. Jack is warm, his lips are soft, and his fingers are scrabbling at Connor’s dress shirt, trying to untuck it. Just the thought of skin against skin sends shivers down Connor’s spine.

They break eventually, but it’s not a sure thing, Jack darting in to kiss Connor again like he can’t help it. When they finally stop, lips tingling and hearts racing, Jack rests his forehead on Connor’s, still cupping Connor’s cheek.

He leans into the touch. “I didn’t – I didn’t think – ” he says in disbelief.

Jack smiles, and it’s stupidly charming. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

And Connor can’t help himself, pressing back into Jack’s mouth again, because now he’s allowed. He’s allowed, and Jack is solid and real and here, not just a name at the top of his phone screen or a voice at the other end of the line, and Connor wants to be lost in this moment forever.

He can’t, though, and that hurts more than anything else. He tastes the lingering sweetness of Jack’s Diet Coke on his tongue and feels the breath stolen from his lungs, and he doesn’t know how he’d ever let this go.

But he has to when his phone alarm goes off, telling them that his curfew is fast approaching. It’s so hard to tear himself away from Jack, though, when Jack’s lips are so red and kiss-bitten and inviting and who knows the next time they’ll see each other.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Jack whispers, breath ghosting across Connor’s lips.

“Yeah,” Connor agrees shakily. “Yeah, okay.”

He kisses Jack again, one last time, and then forces himself to open the car door and get out, refusing to look back. If he did, he’s not sure if he could still make himself leave.

“– so dumb, Jack, Jesus Christ, why did you ever think this was a good idea?”

“We’re in fucking Aruba,” Jack says, sticking his head out of the bathroom. “No one’s going to recognise us. It’s going to be fine.”

“What if they do?” Connor demands, almost hysterical.

Jack sighs and puts his comb down, reeling Connor in with his other hand. Connor goes willingly, tucking himself into Jack’s side like he belongs there (because he does). “Then they do. We’ve got a plan, remember?”

“Yeah, but – ” Connor starts, before turning to bury his face in Jack’s shoulder. “I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Jack says firmly. “No matter how hard it gets. I just – I just want to hold your hand in public, okay? And if we can do that here, I’m going to do it here.”

Connor can’t find his words. The only thing left for him to do is kiss Jack, so he does, backing him into the bathroom counter. It’s familiar, now, but the way Jack’s tongue feels against his is not something he’ll ever get tired of.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s the first time he’s ever said it to Jack.

“I love you,” he says again, and it feels like a revelation.

“I love you,” he says a third time, and it’s something he’s always known.

Jack says “I love you too,” breathes it into his mouth and speaks it with his lips and hands and body.

They lose track of time like that, pressed up against the bathroom counter and lazily making out, but it’s all good. It’s all good, because it’s the offseason and they’ve got time, and they love each other and that’s –

It’s all that matters.

#hockey #rpf for ts #mceichel #sabres #oilers #connor mcdavid/jack eichel #the kestrel speaks #kestrel writes fic

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yahoo-puck-daddy-blog · 8 years ago

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Eulogy: Remembering the 2016-17 Washington Capitals

(Ed. Note: As the Stanley Cup Playoffs continue, we’re bound to lose some friends along the journey. We’ve asked for these losers, gone but not forgotten, to be eulogized by the people who knew the teams best: The bloggers and fans who hated them the most. Here is Puck Daddy Eulogy All-Star Chemmy from the Toronto Maple Leafs blog Pension Plan Puppets, fondly recalling the 2016-17 Washington Capitals.)

(Again, this was not written by us. Also: This is a roast and you will be offended by it, so don’t take it so seriously.)

By Chemmy

Every morning people wake up and go about their morning routines on the way to work. Some of those people get hit by a bus, others see their Tesla autopilot them right under a truck, and some electrocute themselves thanks to counterfeit Keurig refill failures.

What we’re trying to say is that there are lots of ways to end up as the focus of an unexpected eulogy.

On the other side of the coin, the Washington Capitals began a second-round playoff series, which meant we started writing this last week.

The Penguins and Capitals have played ten head-to-head playoff series with the following results:

Season Opponent Result W-L 1990-91 Pittsburgh L 1-4 1991-92 Pittsburgh L 3-4 1993-94 Pittsburgh W 4-2 1994-95 Pittsburgh L 3-4 1995-96 Pittsburgh L 2-4 1999-00 Pittsburgh L 1-4 2000-01 Pittsburgh L 2-4 2008-09 Pittsburgh L 3-4 2015-16 Pittsburgh L 2-4 2016-17 Pittsburgh L 3-4

As Meatloaf sang “[one] out of [ten]” ain’t bad.

Nothing wrong with playing ten series against a team and being way under the Mendoza line.

Capitals fans can at least tell Sens fans what it’s like to beat their rivals once.

The Penguins who played without their starting goalie, top defenseman, and dressed players no one besides Carter Rowney’s mom have ever heard of before still won because Washington has only made it past the second round twice in their history regardless of who they’ve played.

Here’s Ted Leonsis chirping somebody in box seats because the team he owns is beating their opponents.

This is a pretty wonderful thing, because if the score were reversed and those fans made fun of the fact that the Penguins have speed bagged the Capitals pretty much forever, they definitely would not be immediately removed from the arena.

Hope Ted got satisfaction from those jabs, and we also hope he had to rename his yacht during Game 7 and didn’t see his team give up halfway through.

This loss hurts. https://t.co/9SnzT9CGu2

— Ted Leonsis (@TedLeonsis) May 12, 2017

In between management and the players you have the coaching staff.

Barry Trotz has never been afraid to stick his neck out for his players and guys like Nicklas Backstrom repay him by never ever falling asleep in his meetings.

Barry Trotz’s teams have never been the juggernaut that he himself resembles.

Barry Trotz never really gets the credit that he deserves for his coaching prowess. A good coach looks back at what has worked in the past and tried to adapt it to new circumstances. That’s how you end up with Ovie and Niskanen standing in for David Steckel in the role of gooning Sidney Crosby and pretending it was a hockey play.

With Crosby out surely the Capitals would be able to beat Pittsburgh and finally exorcise their demons. (Editor’s note: the writer was renaming his yacht during that game.)

You can tell Trotz does some solid work behind the bench because his former team has not done anything of note after he left. Sure they made the playoffs the year after firing him, won a series the year after that, and are in the conference finals this season. But that steady improvement after firing their only coach in team history is likely just a coincidence.

A lot is being made about Alex Ovechkin’s injury and his production in the playoffs. Ovechkin joined the league in 2005, winning the Calder with his explosive dynamic style. This year, his 33 goals (more than half of which came on the power play) and 69 pts. would likely slot him in between Matthews and Laine for 2nd in the Calder race.

Sorry Zack.

I’m legally barred from summarizing Timecube in a public place after “the incident” but I think it’s pretty clear that Nazem Kadri’s hit in round one somehow caused Ovechkin’s leg to become bad and injured sometime before the season started. This resulted in the poor counting stats and is a good and reasonable excuse.

Good ol’ Canadian boy* Braden Holtby may be on his way to a second Vezina Trophy but he had the kind of post-season that makes you realize a lake house isn’t going to occupy itself.

(* N.B.: this superlative was written by @mlse. The rest of the Yahoo! Sports (R)(TM) Staff, including but not limited to Sean Leahy and Greg Wy(shnshsn?)ski all think Canadians are bad.)

Kevin Shattenkirk and TJ Oshie were supposed to be the answers to the team’s shortcomings but it turns out that there are no shootouts in the playoffs for Oshie and Shattenkirk hates money.

Hold on, someone threw a brick through my window.

Uh, of course, Kevin Shattenkirk only loves money more than only his hometown New York Rangers.

In the defense of GM(any letter here)M you have to hand it to the visionary that sees an underachieving team and thinks that former St. Louis Blues are the answer to getting over the hump.

Nobody wants to know what happened immediately after this picture of TJ Oshie was taken.

As players are being called out it’s worth looking at Justin Williams. Mr. Game Seven. At home, series tied at 3, Justin Williams in their locker room, the Caps finally did it. Justin Williams’ Game 7 stats were so bad that he’s hiding the game sheet in Donald Trump’s tax returns. Williams’ Game 7 performance looked like he was on the 2016-17 LA Kings.

You have to congratulate Washington on their effort. This eulogy can’t be all bad, although we did try. For all of the things that didn’t go right for Washington in the second round you have to congratulate them for never beating the team that drafted first overall eleven months ago by more than a single goal or needing 5 overtimes to beat the hockey equivalent of a team of puppies.

Paragraphs of tortured cheap jokes aside though there’s no such thing as a curse. The Capitals aren’t cursed, they’re not jinxed, and they haven’t been unlucky for the past twelve years. In Washington’s case their only curse is that in the postseason, they’ve never been better than second best and unlike the Ottawa Senators, things have never lined up to give them a free pass for it.

Cubs fans aren’t using it anymore, maybe it’s time for Capitals fans to own “there’s always next year.”

By @felixpotvin with a little help from @mlse. All of the good jokes are @felixpotvin’s, all criticism should be directed to @wyshynski.

NHL EULOGIES 2017

Boston Bruins

Calgary Flames

Chicago Blackhawks

Columbus Blue Jackets

Edmonton Oilers

Minnesota Wild

Montreal Canadiens

San Jose Sharks

St. Louis Blues

Toronto Maple Leafs