#hockey holidays 2024 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theemporium · 2 months ago

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[3.6k] sometimes home is a place. sometimes it's a person. sometimes it's a bench that holds more memories than mat can fully handle, memories that are slipping through his fingers.

based on 'coney island' by taylor swift for the eras tour hockey fic challenge created by @comphy-and-cozy and @wyattjohnston!!

Present – November 2024

Never in his life had Mat Barzal felt as pathetic as he did sitting on that bench in Coney Island.

It was cold as fuck, for one, which should have been expected on a day in late November in New York. The temperature was likely below freezing, the chill was starting to seep into his bones, and the jacket he had haphazardly thrown on was doing little to battle the weather.

Yet, it was barely a blip on his radar as the last few weeks properly washed over him.

Despite the holiday season, there were (thankfully) not many people around to see Mat in all his pathetic and embarrassing glory. Most people were probably sane inside their warm homes, enjoying dinner with the people they cherish the most. It felt stupid to be envious of a city full of people but that is exactly what he was.

Because as Mat sat on that bench, staring out at the near empty beach, he felt like he was choking.

On his feelings. On his memories. On his bitter resentment that, once upon a time, he was like those people.

That Mat used to have a warm home where he ate dinner with someone he fucking loved and cherished more than anyone or anything else in the world, but now he had lost that person.

That he didn’t know where his person was or what they were doing, but they were doing much better than him as he sat on the same fucking bench where he first met them.

Where he first met you.

…

August 2021

“You insist on this every year!”

“Because it’s fun every year!”

“And yet you still get pissy when you get beaten by a carnival game.”

Mat glared at him from over his shoulder, not faltering in his steps as he shot his cackling friend a look. “It doesn’t beat me—”

Beau snorted, giving the boy a fond shove as he pushed his way through the crowd to catch up until they were shoulder-to-shoulder again. “Dude, it’s a stupid game that you try every single time. And you fail every time.”

“It’s rigged,” Mat huffed.

“Yeah, that’s the whole fucking point,” Beau deadpanned. “They are all rigged.”

“But I’ve beaten them all,” Mat whined, sounding young and bratty. “The ring toss is rigged more. It’s made to torture one’s mind—”

“Your mind.”

“—until they are driven insane and haunted by those stupid rings,” he continued to grumble, muttering an apology after he almost walked straight into a lady pushing a stroller.

“All for an arcade ring,” Beau mused, shaking his head. “Dude, you need to let it go.”

Mat turned to glare at the boy. “No. I have won every single one of these stupid games. I am gonna win this one too.”

Beau opened his mouth. “Mat, dude—”

“And I am gonna get that stupid ring and I will wear it every single day of my—”

The noise that left his mouth cut him short, something between a scream and squeak of surprise as he found his body hitting someone else instead of the clear path down the pier like he had assumed. He managed to stay on his feet, considering he was a six foot hockey player whose job revolved around being slammed into by other six foot hockey players.

His victim? Not so much.

“Fuck.”

It came out like a wheezed, as though the person was winded. Mat quickly spun around, the apologies already leaving his lips as he offered his hand out before he even took a look at the person he accidentally knocked over. And when he did, the apologies died on his tongue as he stared at you, his expression stuck between awe and something else that Beau would spend the better part of the next few years teasing him for.

“Do you even watch where you are going?”

“Yeah,” Mat replied dumbly, staring at you like he was lost in a daze.

“Clearly not,” you murmured but still took his hand, giving him an odd look when it took longer than a few seconds before he realised and helped you up.

“I’m Mat,” he blurted out before he even let go of your hand. “And I’m sorry.”

Your lips twitched. “I accept your apology, Mat.”

“And your name?” He asked, not even trying to be subtle about it (if Beau’s snort was anything to go by).

Mat feld winded himself when you smiled as you told him your name.

…

February 2022

“So, let me get this straight.”

“I am tired of repeating myself.”

“You’re taking her out on Valentine’s Day—”

“Not for Valentine’s Day!”

“Yeah, sorry, my bad. You are taking your friend who you are desperately in love with out on Valentine's Day. How silly of me to take that the wrong way.”

Mat rolled his eyes, even if Beau couldn’t currently see him. He tucked his free hand into his jacket pocket, the other one curled around his phone as his eyes continued to wander over the pink and red decorations dotted all over the place. It made his nose scrunch up.

“It was the only day we both had free,” Mat insisted, his cheeks tinting pink for a whole different reason other than the cold, nipping weather of winter in New York.

“No denial about the ‘in love’ part.”

“Shut up,” he gritted through clenched teeth, as if anyone else could hear Beau except him.

“It’s just a little pathetic—”

“I didn’t ask,” Mat deadpanned, trying to ignore how hot his face now felt. “I don’t even know why I called you.”

“Because you needed a pep talk to finally make a move.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Mat grumbled, ignoring whatever protests he received on the other side as he quickly pressed the red button before shoving his phone into his pocket with a huff. He was so lost in muttering to himself under his breath that he hadn’t noticed you approaching.

“Woah,” you laughed, hands up in mock defence at the way he jumped out of his skin. “You good?”

“Yeah, I just—” He waved it off, an easy and genuine smile on his lips as he took in the way you were bundled up, an Islanders scarf around your neck. “Ready to have your ass kicked?”

Your lips twitched. “Ready to cry over the ring toss again?”

He did not, in fact, cry over the ring toss but he was undoubtedly grumpy by the time the two of you settled down on one of the benches looking out towards the beach, huffing as he took an aggressive bite from the pretzel that definitely didn’t fit his diet plan.

“C’mon,” you laughed, nudging your shoulder against his. “It’s just a game.”

“It’s a stupid game,” Mat retorted.

“Beau was right, you take it way too seriously,” you commented, playful and lighthearted with a gleam in your eyes. Like you were so unaware that the comfort you shared with his friends made his chest tighten in the best way possible.

“You have a little—” He cut himself off, gesturing to the side of your lip.

Your brows furrowed, your thumb attempting to swipe the brown sugar away just to miss completely. “Did I get it?”

“No, I—here, let me,” Mat murmured, reaching over to gently swipe the brown sugar away. But his thumb lingered, his eyes locked on your lips before glancing up at you. He waited for you to pull away but you just stared back.

For a moment, Mat wondered if you were going to suddenly pull away and pretend the small moment never happened.

For a moment, Mat’s stomach dropped at the thought this would be as far as he got with you.

And then you were leaning forward, your lips pressed against his and the pretzels long forgotten.

His body reacted faster than his brain did, kissing you back as the sweet taste of cinnamon and sugar overwhelmed him. The pretzel was left on the bench between you, his hands cupping your face as he sunk into the kiss, as he sunk into your embrace.

And only when you pulled back to smile at him did his brain seem to realise what had just happened.

And only then did he grin right back at you.

…

May 2022

“God, hockey is brutal.”

Mat paused, raising his brows. “Just realised that?”

“Sorry, I know you didn’t want to talk about hockey after—” You cut yourself off, wincing a little as you stood in his kitchen, just dressed in one of his shirts (ironically, an Islanders one with the number thirteen above your heart) with a mug of coffee in hand. “Ignore me. Watch the eggs don’t burn.”

Mat snorted. “What has made you realise hockey is so brutal?”

“Just kinda thinking about it,” you shrugged, your gaze on the rim of your mug rather than his face. It made him frown a little. “Like, I know it’s a part of the sport but, fuck, all it takes is one bad hit and—”

“Woah, hey,” Mat’s frown deepened as he reached for you, the stove turned off, the eggs forgotten and his hand reaching to place the coffee mug on the counter. He took your face in his hands, his thumbs smoothing over the apples of your cheeks.

“Sorry,” you laughed, but it sounded a bit wet and weak to his ears. He tilted your head up, his lips pressed together when he noticed how glossy your eyes were. “I guess I just never realised how brutal the sport was until I met you. And you guys play through so many injuries and I know your season is over now but the idea of you pushing yourself even more is just—”

“Come back home with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come back home with me for the summer,” Mat repeated, a soft smile on his lips.

You blinked again, your confusion only growing. “Did you not just hear me—”

“I did,” Mat interrupted, nodding his head with the look of adoration still written plainly across his face. “And all I could think was, ‘wow, how lucky am I to have this amazing girl care about me so much’ and I just…I am lucky. So lucky. And I wanna show other people how lucky I am. I want to show my family how lucky I am.”

Your face softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mat murmured. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered before leaning in, a soft and lingering kiss left on his lips before you pulled back. “And I’m lucky you care about me too.”

“I’m really glad I bumped into you that day in Coney Island,” Mat confessed, something warm and comforting bubbling in his stomach at the sight of your smile.

“Yeah, me too,” you hummed, a glint of mischief in your eyes. “And I love you even if you can’t win the ring toss—”

Mat groaned, his head dropping to the crook of your neck. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

…

March 2023

“You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Mat blinked, his thoughts torn away from him as he turned to find you settling down onto the bench next to him, two pretzels in your hand. He murmured a small ‘thanks’ as he took one of the pretzels from you, staring at the sugary cinnamon sticks with little appetite.

“Hide what?” Mat asked.

“Mat,” you said his name in a way that made his chest tighten, so soft and gentle, like he was some scared animal you were slowly approaching. “Baby, I know you miss him. You don’t have to pretend.”

His eyes dropped back to the pretzel in his hands.

Because it was true. He did miss Beau. He missed Beau more than he cared to admit. And it was stupid because he knew this was how hockey worked, he had friends traded and sent away multiple times before. It was a part of the sport.

But he just didn’t think it would ever hurt this bad, even weeks after the trade had happened. His focus should have been the season and the playoffs approaching. He should have been focused on the team.

But every time he went on the ice, he couldn’t help but feel like a part of him was missing when he lifted his head and didn’t see Beau there, ready to accept his pass.

“There was this small part of me that just thought—” Mat paused, letting out a heavy sigh. “That we would be on the same team forever, you know? That it would always be me and him. That we would win the Cup together and…yeah.”

“I know,” you whispered, soft and soothing as you placed your head on his shoulder and let him lean his head against yours. “You never know. You two will find your way back to each other.”

His lips twitched into a sad smile. “Maybe.”

“You were always meant to find each other in this life,” you told him, sounding so sincere and genuine over the distant cheers and screams and buzzing noise of the amusement park behind you. “Just because you don’t live minutes away anymore, doesn’t mean that ends. He is always gonna be there for you, just like I am.”

Mat pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Thank you.”

“Always, Mat. Always.”

…

July 2023

“Home, sweet home!”

Mat winced a little as his voice echoed through the empty apartment, the walls bare and the place a little dusty. But it was yours and it made it perfect, it made the keys in his hand feel heavier and more special than his last set.

“Fuck, we have so much to unpack,” you commented but you sounded happy. You both did, despite the state of exhaustion the last few days left you, attempting to pack up both of your apartments and moving into your new shared place.

“That is a later problem,” Mat waved you off, reaching towards you so he could wind his arms around your waist and pull you closer. “We have a mattress and takeout menus, what else do we need?”

“Preferably some sheets,” you teased, not even attempting to pull yourself out of his hold. You were content exactly where you were. “I’m, like, ninety percent sure you put them in the wrong box.”

“Blame the pretty one,” Mat huffed, cackling when you playfully pinched his hip. “Kidding, baby, you’re obviously the pretty one in the relationship.”

“We can both be pretty,” you rolled your eyes before laying your head on his chest, smiling when you felt him lean his chin on top. “Can’t wait to make this place ours.”

“It’s gonna be so pretty so it can match us,” Mat murmured, grinning when you laughed in response.

“It looks so plain right now, it’s freaky,” you commented, half-hearted with no real heaviness to your words. It would take a few days for you both to make it feel homely and you were looking forward to it.

But Mat was already untangling himself from your hold, grinning as he began tugging you towards the kitchen. “We can put our first proper decoration up!”

Your brows furrowed together in confusion. “What? But the boxes are—”

You cut yourself off as you watched Mat reach into the pocket of his sweatpants, grinning widely as he pulled out a small magenet and slapped it on the middle of the very bland fridge. He looked at the magnet with great pride before turning to you, his smile only growing.

You let out a laugh at the sight of the Coney Island magnet on the fridge. “Perfect.”

“Our first home,” Mat grinned, pulling you back in so he could smack a kiss on your lips. “The first of many.”

“I’m not moving for at least another few years,” you joked, smiling against his lips. “This whole thing was exhausting.”

“As long as it’s with you, I don’t really care.”

…

January 2024

“I need your help.”

“Oh god, what have you done?”

Mat frowned at his phone for a moment, forgetting about the bundling nerves that had left him on edge for the last week. He was sure you were starting to pick up on it, even if you hadn’t mentioned as much—thankfully. But after a week of waiting, he finally had the perfect opportunity to call his sister whilst you were out of the house.

“I have done nothing. Yet.”

His sister sighed. “Mathew—”

“No full names needed,” he murmured, his cheeks burning as he leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling with determination that was quickly dwindling the longer the call went on. “I just…I need your help.”

“With?”

“A ring.”

His frown deepened when Liana laughed. “If this is about that arcade game Beau told me about—”

“What? No,” he sighed, his blush only deepening. “I need help picking a ring. A real ring. An engagement ring.”

His sister was silent for a few moments before she spoke. “Holy shit. You’re really gonna do it?”

Mat couldn’t even bite back his smile. “I want to. This summer, maybe. But I need a ring and I was thinking you could help while we’re up for All Stars and—”

“Sold. Done. I’m not letting you pick an ugly ring for my future sister-in-law.”

“She might still say no,” Mat reminded her, even if his stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought.

“Of course she won’t,” Liana retorted, sounding so confident that Mat almost wanted to believe her wholeheartedly. “Especially if you let me help pick a ring.”

Mat pressed his lips together. “I really want to find the perfect ring.”

“We will. She is going to love it, Mat. She is going to say yes.”

“Good,” he murmured, grinning. “Because she’s it for me. She’s the only person I wanna give a ring to.”

“You’re such a sap.”

“Shut up.”

…

October 2024

He couldn’t even remember what started the argument.

If he was being honest, the tension had been brewing for a while. It had been a combination of things and none of them had made the atmosphere around the apartment much better. Small, silly things that shouldn’t have been that bad but felt like the end of the world as they were thrown at you both, one after the other.

Mat knew it was bad.

He just didn’t think it was this bad.

It felt like the two of you had been at it for hours, and maybe you had. He couldn’t tell anymore, he didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours the two of you had stood on opposite sides of the living room, yelling and screaming and crying. It all felt too much, like it was getting bigger and bigger, just waiting to pop.

And then it fucking did.

“I-I can’t do this anymore.”

And Mat felt like a deflating balloon, the air escaping his lungs as he found himself staring at you, his mouth unable to voice any of the thoughts he wanted to say.

“Maybe,” you let out a bitter laugh, pained and hurt and weak. “Maybe we just aren’t forever, Mat. Maybe you’re not ready to let anything but hockey be your forever.”

And you were wrong.

Deep down, Mat knew you were wrong and his brain was screaming for him to tell you just how wrong you were. Because the fight had escalated and spun out of control and he should have grabbed the wheel with both hands to stabilise you both.

But he was hurt and he was petty and he felt his mouth saying the exact opposite of how he felt.

“Maybe you’re right.”

The way your whole body deflated and your face fell would haunt his nightmares for nights to come, along with the sound of the apartment door slamming shut as you left and never looked back.

…

Present – November 2024

Once upon a time, the biggest challenge Coney Island provided him was the damn ring toss game. It had been like that for years.

But now, he sat on the bench, the plastic ring between his fingers feeling as heavy as the other ring in his pocket. He didn’t feel victorious, he didn’t feel anything but emptiness. Because neither ring meant anything when he was here alone, when he had failed to give you both.

The ring toss was barely a challenge compared to returning to this damn bench almost every day since he had pulled from the lineup with an injury that just felt like a mockery on top of everything else.

But he did it. He came back every single day because it hurt and he deserved it. He deserved to sit there and think about just what he lost. Because he had no idea where you were, he hadn’t heard a single word from you—not even Beau would tell him if he had heard from you.

Mat had let pride and something else just as stupid get in the way of his forever.

The least he could do was bear the cold, winter weather on that stupid bench until his fingers were too damn numb to hold the stupid arcade ring.

The least he could do was spend the rest of his days wondering if there was a universe where things were different, where he still had you, where he was able to see you one more time.

The least he could do was let his own thoughts about losing you forever haunt him.

The least he could do was hope the universe would give him one more fucking chance to fix everything with you, to at least give you the stupid arcade ring he once promised he would win for you.

The least he could do was apologise for not making you his centrefold like he knew you deserved.

Mat stared down at the phone in his hand, pressing your contact before he could talk himself out of it. He had to try. For you, for him, for the forever he knew you two could have.

He had to try.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello?”

#eras tour fic challenge #mat barzal #nhl #new york islanders #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal x you #mat barzal x y/n #mat barzal fic #mat barzal oneshot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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jooniperbonsai · 17 days ago

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Penalty Shot (pjm) | Part 1

Pairing: professionalhockeyplayer!jimin x minorleagueplayer!reader (afab)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 22,512

Release Date: December 24, 2024

Genre: Smut, holiday romance fluff, angst, hockeyau, holidayau, comedy, slight rivals to lovers

Summary: He's the worst hockey player on the worst team in the national league, with an awful attitude to go with it. You're the best player in the local chapter, but turned down your chance to go pro. After a scandal benches him for part of the season, he recruits your help to get him ice ready by the New Year.

Warnings: mentions of threesome, Jimin is bi, probably inaccurate ideas about hockey, Jimin is an asshole, swearing, misogyny in sports, slightly homophobic comments, hometown trauma, arranged marriage, corny Christmas references, holiday party stress, mentioned death of minor characters, teen pregnancy, abortion and discussions of abortion processes, emotions, and characteristics of shame angst, misunderstandings, Y/N is a self sacrificial person, fighting and threatening violence, alcohol, sexual innuendos, omg look it's Shinee's Minho as the role of bff, mention of random kpop artists on y/ns team, groping, oral (f receiving), hand jobs, unprotected sex, creampie, rivals but not, friends but not? Who knows, Christmas is all around and the cheer is in the air idk

a/n: It's here! I mean, kind of! Here's part 1 of what has become a monster of a fanfic. I just have 1. Learned so much about hockey it's ridiculous, and I feel like I need more time with these characters. To all who celebrate, Merry Christmas. I hope everyone enjoys this fic. Be easy on me with the proofing errors. I rushed the proof a bit to get it out on time.

“That’s it, babygirl; Cum on my cock. That’s it. Fuckkk.”

“No no no, what did I say? Did I say you could ride me? No. On your knees. Mouth open. Just your mouth, not your hands. Be a good boy or you won’t get my cum. There we go. Open. I said open. Do you want my cock or not? There we go. Ah-ah, swallow. That’s a good boy.”

“Fuck, Jimin, my turn, please please please.”

“What did I say about begging? There’s plenty to go around.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Close the damn laptop. I’ve seen enough.”

The sharp, wet slapping sounds and deep, guttural moans echoing through the conference room cuts off as the laptop is snapped shut. As if rehearsed, all bodies in the room turn toward the subject of the scandal, expectedly awaiting a very different response from the one they’re given.

“What? Everyone has sex, it’s not new,” Jimin says.

“Yes, everyone has sex. But not everyone is filming a sex tape, much less an orgy, and putting it out onto the internet,” Sophia, the public relations manager says.

“I didn’t put it on the internet. I’m not that stupid. And, it was a threesome, not an orgy.”

“Well, clearly you are stupid, if you thought attending, much less filming, your not-so-private sexual exploits wouldn’t come back to haunt you. And yet, shocker, they have, and we are swiftly becoming the top headline in every tabloid magazine on the planet. You seriously thought none of these participants would want to brag about how they bedded the bad boy of the UHL?”

“Park, you finished off last season being one of the most famous people in the Universal Hockey League, and not in a good way. Need I remind you that we just spent the whole summer trying to implement a marketing campaign to improve sales of your jerseys since manufacturers don’t even want to make them? That after ‘Park the Park’ became a trending hashtag on every social media site, you suddenly caught attention as the ‘Hottest But Worst Player in Professional Sports’?” Coach sighs heavily into his hands, clenching his fists as if he needs to punch something.

It’s very much the Coach way. It’s not unheard of for him to be taking swings at the punching bag during gym training days. Clearly this is how he releases steam.

Only the problem is, the steam is channeled directly at Jimin.

“I thought any press is considered good press.”

Sophia snorts and rolls her eyes. “That is a load of bullshit that PR reps say to make shitheads like you feel better. But I’m not here to soothe your ego. I think it’s been stroked enough, based on what we all just saw.” She clears her throat, shaking her head. “The point is, JImin, you’ve cost this team a lot, and at this point, I can’t advise the staff enough to let you go. You’ve caused fights on the ice that almost turned lethal, you have the worst stats, and the highest lien we’ve had to take out after you damaged the rink in LA and caused them to end their season early. In any other job, you’d be fired by now.”

Sophia scoops her laptop up off the table and places it in her bag. She stands, hastily collecting her other things. Her assistant-slash-lackey, some nameless, anxious young woman, follows suit, clattering her impressive collection of color-coded pens across the conference table. She bows in apology, shakily attempting to collect her things. No one, including Sophia, moves to help.

“I have to go, because I need to figure out some way to spin this story now that we are receiving hundreds of requests for interviews, quotes, and extra footage.” She fake gags, as if Jimin and the debauching act on the screen is repulsive to her. “Stay off social media. Do not make a single claim unless advised by your lawyers. We are petitioning the website to take the video down. I know it’s out there forever, but I think if we act fast we can reduce views and hopefully end its virality quickly. Once I hear back from the firm I’ll send you an update.”

The door shuts behind them slowly, but once the final click ensures that no one outside can hear what’s being discussed, Jimin turns to see the deep set frown of Coach and Assistant Coach Jay sharply aimed toward him.

“Do you. Have. Any fucking idea. How bad this looks?” Coach’s voice is clipped, fury piercing through his staccatoed breath. Gone is the negotiator, the collected cool that he’d worn while Sophia was here. Instead is the same anger and resentment that Jimin has gotten used to experiencing in the locker room before and after every game, as well as his many meetings as of late.

“It only looks bad because people take shit way too seriously. If this was a threesome with two women, I’m sure it wouldn’t be blowing up right now. But add a man into the mix and all the homophobes come with their torches and pitchforks. This’ll all blow over in a few weeks, or days even depending on what new scandal the tabloids decide will get the most clicks. Really, Coach, it’ll be okay.”

A vein protrudes from Coach’s neck, and he huffs a heavy sigh. “You’re missing the point, Park. It’s bad because it’s gay or bisexual or pansexual or whatever the hell your generation is calling things now. But that’s only part of it. All those celebrity gossip pages have been reporting on you for months as is, detailing your explicit sexual appetite and partying with celebrities. You’ve built a reputation for yourself as a playboy, and they’re eating that shit up. And maybe that would all be fine and fun and you could be the next Travis Kelce of the world toting around your celebrity fuck buddies, but there’s one thing Kelce’s got that you don’t.”

“…Taylor Swift? Whiteness? A mustache?”

“No you dumbass, talent. Travis Kelce is good at his sport, Jimin, and you fucking suck at yours.” Jay interjects. He reaches into his padfolio, pulling out a complex spreadsheet. “We’ve pulled the totals of all the stats. In the Universal Hockey League, you have the lowest stats out of every active player. Minor players are doing better than you. A hell of a lot better.”

Jimin reaches out and takes the page, scanning it, brows furrowed. “Okay, so I need to clean up my game a little bit. I don’t see how those two things are connected.”

“Then let me explain it to you, son.” Coach leans back in his chair, revealing the lower portion of his suit coat, stained from the bit of pasta sauce that dribbled down during his lunch. Jimin finds himself staring at it for so long that it takes Coach three tries before his attempts at calling Jimin’s attention actually works.

“Focus, Park.”

“Sorry,” he responds reflexively.

“Basically, what Sophia said in the meeting is true. I have been advised by her as the official Public Relations Director to fire you. You’ve caused significant risk in various ways. And what I didn’t tell her is that the manager of the Bells and team owner both called me this morning worrying about the integrity of the team. Your little bullshit behaviors have been adding up. Not only are you impossible to market to Bells fans, you’re untradeable and undesirable to any other team. No one wants the Scarlet A you’ve tainted the team with.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow. He didn’t know Coach was so familiar with classic literature.

“The point is, investors are backing out. Brand deals are falling through. The capital gains of our team are dwindling because we have a shitty player with an even shittier attitude.”

It feels like a brick has been launched at Jimin’s chest. A hot, crumpling feeling washes over him, and the very cool and collected nature he’s kept fresh this whole meeting has now taken the backseat.

“I don’t know what happened to you, Park, but you weren’t always this way. When I scouted you and signed you onto the Bells, you were just this young kid with a dream. You loved the game more than you loved the fame. I miss that guy. That’s the one who I wanted. I wanted the fresh energy of early morning practices led by a player with eagerness and potential. And you were that for a while.

“But all I’ve seen in the last two seasons is someone who cares about hair gel and being an A-lister for afterparties. When you’re supposed to be driving the net, you’re getting flanked. You can’t control your mouth so you start chirpin’ and hand every opposing team at least one power play, usually in the third period and leaving your team to handle the mess you created as you sit in the box.”

Heat floods Jimin’s cheeks. “Am I supposed to just let all those guys walk all over me? I’m one of the shorter players in the league, and they love to talk shit.”

“Of course they love to talk shit when you’re such an easy target! It's a practical strategy! If you target the hothead, they’ll take themselves out of the game! They don’t even need to be good to do that!”

“Isn’t that allegedly your strategy anyway?” Jay says, raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem like a very good one.”

“Shut up, Jay,” Jimin retorts, blowing air sharply out of his nose.

“Don’t you two get started on me now,” Coach says, snapping his fingers. Jimin refocuses his gaze.

“So, what does that mean for me then? Am I fired? Just like that?” He folds his arms over his chest defensively.

Coach rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know, son. It depends on what you want from this.”

This shocks Jimin. Is he seriously being asked if he wants to be fired? Isn’t the answer obvious? He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by Coach.

“What I mean, is that now is a good time to think about your goals. Do you just want to be a celebrity or do you want to be a player? A good one, one who makes his team proud.”

His chest twists with sadness. For nearly ten years, Jimin has been with the Bells. He’d been scouted by Coach himself at the age of 19, having just completed high school and graduating from his own league. During the try-out period, he’d been one of the best, and after a summer of ups and downs, he was offered a contract to be the rookie starter of the season.

“I want to play. You know that. You know how much this means to me!” His voice trembles as the pain in his chest spring tears into his eyes.

Coach gives him a sympathetic smile, nodding. “I do. At least, I used to. But now, I need you to prove it to me. To all of us. Which is why I think this break will be good for you to do so.”

He knits his eyebrows, counting how many days of break he’ll have over the holidays. Then he nods. “Sure. It’s not much, I know, since we have a game between Christmas and the New Year, and one next week, but I’ll come to the arena every day, morning ‘til night. I’ll do explosion drills and I’ll rework my stickhandling. Shit, I’ll even do one better. I know we’ve been struggling to get the puck out of our zone, so I’ll focus on drills that shift us into neutral position. I know Zelensky was complaining about that last game and–”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down kid. I’m glad to hear you’re taking this matter seriously, but it’s not going to correct itself in a matter of days. It’s going to have to be a change in attitude. You need to learn how to not let every little thing trigger you on and off the ice. That’s going to take some time. Therapy, maybe.”

“I’ll get a therapist. Right after this, I’ll call my friend Yoongi who can recommend me to someone and…” But already they’ve moved on, Jimin’s promise hanging in the air.

Coach opens the folder he has in front of him before digging into the pocket of his jacket to fish around for something. He produces a glasses case, and then pulls out his reading glasses, placing them on the bridge of his nose. “Let’s see here. What are you thinking, Jay?”

Jay careens his body to glance over at the schedule Coach has unfolded and laid before them. “Well, you already know what I think.”

Jimin and Jay haven’t always had such a sour relationship. They were friends once, before Jay was hired as the Assistant Coach. Before there was a significant power imbalance between them. Most days, they can get by without making snarky remarks. Some days, Jimin even likes the guy still. Jay is a good AC. He looks at problems with a square eye, knows usually before anyone else what strategy the opposing team is laying out. He protects and vouches for all his players in press meetings, including Jimin. But when he doesn’t have to be doing his job, Jay is ready to cut down anyone and everyone who gets in his way of going home early.

Jimin sighs, looking around the conference room. A framed poster from the 2000 season Choice Cup championship stares back at him. It’s faded, but he can see the beaming face of his favorite player: Lee Wonhyuk.

Wonhyuk is seen as a hockey legend, having more hat tricks than anyone in Bells’ history. Always a balanced player, he led his team to the 2000 Choice Cup Playoffs. Jimin was just a kid then, but that was what started his love for hockey.

“Hmm, well, then I think this is going to be the only option. Park, you’re suspended until late January.”

Jimin freezes. “What?”

“Suspension. I don’t want to see you on the bench in your jersey until the 23rd.” Coach marks the calendar with a thick black marker and nods. “That’ll give you enough time to start getting your shit together and maybe we will have cleared the air from this scandal long enough to recover some of our team’s reputation.”

Coach stands, gathering his folder and heading toward the door.

“B-but I said I was going to fix this! Did you not hear me promise I’d get a therapist?”

“We heard you, Jimin. That doesn’t suddenly erase everything you’ve done. How can we even be sure you’ll take it seriously? It doesn’t seem like you’ve taken much of your career seriously for a while now. You’re just lucky you’re not being fired,” Jay knocks his knuckles on the table, almost like a gavel from a judge.

“Don’t take this thing too much to heart, kid. A suspension is kind of like a break. A vacation even! Go enjoy Christmas with your folks and enjoy some eggnog. Watch one of those ridiculous Hallmark movies about the magic of Christmas making some uptight lawyer into a farm girl because of the hot ranch hand or whatever it is. Take a crash course in anger management, I don’t know. Either way, stay away from the team or else you might not be part of it for much longer.” Coach idles in the open doorway, wafting his hand for Jimin to leave. “Either way, let’s go, we need to go. Our time is up with the conference room and I gotta get home to the Mrs. to help make enough cookies to feed an army.”

Jimin deflates, grabbing his bag and shuffling out of the building and into the mild winter air swirling around him.

Christmas with his folks sounds like a nightmare. He hasn’t talked to them since the scandal leaked, despite the worried calls from his mother and the less-than-enthused follow-ups from his father who began calling on behalf of his mother.

He wasn’t planning on going home for the holidays. The excuse of his work schedule would keep him away another year, and he also suspects that the invite to attend Christmas is one that has no real urgency behind it. He hasn’t been home since his first year going pro. He was just a kid then, trying to balance this new life with the one he left and heal a broken heart. He had hopped on a plane home, only to have to turn around just after the Christmas dinner was finished. The entire flight he was nauseated from overeating.

The idea of coming home now, while being the biggest loser in the UHL just sounds like another way to rub salt in his wounds.

He drives home, calling Yoongi and getting a number for a therapist, only to realize that they would be closed until the new year. Of course they will. He turns the key to his apartment, he can’t help but feel like the place looks completely different even though it’s exactly as he left it a handful of hours ago: blinds drawn, warm-lit sconces on his display shelves in his living room giving everything a soft glow. Everything is pristine. Jimin values tidiness and control of his home. Of his life.

Which is why standing here with nothing to guide him for the next 30 days suddenly feels paralyzing. How is he supposed to become another person in a month? He’s not allowed at the arena for practice, and god, he knows everyone will recognize him at the next closest community one, though who knows if he’ll even be allowed in after how “inappropriate” his type of fame now is.

And it’s too warm here to skate outdoors. He checks the weather app on his phone. No snow is forecasted for the next two weeks. It’s looking to be a warm Christmas this year. Meanwhile, he knows from the location settings that his hometown he’s saved into his favorites is reporting frigid temperatures and at least a foot of snow by the end of the week. Which means the pond he spent so many winters on with his father learning the rules of hockey and practicing on will be frozen solid. A safe place to anonymously practice.

“Fuck.” He knows what he has to do. And as the phone rings one full time before an answer, Jimin tries not to feel the heat that floods to his cheeks in humiliation. “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

“Okay, now drive through! Tighter, tighter! That’s it Y/N! Go! Go! GO!”

You weave through the blur of jerseys, somehow avoiding a tripping maneuver that would have had you crashing head-first into the wall. Well, barely. Maybe you’d be easier to trip if you hadn’t calculated their positioning early enough in the quarter.

You drive forward, just as you’re told, scanning. Where’s the weakest link in the defensive lineup? Ah, there he is. Number 55. The taller one who has already spent half of the game tailing you as if he’s an offensive player. The one that said shit on socials about your pussy being so tight because of how much you enjoyed being anal.

As if that made any sense. Encountering an entitled, hot-headed loser in the minor leagues is about as unique as a tiny, crusty white dog being named Bella. They exist in abundance. Lucky for you, these are always the worst players on the team, and it became immediately obvious to you who was going to be your target for the rest of the game.

As you redirect your position toward his direction, 55 seems to have plenty to say.

“Hey Baby, why don’t you leave the big game to the big boys?” he coos, clumsily regripping his stick as he glides toward you.

“Mm, if this is a game for the big boys, then why are you here?” you say with a smile, cutting the puck around his right skate before tapping your stick against his. It clatters to the ground.

“You fucking bitch!” he yells, but you’re already well past him, leaving just the rookie goalie between you and the goal.

He tightens up when he sees you barreling toward him, the puck guarded tightly behind your stick as you weave it, turning slightly to your side to make it seem like you’re going in for a slapshot on the left side of the goal post.

Naturally, the goalie floats to the left, creating a huge gap on the right side.

Suddenly, you pivot, shooting the puck to the right, where your teammate, Minho, has stationed himself perfectly to receive and slide the puck neatly into the net.

Easy. As the buzzer sounds at the end of the game, you high five Minho, solidifying the hottest win streak the Griffins have had to date. The teams line up, a slur of “good games” parroting from the mouths of each team member as you go down the line tapping sticks. That is until you reach 55, whose expression has soured significantly.

“Fuckin’ slut,” he mutters under his breath. You pause, turning to him.

“But I thought my pussy was so tight since I’m so anal? Now I’m a slut? Wow, I really got around fast,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Leave it to the worst player on the team to have the most unoriginal, misogynistic insults. Maybe if you practiced holding your stick properly instead of trying to craft an insult, you would have one less thing to suck at. I’m sure not knowing how to handle your stick isn’t just a problem on the ice either. Yikes.”

You feel a nudge on your back, knowing your team captain, Christopher, is bringing up the rear.

“Easy there, Y/N, don’t make the guy pop a blood vessel when the season’s barely started,” he says and you chuckle. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t tolerate the sexist machismo you’re carting around. You’re lucky you didn’t lose some teeth this game. If I hear you chirping more bullshit on the ice next time, I’ll personally make sure you have a dentist on speed dial, we clear?”

Christopher smiles with shiny white teeth, making his threat all the more menacing despite his usual golden retriever energy.

55 deflates, giving you one more loathsome glare before spinning on the ice and skating away.

“Bang, Y/N, hustle! We have a party to get to!” Your coach, Bee, curls one gloved finger in, her impatience apparent on her face as she waits at the end of the rink.

You and Christopher shrug at each other before racing across the ice, the high of the victory still swirling in your head.

“Oh, bullshit! You know for a fact that if given the chance he would rather be cameoing in some D list movie in LA than getting his shit together. I get that he was your idol, Chris, but times have changed.”

Jihyo takes a swig of her beer, jabbing a tipsy finger in Christopher’s direction.

“So he’s gotten a little big-headed with his team. It happens to the best of us. Jimin still remains a hometown hero and we should be grateful he put us on the map!”

“What map? No one has come here to scout talent since Y/N was being considered for the UHL. I still don’t get why you turned that down. Fucking moron.” Wonpil scoffs as he bites down into his pizza, effectively silencing Christopher, and well, the rest of the room.

“Ah yes, the awkward silence about me missing out on my once chance,” you snort, glancing around the room as the remaining members of your team devour the last of the team holiday dinner. Bee left not long after the party started, getting some phone call that appeared urgent. Slowly, your families and friends made their way home, leaving only a handful of you behind in the old bar.

Taeyon, one of the servers you’ve known forever, smirks at you as you gather some plates together to make cleanup easier.

“Why did you turn it down?” Soobin, the youngest and shyest member of the team asks.

Everyone in the room turns to you. Everyone in the room besides Soobin knows why.

“Uh, well, a lot was going on in my life at the time. I had a scholarship to go to college, but then I’d heard that some coaches were coming to scout for the UHL during the summer so I deferred the fall semester, just in case. I was up for consideration and offered a spot with the Bells, but um…I was…sick. And he only had room for one person on his team. While he’d told me I was his first pick, I don’t know, I was…sick, and the other player deserved it. He had a future in it, a need to get out of this place more than I can say I had. So I declined the offer and made plans to use my scholarship and go to school.”

“I didn’t know you went to college,” Soobin says, eyes wide.

“She didn’t. Finish the story, Y/N.” Minho says before shoving a tree shaped cookie into his mouth.

You click your tongue. “Honestly. It was no big deal. It turns out my deferment voided my scholarship, so I didn’t go.”

“So you gave up on both the major leagues and college? Who’s the other player?”

You wince at the question, knowing the storm that Soobin has just unknowingly unleashed.

“What do you mean who’s the other player? Who do you think? She’s talking about Park Jimin, dumbass. He’s the only pro hockey player from here.” Christopher says, delivering a light punch to the maknae.

“Oh, right,” Soobin says, blushing in embarrassment.

“And look at what he did. He’s fucking up his chance in this after everything Y/N went through. He knows how to rub it in.” Wonpil downs the rest of his beer. “Honestly, Y/N. If I were you, I’d want to beat that guy to a pulp for being such a loser when you were the one who was rooting for him the most, it seems. Bastard. Good thing he doesn’t come around here much.”

“Yeah, ha, well. He’s probably off somewhere warm and sunny and not thinking about anyone but himself anyway. It’s for the best, probably.”

“I never knew you were sick,” Minho says later that evening as you two gather the empty bottles of soju and beer and place them on the counter for the barkeeper to collect. “Bummer that was aligning at the same time that you were about to make it big.”

“Yeah, it was. Um, hey, my mom wants to know if you’re going to the caroling party,” you say, hoping to change the subject.

“Oh, uh, no sorry I can’t make it. I have a date.”

“A victory and a hot date? Well, Minho, look at you! Looks like you’re growing up.”

He rolls his eyes, chucking a wadded up napkin at you. “Shut up. She’s nice. We are going to that Thai place downtown.”

“Well, it sounds like we need to get you out of here so you can get your ass downtown. Are you even going to be hungry? You ate like, a half a package of those cookies by yourself.”

“I’m a growing boy! I need my calories! And yes, I’ll be fine, Mom. And I’ll remember to wear my coat and hat too.”

“Well, good. It’s supposed to be sub zero tonight. Not the night to be outside without the proper gear.”

You grab your purse, doing one last run of the room before you shove Minho out the door to prepare for his date.

“Fuck, I thought you said it wasn’t too cold, Mom!” Jimin climbs into the passenger seat of his mother’s car, his luggage practically owning the backseat.

“It isn’t! It’s just a cold snap! I thought you’d be used to it from spending so much time in the cold.” She clicks the turn signal, pulling them away from the curb while Jimin fidgets with the heat settings. A thin stream of hot air puffs out of the ancient sedan.

“I usually have tons of padding on me and am moving so much I’m sweating. That’s different from whatever tundra this is.” The heat finally kicks in. “Where’s the Kia I got you for Christmas last year? Don’t tell me you traded it in for the cash or something.”

His mother scoffs, merging into the freeway. “No, we didn’t trade it in. It’s in the driveway. You can drive it while you’re here.”

“Why aren’t you driving it?” Her annoyance is annoying him.

“Because it’s too complicated. Touch screen and Bluetooth and heated seats and cameras. I don’t need that. I just need to go from one place to another place!”

The old car roars as if it is in agreement. Jimin rolls his eyes.

“You could have told me you wanted something simpler. I would have at least gotten you a car from this decade. This piece of junk’s falling apart.”

“It does what I need it to. It’s fine. I didn’t ask for a car anyway.” The lights of the bigger city begin to fade. With a metropolitan city so close to where he grew up, it’s shocking how much Jimin’s mother is clinging to the outdated ideas of small town life.

The strained conversation dies out as his mother turns up the volume of the radio. As the final commercial clears the airwaves, the car is flooded with Christmas carols.

“It’s good to have you home, my little star.”

Jimin’s chest wrenches with guilt as he hears the term of endearment. His mother always called him that when he was a child. For a long time, he really lived up to it. Lately though…

I’m more like a fallen star. A star on its way to burning out.

He lets the music do the talking for the remainder of the drive, and as his hometown comes into view, he’s surprised by how little has changed in the time he’s been gone. Everything is just more worn, older than it used to look. The faded sign of the main grocery store still has the same design.

The bar where Jimin drank his first beer is still open, and he watches as two people leave through the door, a tall, handsome guy who is laughing and smiling while a woman with her hood up hits him with her purse, also laughing.

For some reason, his stomach churns at the sight. God, what a miserable place to be stuck in. How can anyone still want to live here? How can anyone smile about the idea of being outside in that frigid air?

He grumbles to himself and folds his arms, hoping to trap some of the heat back in his body while his mother drives confidently to the sounds of jingling bells.

In the near decade since Jimin has last been home (he doesn’t count the quick stop-ins during longer layovers at the airport or his grandfather’s funeral), his childhood home has gone through enough renovations to disorient him but still create the same pang of nostalgia.

He goes to hang his coat up in the front hall closet and finds that there no longer is one. Instead, it’s an inset wall with a set of drawers tucked away. His parents have a new dog, Bada, who isn’t even all that new. He’s five now, a full fledged member of the family. Bada growls when Jimin walks through the door, but barely lifts his head off the couch cushion to do so before falling back asleep.

“Are you hungry?” his mother asks as Jimin pads into the kitchen.

“I ate on the plane,” he replies. His mother turns to him, her face twisted in disgust.

“Ugh, that’s not food they serve on those things. It’s cardboard! Here, come sit down; I have some rice and mackerel from lunch leftover. And soup. You’re so skinny. It’s time we plump you up.”

“I’m not skinny. I have a very specific diet and exercise regimen in order to stay light and fast on my feet while on the ice.”

But his mother has already left to duck into the kitchen, the sounds of the rice cooker turning on making Jimin wonder if she really had leftovers at all.

When she reappears about twenty minutes later, she comes with an entire filet of hot fish, black beans, radish kimchi, a mountain of rice, some clear broth soup, and cut up pears.

“Eat! Eat my son!” she orders, and Jimin obeys, his full stomach betraying him over the promise of home cooked food.

He is about to ask his mother where his father is when he hears the door open, his father bundled up tight with a dusting of snow on his coat.

“Storm blew in earlier than I thought.”

“Oh, honey. Come sit. Give me your coat, I'll hang it to dry.”

With a grunt from his father, he settles next to where his mother was sitting before, casting his eyes across the table.

“So you finally made it home to see your parents, huh? When’s the last time we saw you in person again?”

“Uh, I think last summer. When you guys came to visit.”

A year and a half. That was the last time they’d been partially together as a family. His brother comes home much more frequently, though this Christmas he’s in Hawaii with his girlfriend.

Lucky bastard.

“Well, it’s good to see you. How was the flight?”

“Fine,” Jimin responds awkwardly.

He and his father haven’t been close since he moved, and he’s gotten used to vague and scripted questions his father often asks.

His father nods, slurping his soup from his bowl.

“So did they fire you for being a porn star or is something else bringing you home.”

His cheeks flood with heat. Of course his father would bring this up.

“Um no, just suspended for a bit. And I'm not a porn star.”

His father shrugs and continues eating. “Hey if it’s what you want to do I’m not here to judge. Just wondering what brought you back home after years of trying to convince you. Your mother was so happy to hear from you that she deep cleaned the house.”

A heavy weight of guilt settles in Jimin’s gut. He’s been gone for so long. And while he knows his parents will never wish for anything to be different for him and his career—well, up to this point— the fact still remains that Jimin has been distant and detached since he moved away. He looks over to the curio cabinet that has been filled with his sports memorabilia. A photo of Jimin when he was on his first team, the bulldogs, sits in the back, Jimin’s two front teeth missing as he gives a gummy smile to the camera.

“It looks great, Eomma,” Jimin says to his mother when she returns, not even blinking an eye to the fact that his father took her spot.

“Well, thank you. Now eat up, before it gets cold.”

As the dinner carries on, Jimin learns that his mother has agreed to go to some neighborhood caroling event tonight.

“Do you even know who is hosting it?” he asks when his mother fails to name anyone associated with the event besides her friend.

“I’m sure she told me her name but I’ve forgotten. Names are hard to remember when your friend of a friend invites you. Even harder to say no.”

“But isn’t there a storm happening?” He glances out the window, confirming the heavier sheet of snow blowing around outside.

“Sure, but that’s no problem. It’ll make it more festive. Walking in a winter wonderland and all that.”

“We’re already in one. There’s like, a foot of snow out there.”

Jimin looks to his father, who has since abandoned the conversation for a sudoku puzzle.

“Well, I need the exercise. If you’re so concerned, you can always come.”

No. Absolutely not. The idea of caroling in a blizzard sounds like the bottom of the list of his favorite things. That’s just above dying.

But as he watches his mother bundle up for the snow and move to grab the keys to her dying sedan, something prompts him to snag the keys for the Kia off the hook, and after a few minutes of painfully shoving his body into his former winter wear his mother kept all those years, he walks out into the snow, insisting to his mother that he drive.

“Hot chocolate has arrived!” you sing, carrying a large steaming carton to the drove of community members who have shown up to bring “Christmas cheer to all”, as your mother has claimed.

It’s freezing. You have heat packs shoved into just about every nook and cranny of your body. Even as you pour the warm, sweet liquid into cups to be passed around, you have to fight the urge to shiver.

“Don’t worry, everyone! Once we get our bodies singing and moving, we’ll be warm in no time!”

“I thought you said there would be a heat shelter we can go to!” someone says among the crowd.

“Well, not exactly. It’ll be my house! I have my husband getting the snacks prepared now. And a warm, crackling fireplace. So let’s get this carolfest started!” Your mother beams, unfazed by the sour mood that has fallen upon the group.

With a deflated woo, the carolers set off on foot from the parking lot.

You have been specifically instructed to wait ten minutes past start time in case anyone else shows up. But given how fast the clouds have rolled in to dump more snow on you, you don’t foresee anyone else coming.

Still, you abide by your mother’s wishes, pulling your hood over your hat and rewrapping your scarf over your nose, hoping that will encourage less heat to escape.

Just as your timer buzzes for you to ditch the greeter position and catch up to the crowd, you see a Kia pull into the parking lot, two people shuffling out toward you.

“Did I miss it? Is it over?!” the woman says, panicked.

“No, no, they just got started. They’re just down here.” You pull out your mother’s hand-drawn map she passed out to all participants at the start, and point to the one block your mother marked with a star for newcomers. “We will be able to catch up to them easily.”

“Ah, thank you! Thank you! My son is visiting from out of town, so I was a little late.”

“It’s no issue, really, this is a volunteer activity. I’m just glad you made it in this snowstorm. Would either of you like some hot cocoa? Or hand warmers? I have some extra.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. Nothing for me, really, but maybe my son would like some.” The woman pivots her body toward her son, who is still idling by the car, bundled up from head to toe and appears to be staring at you. “Jimin! Come here!”

The second you hear the name, you freeze.

No. There’s no way he’s here. Because he never comes home for Christmas. He’s always playing hockey around the holidays. But then you remember. He’s suspended. So where would he be able to hide and wait for his scandal to blow over. Where else could he hide but here?

Slowly, the bundle moves, shuffling his way toward you. You’re prepared for an awkward conversation, for some unenthused hey to leave his lips, but instead he says nothing, just looks at his mother.

“What?” he asks. His voice is velvety and soft, just like you remember. Even annoyed, it’s a powerless annoyance, one without much heft to sting.

“Hand warmers. Hot cocoa.” His mother gestures, forcing his gaze to follow her hands and over to you.

“No thanks,” he says flatly. When his eyes meet yours, they’re empty, and something about how impersonal it is sours your stomach.

Jimin’s mother sighs before turning to you and smiling. “Is this the way we go?” she asks. You cock your head, confused.

Before you can ask what she’s talking about, Jimin interjects. “Yes, Eomma, it’s this way. Come on. Let’s get this holiday bullshit over with.”

His mother trudges forward and for a moment you’re too shocked to move. You stand there as the snow continues to float down onto your coat and bare hands, until Jimin speaks again.

“Uh, hey. You comin’ or…?”

You blink up at him, still seeing no recognition in his face, no anger, nothing.

“Oh, uh yeah,” you say, quickly depositing the leftover hot z cocoa and maps into your car and matching your pace to Jimin’s. “So, um, how have you been?”

You don’t risk looking at him, insteading focusing on placing your feet carefully into the snow.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” he says, not quite answering your question.

“Oh. Yeah, it is.” You pull a heat warmer out of your pocket. “Here, take this.”

He eyes it for a moment, then relents, taking the heat pack from your warm palm. “Thanks.”

The crunch of snow under you sounds loud, an occasional crack as you step on a patch of ice fills the silence.

“So, you’re home for the holidays?” you ask lightly.

He snorts. “Something like that. Although you’ve probably heard everything on the news already.”

“Something like that,” you parrot, turning the corner of the parking lot to head down the side street you know the carolers will be on. Mrs. Park has outpaced the both of you, already joining the cluster of people on the far end of the block.

“Are you home for the holidays too?” he asks and you frown, clearing your throat.

“Oh, um, not really. I live here. Well not here, here, but in town.”

“Right. Hm. Well…cool. And you grew up here?”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning toward him.

“What?” he asks, facing you. His plump lips look even more rosy in the cold, and his nose has gotten red to match.

“Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you don’t know me.”

His eyes flick across your face and he furrows his brow. “Why?.”

“What do you mean why? You know damn well why.”

He kicks at the snow under his foot. “Well, I mean we were good at pretending we didn’t know each other for so long, Y/N,” he says sharply. “So you’ll have to forgive me if that’s an old habit.”

Your heart sinks, and you shove your tongue into your cheek. “Right. Forget the fact that you were the one who initiated it. But the truth is that I do know you, Jimin. Your mom seems nice, by the way.”

His head snaps up and he glares at you. “Are we just going to pick up on the same argument from a decade ago? I might have initiated but you’re the one who shut me out and never let me know what was going on. I think then, maybe it makes sense to say I don’t know you. And you may have read everything the tabloids have said about me, but let’s make one thing clear. You don’t know me, anymore, Y/N. You know nothing about me at all. So don’t start acting like you do.”

His voice is cold, this time a true seething annoyance and anger leaking out of his words.

You blow air through your lips. “Wow, yeah I guess I don’t. The Jimin I used to know wouldn’t jump down my throat the second that I ask him if he’s home for the holidays. Some hot headed macho temper you’ve got there.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Y/N.”

He begins to stomp off toward the crowd, but clearly thinks better of it as he waits for you to catch up.

“Temper tantrum over?” you say sarcastically, and he grumbles under his breath. “What was that?”

“I said it wasn’t a temper tantrum. You’d be pissed too if your hockey career was pulled away from you because someone couldn’t keep shit to themselves.”

Your mouth drops open, and while your stomach churns, all you can do is laugh, your laughter forcing you to misstep in the snow and land right on your ass, which only leads to more laughter.

“What is wrong with you?” Jimin says, his eyes cast down on you judgingly.

“Oof, man, I haven’t had a laugh like that in forever. A good joke coming from you of all people.”

You pull yourself up from the snow, ignoring his outstretched hand in front of you.

“I don’t think it’s all that funny.”

“Yeah, well, you really should learn to lighten up,” you say, dusting the clods of snow from your legs. ”And work on that temper of yours.”

“You sound like my coach,” he says, lifting his eyebrow. “Did he send you to watch me?”

You squint your eyes at him. “Huh?”

“Forget it. Let’s get this shit over with so I can go dethaw in the comfort of my own home.”

“Oh yes, heaven forbid Mr. Heatmeiser is out in the snow for any longer.”

Jimin is pretty sure that he’s a lost cause when it comes to redeeming himself as a somewhat decent person.

He’s not sure what compelled him to lie and pretend he didn’t know you. Maybe it’s because when he stepped out of the Kia and he realized it was you, his throat dried up. Over the last decade, he’s distracted himself from thoughts about you and what happened when he left home. How much it destroyed him when you stood in front of him during one of the last days of warm weather and called it all off.

He was so in love with you. So in love even though you were his biggest competition. Someone who had just as much of a chance at going pro as him. Maybe even more so. And while your town was too big to know everyone, but too small to not recognize people, Jimin had always known you. Had watched you on the rink practicing for your figure lessons while he waited for junior hockey practice. And how slowly your movements became less dainty and more powerful, less whimsical and more fierce as you dashed around the ice to be faster than everyone else.

One day you were tossed into hockey with him, but as you both grew older and your bodies shaped themselves around different figures of puberty, it led to the eventual discontinuation of co-eds.

His mother wouldn’t remember you. Because Jimin never told his strict parents that he was breaking the rules and went to your home games when his schedule allowed it in high school. That in the spring of his senior year, he finally got the guts to ask you out after he heard you’d broken up with your shitty boyfriend. That nearly every night after the first date he spent sneaking in through your bedroom window or driving you around in his car with the windows down.

When he said he was going to practice, you always were in the parking lot waiting for him, your skates and gear ready for you two to practice drills and place bets on who could win in a shoot-out, only for him to buy you a blue raspberry slushie an hour later as you glowed from your victory, poking your stained tongue out at him to tease him.

He loved that flavor when he tasted it on you. How many of those sweet kisses had turned hot and filthy, leading to your little whimpers and cute little sighs as he thrust into you in his back seat when everyone had left for the night?

You told him you hadn’t told anyone you were together either. Not because your family wouldn’t understand, but because if word got out in this town, the chances of someone telling Jimin’s parents would mean the end of your relationship. It was easy, you said, to let things be private and just for you.

Which is why the breakup felt like an unexpected death sentence when it happened. You’d both been scouted by Coach, and Jimin was certain you were going to be the one signed to the Bells.

But then you’d both gone to a grad party for a classmate in August. And much like every other social event, you’d agreed to not be too friendly together, to not rock the boat of parental expectations or be a part of the town gossip. So you went to the party with your separate friend groups, danced around each other but never with each other. When one of the girls drunkenly stuck her tongue down Jimin’s throat, you watched without jealousy. And when Jimin begged on the walk to his car for you to forgive him, you’d laughed and said easily that there was nothing to forgive because he didn’t consent to the kiss.

But after that night, after you showered him with plenty of kisses in many places he did consent to and closed the door to his car, everything shifted.

Suddenly, you were absent from try-outs and had texted Jimin saying you were sick. When he offered to come over, you replied that he needed to stay away for a bit. He’d tried to talk to you, but you often left his texts on read. After two weeks of pseudo ghosting, he had finally had enough.

This wasn’t what you did. Something was clearly wrong. And after hearing that day that he’d officially been selected to contract with the Bells, he needed answers. He drove over to your house and snuck into your bedroom when your light was on.

You were sitting on your bed, hair neat and dressed comfortably, with no signs of ailment despite what you’d said before.

“So you’re feeling better I see. You don’t look very sick,” he said, bewildered at how normal you seemed.

“It wasn’t that kind of sickness,” you’d replied, teeth gritted as you turned down the volume of your TV.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me?” His anger had started building, lifting the volume of his voice to above the whisper-level policy that you’d both implemented.

“Shhh, my parents will hear you.”

“Fuck it! Let them hear me! It’s stupid to keep this shit a secret anymore!”

Your jaw had dropped. You had looked at him with venom. “I was only keeping it a secret for you!”

“Why? Why then was that a secret you could keep between us but you couldn’t even tell me what’s been going on! Are you mad about the party? About that kiss?”

By that point, both of you were talking loudly, and Jimin had heard your parents call up to ask you who was in your room.

“Don’t worry about it!” you called back, returning to your argument. “I can’t believe you think I’m mad about that when I told you it was fine!”

“What do you expect me to think when that’s the last time I saw you? The last time things were normal between us, Y/N?”

“Nothing between us has ever been normal, Jimin.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re rivals. Competition for each other. You really think that this would hold up if either of us went pro? How would that work? The sore loser just carts themselves behind the other and sits on the sidelines despite their dream being crushed?”

“What? Baby, that’s crazy. Is that how you would feel if I was signed?”

“Maybe, but maybe you’d feel that way.”

“Y/N, I wouldn’t. I would be so happy for you. And maybe I would still have my chance too. To get signed for another team or–”

“And then be on opposite schedules in different places? Really? You think that would work out?”

“It could! Why are you being this way? Did you fake being sick because you’ve been rotting in here thinking about things that haven’t even happened yet?”

You shook your head. “No, I was sick but it’s whatever now. Anyway, I know you were signed today. Coach called me.”

An early fall breeze blew through the open window, settling the heat between you.

“I haven’t signed yet,” he said quietly.

“You will.”

“Maybe I won’t!”

“Oh be serious for one fucking second, Jimin. All summer you’ve talked about this. This is your dream. This has always been your dream.”

“Yeah well that was before you! Before this.”

“What is this?”

“Love! I’m in love with you. I want to spend every day of my life with you, don’t you know that? Since we were kids on the ice, when you were a failed ice skater because you were too gruff. Don’t you love me?”

Tears had welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t move from your bed.

“You can’t give up on hockey Jimin.”

“I’m not going to, Y/N. Now tell me, do you love me, too?”

He sat down on the edge of your bed, looking over at you sadly. He wanted so badly to hold you, to wipe away your tears, but he knew if he moved any closer, you’d be sure to kick him out. He sat anxiously as you silently looked at him, more tears spilling forward.

“You need to leave.”

“Then tell me you don’t love me. If you say that, I’ll climb through that window and I promise I will never bother you again.”

“Stop it. Please, just go home.”

“What is wrong? What happened? I don’t understand. We were fine. Please, tell me.”

The desperation in Jimin’s voice cracked him open, tears falling down his face too.

“It’s over, Jimin. I’m breaking up with you.” You didn’t look him in the eye as you said it. Instead your eyes were fixed on your shelf above your dresser, decorated with trophies, team photos, and medals from your years of hockey. Noticeably gone from that shelf was the stuffed purple whale he’d gotten you from an arcade that summer.

When he looked around, that’s when he noticed every trace of him was gone from your bedroom. The little things you’d put there as symbols of your relationship like postcards he’d written love letters to you on the back of, a small picture you kept by your bedside of your reflections in the water, and the dried flowers from the field off the highway he’d picked for you the day his car stalled on your way into the city. Almost like every trace of him was gone.

“Y/N? I’m coming in.” The sound of your father opening your door pulled Jimin off your bed, wiping his tears as he turned toward the window.

When your father saw him –and as Jimin assumed, you– he cleared his throat. “I think it’s time for you to go, son.”

With one glance back, Jimin looked at you, pleading for you to return his gaze. And as he for the first and last time walked out of your bedroom door, you looked up at him. Your eyes were filled with an agonizing sadness. One that answered every question he asked that night. You loved him. But that somehow, didn’t mean anything.

Now, as he stands in the deep snow looking out across the frozen pond in his parents’ backyard, Jimin can taste the memory on his tongue. Not just of you, even though since he’s gotten home from caroling with his mother he’s been obsessively replaying the memories he thought he put to rest. But he also is remembering his first time skating on the pond.

Back then, it felt like it stretched on for miles, but back then Jimin was also about half his height and terrified the ice was too thin. Over time, he’s learned how to get a better idea of the ice’s thickness and safety, but even if he fell in, the water in the pond is only 4 feet deep.

Carefully, he takes the shovel to the surface, trying to scrape away at the layer of snow that has caked over the ice. He knows by tomorrow the snow will just be another layer of thicker ice to reinforce itself, but he can’t wait.

After shoveling, he returns to the bank and props himself on the old log bench his father put on the edge of the water, replacing his boots with his skates. It feels so natural and right to lace himself back into them, though the missing bulk and weight of his padding feels out of balance. Still, he pulls himself up, shuffling over to the pond and shifting his weight forward to feel it out.

It takes a moment to get used to the rougher ice. It reminds him of the time the zamboni driver was on paternity leave and the roughed up edges from practice after practice made it harder to glide across. Yet this is the pond he first learned to skate on. He knows its bends, how to steady himself among it. And once he feels the ice glide easier under him, it feels like a giant weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

“Do you think they’ll want wreath cookies or tea cakes? Or those ones with the snowmen cutouts! Ooh, we should get those while we’re here, too, just in case.”

Your mother has been leading you down aisle after aisle of the grocery store, nervously questioning every decision she’s made for her Christmas party. After the lackluster turnout post- caroling, she decided she wanted to try again, and for some reason has decided that the selection of cookies was the reason for low turnout, not the record-breaking snowstorm occurring during it.

Unlike yesterday, when you were forced to carol alone, you managed to lie to Minho about needing to get a few things from the store and wanting to hear about his date, waiting until he got in the car to inform him that you would be meeting your mother at the store.

You sigh as you turn the heavy cart around, back in the direction of the dairy section from where you just came. “They’ll be back here. I’ll go get them.”

But her attention is focused more on the list in front of her, so you wheel the heavy load through the masses of shoppers, Minho grumbling behind you about how much he hates you.

“Listen, now that we’re away from my mother, you can give me all the juicy details. How was the Thai food? How was downtown? Did you kiss?”

“I don’t think you deserve to know,” he pouts, pretending to stall at the discounted advent calendars.

“Look, I have stuff to tell you too, so let this be an equal exchange of tea.”

“Y/N, I don’t want to hear about whatever some loser said to you on a dating app about hat trick record holders.”

You arrive at the section with the pre-cut cookie dough. Minho snags two boxes and holds them up, trying to make you pick between the Rudolphs and the Christmas trees. After a second deliberating, he puts both in the cart, knowing your mother will be pleased with his decision making.

“It’s not about dating apps. It’s about Park Ji-”

“Hi!” A bright voice chirps close by, and you jump, focusing on the source. You whirl around to see Mrs. Park waving with a tree shaped butter mold in her hands. Standing behind her at the handle of the cart is Jimin.

“Oh, hi Mrs.Park,” you say, your voice strained. “How are you?”

Mrs. Park smiles at the question. “Good! Please tell your mom I had a fun time yesterday. Lots of good singing! Especially you. Are you a professional?”

Minho snorts behind you, causing you to elbow him in the stomach.

“No no. I’m really not good. I’m not a professional by any means.”

“Oh, I see. Well, what do you do for work then? Is this your husband? He’s very handsome.”

Your eyes widen in horror as you realize she’s talking about Minho.

You try not to look at Jimin, but you do, and he still wears the same blank expression from yesterday, only his jaw is set and the tips of his ears are red. He looks back and forth between you and Minho, almost like he’s trying to imagine you two together.

“Oh, you’re really sweet, but, no. I’m not her husband. Neither of us are married.” Minho pipes up, his hand gently rubbing up and down your back. Somehow, you know he has pieced what you were about to say together, and the comfort of his touch makes you feel a little less like running at full speed out of the store.

Jimin’s blank expression has turned into a glare.

You clear your throat, not only drawing his gaze up to you but also his mother’s.

“I, um, I own the ice arena. So I am usually there, sorting out bills and repairs. Or driving the zamboni. When I have downtime I play offense in our hockey league.”

This seems to draw Jimin’s attention. “You own the arena?”

“Yeah, the Lee family who owned it? Both of them passed away a few years ago. None of their children wanted it, so I bought it from them about two years ago.”

Jimin frowned. “Oh no, that’s so sad. They always gave me extra time to practice and always had those licorice laces at the food counter. Remember the time we–”

His mouth snaps shut as he realizes his mistake. His eyes flash to his mother, who is looking between the two of you. “Oh! Then you must know each other!” she says ecstatically.

You raise your eyebrows at Jimin expectantly. What narrative is he going to choose?

“Yes, Eomma. Y/N and I went to high school together. And we saw each other a lot.”

“Yeah, something like that,” you say, quietly challenging him even now to say the whole truth. He responds with a shake of his head. His mother doesn’t notice.

“Oh, how nice! Such a shame my son never mentioned knowing you before. He could be the one shopping with you now if he had gotten you sooner instead of your husband! But, my son was always so focused on sports. Do you know the UHL? He’s on a team there!”

Something twinges in you at the mention of the truth. You know Jimin never mentioned you, as that was part of your arrangement. But the thing his mother says about getting you sooner really throws you.

“She knows, Eomma. She of all people will know about the UHL. She had tried out during the same trials as me.”

“Is that so? Well, a pity that he beat you then. He’s always been so talented. I guess fate really made things work out for both of you then.”

You find yourself folding your lips into a thin line, trying to avoid spilling the details about her son’s talent. But just as you wrap your hands around the cart rails until your knuckles pop, you feel MInho reach over you, loosening the cart from your grasp.

“Hey, uh, you know, your mom is probably looking for us,” he says, introducing the bait that you can take to escape the increasingly painful conversation.

As if summoned, your mother appears, rambling on about how long it has taken before she recognizes who is standing in front of her.

“Oh, well hello there! It’s great to see you again. Thank you for attending yesterday, it was wonderful having you. Too bad you missed the post-caroling cookies!”

You sigh, knowing that your mother is sounding passive aggressive to anyone within earshot.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t attend. My son had just flown in earlier in the day, so we went home after so he could rest.”

Your mother’s smile falls a little, no doubt from the guilt.

“Of course! Well, no harm done. In fact, I’m having a soirée on Christmas Eve, and you should attend! Bring the whole family!”

You glance back at Minho, whose mouth is pursed to hold back a laugh, much like yours. A soirée. Sure.

“I don’t know Eomma, we still have–”

“It sounds amazing!” Mrs. Park interrupts, shooting a harsh look at her son. “We would love to attend, thank you.”

“Perfect, I’ll email you the details then. Well, we should get going. These cookies won’t bake themselves!”

As you peel yourself away from the Parks, you take a deep breath.

“Well,” Minho says, “I don’t think I need to hear your story anymore.”

“Well, there’s something more I need to tell you, but not here.”

When you first met Jimin, you were seven, though you don’t remember him. While he once claimed he’s known you for forever, it wasn’t until you were both teenagers before you actually remembered him.

In high school, you’d laid low, avoiding just about every social event that you possibly could. Your focus was on academics and the ice, with 5am wake times to get to the arena to practice, and late nights doing extra cram school sessions to keep your grades in shape despite your busy schedule. You had friends, but they were ones who lived in different cities, most of them commuting to your traveling team. Because co-ed hockey wasn’t an option and your high school had only invested in boys’ leagues, Park Jimin wasn’t someone on your radar.

Until you’d learned that you were on his.

It started in the early spring. Rumor had it that major league coaches were scouting for new recruits. Of all genders. There was a special trial process, and the trials would happen during the summer, with a potential for newly contracted players to begin their rookie season as soon as the fall.

You’d tried not to get too excited. With an early decision college acceptance under your belt, your future was already looking bright. There was even an athletic scholarship attached. You could play on the women's team. But the potential of playing for the UHL, to be scouted and live out your dream to play hockey professionally was still filling your stomach with butterflies.

So you kept yourself chill until the rumor became official, and marched into the arena you knew so well with your head high, ready to take on the other recruits.

It was then that you and Jimin officially met.

He was a bit scrawny looking then, his mop of black hair almost shadowing his face. It was hard to believe that this kid was the one you knew to be the MVP of the boy’s hockey team at your school.

But once you saw him move, you understood why. Jimin had the form and movement almost of a dancer, with his build keeping him strong but light on his feet to race forward and snake around even the most complex of defense measures. He instinctively knew how to bend his body and stick away from a targeted maneuver, and cut swiftly enough to throw off the goalie and score. He would have made a great figure skater.

You, however, were different. From the start, the grace of figure skating wasn’t with you, with your skates sloppily digging into the ice so you could chase after the object of your affection. A little brutish, you were also cunning, and the strategy of hockey and the game board that laid before you made it all the more satisfying. Your patience and ability to unfold a game play before it fully manifested often led to your team’s win.

It also made playing against Jimin all the more intriguing.

Because during each scrimmage, shoot-out, and obstacle you faced for the try-outs, Jimin was often neck-in-neck with you, somehow knowing your own plan of attack, and sliding the puck out of your hold as if he was plucking a feather from a pillow. It appeared so effortless, like he’d studied you for so long and knew your every movement. When he would shrug and give you an angelic smile during his wins over you, it made you all the more angry.

One day after a scrimmage, you were stressed and hormonal and pissed. Some of the other players had gotten under your skin, shit-talking you for being the only woman on the team.

“You sure you aren’t on some steroids or some shit? Performance enhancement can happen to everyone.”

“I’m sure your daddy taught you quite a bit when you played on your little ponds, sweetheart. But this is the big leagues. There’s guys out there three times your size who will ruin that pretty little face.”

“Are you sure you’re cut out for this? The position of Puck Bunny is open. If you want to experience hockey with the pros, might as well be safely bouncing on my cock to do so.”

The sexism was rampant in hockey, and you knew it. But that was a day where it was too much. With graduation on the near horizon, just breaking up with your boyfriend, and the scouting day schedule being released soon, your nerves were as tired as your body.

When Jimin found you crying in your car outside of the arena, he’d gently knocked on your window, a light smile warming his face as he held up a protein shake and a Kit Kat.

You’d let him in, and from there, your whole world shifted.

The days grew longer, the sun warming parts of your life you’d forgotten winter took away. Jimin was there to listen, to sit and strategize plays with you, to eat Subway sandwiches after practice and walk you to your car after school.

“Hey, so, there’s this movie coming out. It’s a documentary, actually, about my favorite player, Lee Wonhyuk? Would you, uh, like to see it with me?”

You knew that was his favorite player. He mentioned Wonhyuk nearly every day, and wore his jersey when he wasn’t in his own padding. You also had learned other things about Jimin during this time, like how the tips of his ears would turn red when he was embarrassed, and that his parents had a no dating policy because he was supposed to have an arranged marriage some day. He dreamed of leaving the town you both grew up in, wanting more for himself and hoping the distance from his family would allow for him to be more himself than simply fulfilling the dreams of his parents.

He wanted it so badly he repeated it like a mantra to you often, it sometimes sounding like a plea to the heavens as tears fell from his eyes.

He had a tooth that was a little crooked, and sometimes when he was tired, his voice would lisp a little. When he laughed, it was often with his full body, a cute giggle that scrunched up his face and folded him nearly in half with joy. He was allergic to cats but loved them. He had a brother. He learned to skate on the pond in his backyard.

But he never bragged. Never let his anger get him on the ice. Was respectful to you and held open doors or carried your equipment bag when your shoulder hurt.

So of course you said yes to the date. Of course you let him tuck your hair behind your ear and kiss you in the warm night, his breathy finally he sighed when your lips broke apart ensuring you’d made the right call about him.

“So you were seeing each other in secret,” Minho says, drinking his Americano smoothly, like it isn’t a pile of caffeinated sludge.

“Yes,” you respond, the cinnamon on top of your gingerbread latte making you cough slightly.

The café’s window is foggy, but you can still make out the figures of bustling shoppers. For the sake of discretion, you agreed to Minho’s suggestion to go into the big city for “decent coffee and the ability to be strangers in a larger public”.

He was right. Everyone is either deep in their own discussions or blocking out the world with headphones as they work on their laptops. The soft jazz Christmas music makes it feel safer to speak your secrets into the air.

“Well, then what happened? What led to you breaking up? It sounds like you two were in love.”

“We were…I think” you say, correcting yourself immediately after.

“You think?”

“Can you be in love when you’re nineteen?”

“Uh, yes? Nineteen is young, but have you seen the teens these days? I think they have emotional maturity.”

“Well, I didn’t, I guess. Because that summer was so intense. We graduated, but we were already together. And then we were hanging out with our own friend groups and trying to balance things. But we saw each other just about every day. And then it was almost like an obsession. We were unable to go a singular day without each other. He would sneak into my room to be with me at night and then leave before either of us had to get up to go to practice. We didn’t want to get caught, so we would makeout behind the movie theater in his car or drive to a more secluded part of the woods so we could…you know.”

“Have sex? Come on, Y/N, don’t get all shy on me now when I know you were eating up the details about me taking my date the other night and eating her out while she–”

“Shh!” You look around, but if anything, your shushing is the thing that drew attention.

“You’re such a prude,” Minho laughs. “Anyway, go on. So you would sneak around, make love, and spend every hour with each other possible. Sounds like you were being nineteen.”

“Well, it was intense. And once the coaches came it was rigorous and terrifying. Jimin was getting better and stronger, but I was constantly getting slower and I felt weaker. At first I thought I was just tired, like I’d overworked myself, but then I was getting more anxious and nauseous. So I just assumed that it was nerves. But I was playing pretty good and I was drawing attention from the coaches in a great way. Well, one in particular. The coach for the Bells. He was the only one who seemed to be interested in signing a woman.”

“Well, yeah, because we live in a hellish and misogynistic society and you kick ass!” Minho says enthusiastically, pounding his hand onto the table.

A woman carrying her tiny Pomerainian in her purse whips her head over. “Do you mind? Snowball is trying to get her beauty sleep.”

“Sorry,” you both say in unison.

“Anyway, yeah, I was so excited about the opportunity. And so was Jimin. He kept going on and on about playing on the same team as his idol. But Coach approached me one day after practice and told me that despite there being another three weeks in the trial period, he’d already made his decision. He wanted to sign me on for the fall season. And he would see through the process to be fair, but he had already contacted the legal team to begin drawing up my contract.

“And I had to keep it a secret. While it’s kind of known that coaches do this, they usually keep it to themselves. But Coach said that he hadn’t seen the strategy his team needed in their play execution for quite some time and I would be a huge asset to the team. I’d asked about Jimin, too, out of curiosity but he kind of skirted around the details, saying that there would only be one recruit for the team from this area.”

“Oh my god, that’s incredible! So why didn’t you go through with it? What did Jimin say when you told him?”

“I didn’t,” you shake your head, fiddling with the cupsleeve of your latte. “I couldn’t. Not only was I sworn to secrecy basically, but how was I supposed to tell the person who adored the Bells that he wasn’t going to play for them? How could I crush his dreams like that? He needed this. Not only because he wanted it, but he was good at it. As much as I hated to admit my shitty opponents were right, I physically was going to be one third of the size of my competitors sometimes and there is a danger in hockey.”

“Okay, but it’s not like Jimin is some massive dude.”

“No, but you’ve seen how graceful he is. He slips out of the hold of the other team fairly easily. I’ve only seen him get body checked recently, when he got whatever that temper is he now is known for. He wasn’t like that at all when we were younger.”

“Did he find out? Is that how things ended?”

You shook your head. “I never told Jimin about this meeting. Maybe he knows now and that’s why he’s always pissed whenever he sees me, I don’t know. But there’s multiple reasons why I didn’t sign on, and yes there’s that part I just told you about, but there was more to it than that.”

Minho sips his coffee, gesturing for you to continue.

“So, as the week went on, my stomach was hurting more and more. And with all the stress and nerves but all the crazy workouts, I’d been skipping my period for a few months. Jimin and I had been safe for the most part, but not always. Sometimes we were too hot and heavy and we’d do the pull-out method instead. But I didn’t ever make the connection. A lot of the time, female athletes who are super physically conditioned have lighter or missed periods. It had happened before, but that was before I was sexually active. Stress, too, can sometimes make you miss periods. So one night Jimin and I went out to this party. Nothing really important happened but some girl threw herself at Jimin and he was worried I’d be upset. I wasn’t, but all-too conveniently I was super sick the next day. I missed practice. And that’s when I started putting the dots together and bought a test that was clearly positive.”

“Oh my god, Y/N. What?”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, taking a deeper sip of your drink. “Pregnant. And for a little while actually. When I got into the clinic and they took the blood tests and ultrasound, they suspected I was about 8 weeks along. Which means I had been drinking, getting body checked, and all sorts of shit during that time. But, they said it was still viable.”

“Did you want it to be viable? I mean, how did you feel? Scared, I can imagine.”

Your lips curve into a soft smile. “I don’t think I really gave myself much time to decide how I felt besides that I was terrified and that this was happening at the worst possible time. I asked for an abortion right then and there. So they sent me home with the pills, and I just waited. It takes a few days, and god, honestly it was awful to experience alone. I didn’t tell anyone, because if I told my parents I was afraid they would ask whose it was, and I didn’t want that to get back to Jimin’s parents. So, I just spent about a week at home, saying I had a really heavy period this time, experiencing heavy cramps and crying and letting it pass. The following week I had to go back in and make sure it worked, but in that time I just laid low and didn’t talk to anyone.

“My parents didn’t suspect much, but Jimin was freaking out, thinking I had some infectious disease and threatening to come over every five minutes with soup or a Hazmat suit. I didn’t want him to be there, though. If he knew I was pregnant, I knew it would throw him off. He’d be worried about me even more and start thinking about us having babies together and getting old and staying in this town.”

“I can understand why you didn’t tell him, I do. But I do wonder what’s so wrong about letting him think about those things too.” Minho reaches his hand out gently, stroking his fingers on the back of your hand. “I’m not saying what you did is wrong in any way, Y/N. It’s your body and always your choice matters the most. But based on how you described him to me before, do you think he would have thrown it all away or tried to make you keep the baby? Do you think that your decision and his wouldn’t be aligned in that way?”

You think for a minute. “No, I think he would have been on my side. He was really adamant on letting me be independent and pursuing what was best for myself. I just couldn't give him the option at the time. I was too focused on making sure things went right for him.”

Minho smiles softly and nods. “I just hate that you went through that alone.”

“I do too. But I’m glad I can finally talk about it. I did end up telling my parents, about a year or so later, that I had an abortion. I didn’t say whose it was, but my mom cried for like three days because she was so sad for me that I went through it alone.”

“Is that why you turned down the offer, then? Were you okay after?” Minho furrows his brow with concern.

“Oh, I was fine after about two weeks. I felt completely back to normal. And it wasn’t really that reason that I turned the offer down. I mean, it was a part of it, obviously, but mostly when I was having the abortion and was alone at home I was thinking about how fucked up life is. I was a normal teenager and then shit I was pregnant. I was in love with someone but oh god we were almost parents. We were breaking rules despite being adults. We were living in secret and baby or no baby, life was going to change for us and soon. If I was signed to the Bells, I would be leaving home, but what about Jimin? Would he come with me, stay back? Would he get other offers and we’d play on opposing teams? If I said no and he said yes, would he seriously be okay coming back and seeing me or trying to figure things out while I was away at school?

“Keep in mind, at that time, I didn’t realize my deferment was me rescinding my scholarship. I just suddenly felt like the world was so, so big and the tiny, romantic solitude we’d coveted was not going to work out. So I made up my mind. I turned down the offer for the Bells. I told Coach the world wasn’t ready for a woman in professional hockey and told him about Jimin and his drive and passion and dreams. I told him to sign him instead. Or at least I hoped I told him. I was really laying it on thick,” you laugh.

“And then you broke things off with Jimin,” Minho finishes. You frown softly.

“Yeah. And it was awful. He begged me not to. He didn’t know where all this was coming from. He told me he’d only leave if I told him I didn’t love him, but I couldn’t do that. Eventually my dad busted into my room and sent him away. And that was it. That was the last time we talked or saw each other.”

“Until now.”

“Until now,” you confirm.

‘Well fuck, Y/N, that’s one hell of a story.”

“I’ll say.”

Your head pivots to the Pomeranian lady, who is turned toward you and Minho, sipping her coffee indulgently.

“You were eavesdropping that entire time?” you ask.

“Well, it’s not like you were being discreet. Either way, honey, these kinds of places absorb everyone’s biggest secrets. That’s what makes the coffee so good.”

When Minho dropped you off at your house, you felt like a huge weight had been lifted off your chest. After years of holding onto something that wasn’t necessarily shameful but still heavy, someone else knowing the full story was relieving.

However, one question he asked before leaving has been popping around in your head, taking up a residence that you weren’t quite expecting, even as you unlock the doors to the ice arena the next morning.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Had Jimin not been only mere miles away from you at this very moment, you would say no. There’s no point in bringing up the past if it’s never around to haunt you. But it seems like Jimin is determined to make your small town feel even smaller.

When he walks through the doors behind Bee, you can’t help but feel like you manifested him.

“So, Y/N, here’s the deal.” Bee always tells you news this way. A deal, a situation. This is her way of telling you she’s made a decision and you’re probably not going to like it.

“I got a call the other day from the Head Coach of the Bells. I don’t know how, probably Jay gave it to him since he’s the AC but whatever.” Bee suddenly admitting that her long distance boyfriend, Jay–the Jay she has baby talked to multiple times after a game loss– is the Assistant Coach for the Bells is shocking. But not as shocking as what next comes out of her mouth. “He wants us to rehab Park. Drill him, get him back to his roots and all that shit. He’s hoping some time on a familiar rink will help him shape up. So starting today, he’s going to be training with you.”

You blink silently at Bee, wishing you could communicate “I want to strangle you” through the pattern.

“What?” Jimin says incredulously. “I thought I was just going to be training with the space, not with her specifically.”

Bee cocks her head at Jimin. “You got a problem training with women, Park? Because if so, I would be happy to call Jay and let him know you’re not complying.” She smiles viciously.

Jimin sighs in resignation. “No, ma’am.”

“Bee,” you say. “That’s not fair. If he doesn’t want to train with us, he doesn’t have to. I have some opening slots since the junior teams and figure skating lessons are on hold until after the new year. He can just come do drills during those times if he wants to.”

Bee flicks her gaze between you and Jimin, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with you, Y/N? You’ve never disagreed with my plans before. Are you guys ex lovers or something?”

You suck in a breath, ready to deny the accusation, but Jimin beats you to it.

“Yeah, actually. We dated in high school.” He says it calmly, with no malice or venom. It actually shocks you a bit.

“Oh. Well...do you think you two can make it through the holidays without killing each other?”

Jimin laughs lightly. “I don’t know, you’ve seen her slapshots. I think you know how lethal she can be.”

Bee smirks, nodding. “Fair.”

You knit your brows together. Jimin making light jokes to Bee? What reality do you live in?

“So, Y/N? Can you not enact Kill Jimin at this time?”

Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling, allowing a light laugh to fall from your lips.

“Yes, I promise I won’t kill Jimin.”

Practicing with you feels like a weird dream Jimin is walking through. Familiar because the arena looks about the exact same as it did back when you were teenagers. Only now, you are both older, and when Jimin gets a good look at you without a giant winter parka over your body, he can’t help but notice how good you look.

Your body has filled in, with wider hips and strong legs that lunge forward with ease, carrying you as you slam the puck into the goal post, chiming in the air before it pivots in. Your ass has gotten bigger, too, and it looks perfect in your leggings you’ve chosen to wear for practice. He can’t see much of your arms due to the bulky hoodie you’ve chosen, but he can tell by the way you bodycheck one of your teammates that they are far from weak.

It’s almost enough to get him hard. Until he hears you laugh, and then he remembers how long it’s been since he’s experienced your laughter, and the empty ache of his past drags his sulky mood back up.

Being home sucks. Seeing his parents is great, but he’s been coddled since he got here, being sent off with homemade lunches from his mother and warnings from his father not to stay out too late. He’s almost thirty and he feels sixteen. This morning his mother woke up even before him just so she could corner him in the kitchen and ask if he’d reviewed any of the potential matches she sent him so he can also go on a date while he’s home.

He’d said not yet, but what he wanted to say was “No, Eomma, because marriage couldn’t be the furthest thing from my mind right now when my career is dying in front of me.”

Now, witnessing you be still so much of yourself after nearly ten years, Jimin can’t help but feel even worse about himself.

“Park, you’re up.” Coach Bee whistles for Jimin to begin his drill, handling the puck quicking between a set of cones. It’s a familiar drill he’s done hundreds of times with the UHL, but this time there’s a twist: he must avoid the agitator, a player who will skate behind him tightly, not only trying to intercept the puck, but also piss him off.

Naturally, you’re the agitator.

“Before we do this, no low blows,” he says as you glide up to him. “Treat me with the same knowledge any other player would have. Nothing too personal.”

“Oh, uh, I wasn’t going to, but sure,” you say softly.

When Coach Bee blows her whistle, he begins, curving his body along the cones, with you right behind him.

“Pussy,” you say, which catches Jimin off guard immediately, throwing him into a laughing fit and knocking a bunch of cones down.”

Coach blows her whistle. “Reset! Come on Park, Y/N, be serious.”

“I am being serious!” you shout back, but Jimin is still laughing hard.

“Oh come on! Pussy? You’re kidding me!” Jimin wheezes. Your lips twitch.

“Okay, fine, I haven’t gone into my zone yet. Give me a break.”

“I know you can be mean,” he says. Your face falls.

“I don’t want to be mean.”

“Well that’s your job right now isn’t it? To agitate me? So just suck it up and do it. Or are you a pussy?” He raises an eyebrow. You clench your jaw.

This is how he knows he’s got you. All it ever used to take was a little bit of a challenge to rile you up. And Jimin knows just what buttons to push.

“Reset your shit and let’s go,” you say.

He smirks.

This time when Coach Bee blows her whistle, you’re practically on top of Jimin, careening your body so your stick is just millimeters away from his.

“You know, you used to be hard to crack. What’s wrong? All that fame get to your head? Or was it the fake orgasms you gave that girl in your little sex tape?”

“Oh, baby, you of all people should know those orgasms were real.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. You were going awfully hard on the poor girl with your needle dicking. Does being shitty at hockey now amount to being shitty at sex these days?” You smack his hockey stick, causing it to rattle uneasily in Jimin’s grasp.

He chokes up on the handle, reshaping the curve of his arm so the puck tucks behind the stick when you go in for another slap.

“Aw you’re asking about sex? Has no one fucked you since me or are you just having awful sex?” he retorts. You scoff. With a twist, Jimin begins the second set of cones, this time with a more fluid movement that feels natural to his body.

“So interested in my pussy, aren’t you. If you were maybe more attentive to the other people you fuck, you wouldn’t be the worst player in the major league.”

“As opposed to what? The best player in the minor league? I’m not the one stuck at home.”

He feels your skate sliding between his legs, the force of your body checking, almost knocking him to the ground. He steadies, glaring at you as you coast behind him gracefully.

“Oops, sorry. Did I almost trip you?”

“You always played dirty,” he spits. “Come on, babygirl, give me your worst.”

You roll your eyes and fall into position as he passes the puck back and forth between his stick.

“Being awfully quiet back there. What’s wrong, big boys got your ego down?”

“Hardly. I think you’ve got enough ego for the whole fucking town.”

“And how did I get it, hmm? It didn’t come from sucking, Y/N, it came from talent. Something you didn’t try hard enough for.”

“And you did? I’m sure Coach really loves to tell you all about your talent.”

“He does, he said I had drive and passion and that’s why I needed to come back here. To show how far I’ve come from this shithole. How skilled I am and how much I deserve to be there instead of here.”

“Well lucky for you to have been the top contender.” Your voice drips with anger, and Jimin peers back to see your eyes piercing through him. You drop your stick, shifting to Coach Bee.

“Bee, I’m done. Send in someone else to agitate.” You skate off the ice, whispering angrily to her as you jab your finger in Jimin’s direction. She nods, blowing her whistle.

“Alright, reset! Let’s get this show on the road. Wonpil, you’re with Jimin. Minho, go take goalie position. Hustle! It’s Christmas Eve, we all want to get home!”

Everyone resets, and the player named Wonpil pulls up behind Jimin. As the fellow players begin their drills, Wonpil immediately jumps in where you left off.

“God, I can’t believe they let an asshole like you in here,” he says, leering over Jimin’s shoulder.

Jimin snorts, focusing on his positioning.

“Seriously, you’re the scum of the entire UHL and you really think you’re the shit? Embarrassing.”

“Well, at least I have a contract. How's a dinky rink going for you, bud?”

“You know you only have that contract because Y/N turned it down, right?”

Jimin grips his stick harder. “Nice lie, you almost got me with it.”

Wonpil laughs, empty and cruel. “Oh you don’t know do you? Your coach scouted her for the Bells. She only turned it down because she was sick and felt bad for you.”

“You’re lying,” Jimin said, teeth gritting.

“Sure I am. Keep telling yourself that. But facts are facts, Jimin. You playing like a piece of shit is a disgrace to not just yourself, but everything she built for you too.”

“Stop. Lying.” Heat flares through Jimin’s body, and he pivots on the ice, slamming his body into Wonpil.

“Oh, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Wonpil says, teeth sharp as he smiles at Jimin. “Someone really needs to put you in your place, and I’m more than happy to do it.”

Jimin grabs Wonpil’s shoulders, jerking him into the barrier. “Go for it, bud. Show me how cool you think you are.”

Wonpil jerks his arm up to bring his elbow down onto Jimin's face, but something stops him. A hand squeezes his forearm, and as Jimin follows the limb, he sees you.

“Stop it, Wonpil. That’s enough.” Your voice is soft but ragged, and Jimin realizes you’ve been crying.

Somewhere in the background, the whistle is screaming through the arena, and the entire team of the Griffins are streaming forward to break up the fight. But it’s your touch, your voice that seems to break Jimin from his fury.

“Are you okay?” he asks, but the question confuses you, and you stand there staring at him, your body only looped through one arm of the hoodie, your skates untied.

You don’t answer, instead skating back off the rink, grabbing your equipment bag and disappearing behind a door marked for employees.

Jimin doesn’t see you until closing time. While practice ended hours ago, he stayed, doing drills, eating a hot dog from concessions, and most of all, waiting for you.

Your hair is messy, eyes puffy and red, but when your eyes land on Jimin, you don’t look fazed by his presence.

“I saw you on the security camera,” you say softly.

“Ah,” he responds. Your arms are crossed, the long sleeves of your shirt confirming the muscle definition he suspected before.

“I assume you wanted to talk to me?” you ask.

Jimin clears his throat, nodding awkwardly. “Um, yeah. Your teammate, Wonpil. What’s his deal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does he have it out for me or something?”

You shrug. “I’m not sure what you mean. Besides you trying to beat the shit out of him. Did something happen?”

“Well, I didn’t try to beat the shit out of him for nothing. The guy has a screw loose or something. He was saying all sorts of shit.”

“Didn’t you tell me that this is what the agitator does? Of course he’s going to say shit. Come on, follow me. I need to lock up.” You lead him through the various lobbies and areas around the arena, checking bathrooms and corners for anyone who might be loitering. Jimin saw the last people leave about an hour ago, but he doesn’t say so.

“Yeah, but this was crazy stuff.” You duck your head into the women’s bathroom.

“Mhm.”

“He said that the only reason I’m contracted with the Bells is because you turned it down. Isn’t that nuts?”

You freeze, your hand on the key that turns off the lights to the south side of the arena.

“Oh.”

Jimin watches you. Your voice sounds shaken, and when you turn to him, you don’t meet his gaze.

“Y/N,” Jimin says.

“Yeah.”

“Look at me.” You obey. “Is that true? Did you get a contract for the Bells?”

“I did,” you say.

Jimin’s chest clenches but he forces a deep breath through it anyway.

“And did you turn it down so I could go?”

“Yes,” you say. Tears well up in your eyes. Jimin blinks in disbelief.

“Why? Why the fuck would you do that? It was your dream and you just threw it away!” Anger pulses through him again, making him flushed and hot. “Why didn’t you tell me? What the fuck, Y/N?”

“You wanted it more than I did, Jimin! You needed it more than me. What was I supposed to do? Leave you behind?”

“You were supposed to tell me! You were supposed to be honest so I could figure things out for myself! If I wasn’t the first pick, I deserved to know! Now I know I was the pity pick? All this time I was thinking I was chosen because I was wanted, but I wasn’t even good enough for that?”

He rubs his eyes with his hands, trying to stamp out the burning he feels in them. Despite himself, his throat tightens, and the hot lick of tears begins to fall in mirror to your face.

“Of course you were good enough! Why else would you have been contracted! He saw in you what I saw!” you yell, a ragged cry leaving your chest.

“So that’s why you dumped me all those years ago? Was it guilt for what you did?”

“No! No, it was because I couldn’t be the one dragging you down, Jimin. You spent that whole summer telling me how badly you needed to escape. You talked about your dreams, everything. If I went and played for the Bells, would you have been happy for me? Would you have been okay with letting your dream go?”

“Of course I wouldn’t Y/N! Because you were my dream. You never seemed to get that! All along you were playing with my future like I was your puppet on strings. Did I live up to your expectations? Hm? Is watching me fuck strangers in a threesome that has since ruined my life been a dream for you? Has watching me become the loser that I am been satisfying for your sick idea of reality?”

“No, it isn’t. It’s been sad, Jimin. It has been absolutely awful to watch! And keep in mind, there’s no way for me to be a puppeteer if I’m not around to pull the strings. You became who you are now by your own hand. Not mine. Yeah, it was wrong of me not to tell you, I know that now. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. But I’m not responsible for your career failing. That’s all you.”

You turn the key to the set of lights, shutting the arena down into darkness.

“Now, excuse me. I have a Christmas Eve party to get to.”

You manage to get the swelling of your eyelids to go down with some cold spoons your mother shoves into the freezer when she sees you arrive at the party.

You know you’ll have to face Jimin again tonight, but some resolve has washed over you in the time since you left the arena earlier this afternoon. You’ve had time for a shower, and thrown on some makeup so no one can ask you why you’ve been crying.

With Minho here, things are feeling a little less stifling, as he instinctively knows how to assemble a killer charcuterie board while also wearing a dashing smile on his face when your aunts ask him if he’s single. He’s good for the distraction, giving you more time to mentally prepare for when Jimin walks through the door with his parents, wearing a white button-up shirt and open suitcoat.

He looks good. Put together, unlike earlier when he and you were crying and screaming at each other. Composed in only the way a celebrity with PR training could.

“Oh, hello Y/N!” his mother says as you greet them at the door, taking her pea coat into your hands.

“Hello, thank you for coming. My mom will be happy you’re here.”

“Thank you, dear. It’s our pleasure to be here. Jimin, help Y/N with our coats while we go put the tapenade on the table.”

Mechanically, he obliges, taking his and his father’s snow-dusted coats and following you to the spare bedroom down the hall that has become the coat room.

“You look nice,” he says, nodding in your direction. You chose to wear a sparkly black dress with shooting stars on it. It was one of the few things in your closet you could deem festive enough without being tacky. The only downside is that it’s shrunk in the wash, making your breasts spill over and your ass practically falls out the back when it rides up.

“Thank you,” you say, trying not to notice too much that his eyes are glued to your chest. You feel a light jolt of warmth in your stomach. “You do too.”

Jimin flushes, looking down shyly. “Thanks.”

Without much effort, you turn toward the door, falling back into the warmth of the party. Your mother clinks her glass, drawing the attention of others.

“Thank you all for attending this party at the last minute,” your mother beams, clearly pleased with the turnout.

“That being said, we have lots of games at the ready, song sheets with lyrics, and plenty of eggnog and mistletoe to help you feel some holiday cheer.” She looks at you and winks. “So, enjoy! And cheers!”

The partygoers cheer, and some swingy, festive rendition of “Deck the Halls” kicks on. You retreat to the designated bar table, where Minho is pouring a heavy glass of something.

“What’s ailing you?” he asks.

“Jimin,” you scoff, gesturing for him to pour you a shot of vodka. He goes to top it with cranberry juice, but you shake your head.

“You sure you want to get wasted?”

“Absolutely. I can’t imagine getting through any of this sober,” you grimace. Minho laughs.

“Fair point. Cheers.”

You clink your shot glasses, downing the alcohol quickly. The burn pulls down through your chest, warming you instantly.

For the next two hours, you and Minho take turns pouring each other drinks before jumping into games like Christmas Pictionary, where your father draws the worst reindeer you’ve ever seen in your life, looking more like a group of sausages on a grill.

Jimin hovers around, refusing to partake in the fun, and his Grinchy attitude is still weighing on you too.

When your mother passes out her caroling sheets and your father shoves someone over to the piano, you find yourself stuffed into the corner with him.

“Having fun yet?” you ask, the alcohol giving you the guts to feel daring enough to speak to him.

“Is this supposed to be?”

You frown. “God, you’re such a grump. You better be careful, or you’ll be visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future tonight.”

“I’d say that I’m already experiencing it,” he says, gesturing toward you. “You get to be all three it would seem.”

You roll your eyes, putting some distance between the two of you.

At some point, you’re stuck together again. This time near the snack table and you try to pad your stomach with something other than alcohol. As you load your plate with salami roses and lots of different cheeses and vegetables, Jimin reaches over you, grabbing the bag of potato chips and depositing some of his plate.

“Here,” he says, when he sees you struggle to balance your stash, and he carries it into the kitchen so you can eat against the counter in peace.

“Um, thank you,” you say, and pop a tomato into your mouth.

“About earlier,” he says. Something in his voice sounds less tense than before, and it prompts you to look at him, taking in the softness of his face.

“Yeah?”

“I was being an asshole,” he finishes. “I’m sorry. I just…it was a shock is all. And a bit disappointing.”

“It’s okay to be upset,” you say, dusting your hands off on a napkin. “And I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t right of me. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was really young at the time and I was scared.”

“I was scared too,” Jimin says, lifting his eyes to look at you. “God, leaving here was terrifying.”

The room is warm from all the crockpots still heating the various delights your parents have encouraged others to serve. Jimin’s face is rosy, and he looks almost like a teenager again.

You nod. “I can only imagine. A new place to start from scratch. Trying to get a hang of everything and be independent. You were practically a kid.”

“I was,” he smirks. “We both were.”

“Yeah,” you smile.

“I do have another question, if that’s okay,” he says quietly.

“Sure.” You bite down on a piece of cheese, chewing softly.

“When you broke up with me, you said something about how if you got the contract you were worried that I would be miserable. Was that why you did it? Didn’t take it.”

You sigh. “It was more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

In the living room someone whoops as the partygoers sing along to “Jingle Bell Rock”.

“Not here, let’s go somewhere more private.”

He follows you into the guest room where you left your coats earlier. The room feels colder than the rest of the house, since the door has been closed despite the groups of people warming the living room.

You sit. Jimin sits, too, though on the far side of the bed.

“Well, I guess that me worrying about you was part of it. But I think looking back, I was also worried about myself. We had such a hot and heavy summer and this contract felt like a huge question mark over both of our futures. And we’d never talked about it. While I was at home, I just kept twirling the idea of how things would work out over and over in my head.”

“Did you skip trials because of it? I had no idea you were so anxious. When I saw you and you didn’t look sick, I thought you’d lied. I never considered that you would have made yourself sick with all of that.”

“Um, well that wasn’t fully it.” His composure takes you by surprise. “The week of the party. The one you assumed I got mad at you for? I was kept after practice by your coach. He said that while the try-outs weren’t done, he had made his choice. He picked me. And I had to keep it a secret from everyone. Including you.”

Jimin folds his lips into a line. “Ah, I see.”

“But, I also had been feeling really shitty. Nausea, heightened anxiety, stress related stuff. Missing periods and stuff, which I know I told you some about. But the day after the party, I felt really bad. And then I finally realized what was wrong. Um…I was pregnant.”

Jimin’s eyes flare wide. “What?”

“Yeah. Turns out a lot of my symptoms were signs of pregnancy. And you and I weren’t exactly careful a lot of the time.”

Heat floods to Jimin’s face, and you watch as his ears turn pink. “No, we weren’t.”

“I knew I couldn’t have a baby. I wasn’t really thinking what you would want in that but–”

“What I would have wanted doesn’t matter.”

You smile, some warmth spreading to your chest over your instinct being right. “Well, thanks. I got an abortion. And then I turned down the contract. I was going to go to school but I guess my deferment resulted in me losing my scholarship.”

Jimin stares at you, unmoving.

“You okay? I’m not shocking you too much?”

“It’s not that it’s just. Holy shit, Y/N.”

“People keep saying that,” you chuckle.

“Because it’s a holy shit situation. Were you okay? Did your parents take you?”

“No, I just did it alone.”

“Fuck, god. And I was just off dicking around on a rink while you were going through that”

“Which is what I wanted you to be doing, Jimin. I didn’t want you worrying about me. You had to focus!”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “God, you are ridiculous. You were all alone having an abortion by yourself, going through that pain by yourself. Something of which I caused and you were still thinking about me instead of yourself?”

Your mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. You never thought of it like that.

“I’m not mad you didn’t tell me, just so you know. I don’t think I really have a right to be mad because it’s not my body that had to go through it. I just…I would have wanted to be there for you through it. More than anything. You were my world, Y/N.”

“But I couldn’t be. I needed you to be your own world. I needed you to go make something of yourself that wasn’t just because of me.”

He snorts. “But it was because of you that I made something of myself. I got contracted because of you. I played hard to not think about you. I kept myself busy for nearly a decade with my career so I could forget about you.”

“Well, did you get close?” you ask carefully. The alcohol has made your head feel a little fuzzy, but the conversation has sobered you up.

He picks up a throw pillow and tosses it at you. You laugh. “No, of course I didn’t. It’s you, for fuck’s sake. You were my every wet dream of my teenage years, do you think I would just forget you like that?”

“Well, you tried to pretend you didn’t remember me.”

“God,” he runs a hand over his face. “I think I was just shocked, honestly. I thought you would have left here. Gone away to college and got your sports physiology degree and I would run into you one day in LA after a bad injury and I could convince you to fall in love with me again.”

You scoff. “Oh is that the dream?”

“Well it was. I really didn’t think I’d see you ever again, actually.”

“I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.”

“Well, we’ll see…it wasn’t because you were pregnant that you broke up with me, was it?”

“Oh my god, no. You’re obsessed with this like there’s a singular reason but there wasn’t. It was a culmination of everything. Besides, I’d had the abortion during the time I was home. When you showed up, I had just gotten clearance from my doctor that it was a success.”

Jimin frowns. “Were you sad about it? The abortion? Not that you had to be.”

“I was sad that I was alone. I was sad that I felt like I couldn’t tell you. I was worried that if I did, I would be the reason for you not getting contracted. It was a lot of worrying for you. But also for myself. I worried I wouldn’t be okay. And I worried I would regret it somehow, that I would wake up one day wondering what could have been.”

“Did you?”

You look down at your hands. “No, I mean, not really. I have since, I guess, but it’s less wondering what life would have been like without an abortion and more what life would have been like if I didn’t call everything off. That decision hurt me. And it never felt completely right. But my fear of things ending kind of ruled over me. I was so in love with you that I couldn’t imagine a lifetime where things would work out. Not when you had an arranged marriage you’d someday have to fulfill, or one of us would go pro and have to figure out how to make both our dreams work.”

Jimin nods. “Well, thank you for telling me. I’m glad you made the decision that was best for you at the time. It gives me some closure.” He scoots closer to you before reaching over and squeezing your hand. “And I hope that if you ever go through something like that again, you have someone by your side so you feel less alone.”

“Thank you,” you say.

The warmth of his hand comforts you both as you sit in the room. Your mother squeals in the other room, shouting at your father for allegedly grabbing her ass.

“Come on, babe! It’s Christmas!” he replies.

You and Jimin burst into laughter.

“You know,” Jimin says behind gasps of air. “I don’t think I hate being here as much as I thought I would. Sure, it sucks being under my parents’ roof again, but god, the sound of a holiday party is a welcome change from a bunch of locker room groans.”

“You smell better too,” you add. You sniff the air between you too. “I always liked that cologne on you.”

He smirks. “Remember when I ran out and you drove your car, broken A/C and all, into the city to get me a replacement?”

You groan. “God, my car was truly an oven that day. When I finally got home I thought I was melting like an ice cream cone.”

“I remember that.”

“I have a question for you now,” you say. Jimin blinks a bit, taken aback by your abruptness.

“Oh, sure.”

“Why are you home? Why didn’t you stay at your place and just see your celebrity friends? Why come back here which is clearly full of bad memories and feelings and experience all of this?” You gesture around you.

He takes a sharp breath. “Well, it felt like something that I had to do. First of all, I’ve been instructed by our PR team not to be seen out with any of my celebrity friends. I’m not supposed to be seen anywhere near Bells Arena, so practicing locally was out. And with it being too warm there to skate on a natural body of water, it seemed like home was the only option.”

“That sucks,” you blurt. “I mean–”

Jimin laughs. “Yeah, it does suck. But home isn’t the worst place to be, and I feel like there hasn’t been a lot tying me to anything lately. The last few years have been rough. Threesome notwithstanding, but my life hasn’t been exactly private for a while. And I guess that kind of presses you to become someone else.”

“Like a prick?”

“Am I really that much of an asshole?”

“Uh, yeah. You lost your drive because you’re too busy chirping on the ice and not focusing on the game.”

“You’re sounding like Coach again.”

“Well, he had a good point. Do you have your gear with you by chance?”

“It’s in the car, why?”

“Go grab it and meet me out back.”

“Why?”

“Just do it,” you roll your eyes and stand up, smoothing your dress. When you turn to face Jimin, his gaze moves from your ass.

You pretend not to notice.

“You have a rink in your backyard?”

“Yep, Dad built it back when we were trying out for the pros, thinking that during my break times I could come home and practice.”

Now knowing the truth, Jimin can’t help but feel an ache in his chest for you and the dream you left behind.

“It’s incredible. But are you sure that you’re not too drunk to skate?”

You balk at the question, laughing. “You think I haven’t skated absolutely wasted? Come on now.” Fair point. “Besides,” you add, “I feel fine now. The fresh air is nice.”

You’ve traded your tiny little dress he was admiring in the bedroom for a more sensible outfit. “Now, lace up your skates, Park. Let’s get to drills.”

An hour later, Jimin is sweating through his button down. He didn’t have an extra outfit with him in the Kia, just his skates, so he’s been sweltering in the stiff button down. A little perspiration is beading your forehead, but you still have a healthy glow to you, and are not nearly as out of breath as he is.

“You’ve gotten sloppy with your passing,” you say nonchalantly.

A lick of heat prompts Jimin to argue, but he shoves it down. He’s supposed to be working on that, after all.

“Just a tiny bit,” he says.

“You’ve got a long way to go if you’re going to be ready to hit the ice in less than a month.”

He pouts a bit, despite himself.

“Oh come on, you used to love the challenge of beating me on the rink. Did time change that much?”

“Well, there was a pretty good incentive for winning. Like seeing you naked.”

“Is not being kicked off your dream team not enough incentive?”

“I mean I’m a guy, Y/N. Of course my career is important, but I’m just saying, sex was always my best motivator. And if I remember correctly, yours too.”

You look away from him for a moment, thinking.

“Well, then, fine, let’s give you an incentive then. If you beat me in a shootout, I’ll let you see my ass.”

Jimin stalls. “What?”

“I know you’ve been checking me out like, all day. It’s obvious. So, you beat me in a shootout, I’ll show it to you.”

Jimin chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“Y/N, I’ve seen your ass. And while I’m absolutely sure it’s even better than I imagined, I hardly consider that a motivator.”

“Fine, then what do you propose? What is it that you would like to do?”

Heat pools into his stomach. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Jimin can’t ignore the intense attraction he still has for you. It’s like 10 years hasn’t changed much about his body chemistry.

He skates up to you, putting his hand on your waist, testing the limits of what in his desires he truly is allowed to ask for. As his hand works up your side toward your breast, you let out a small gasp. And that’s when he sees it in your eyes: arousal. Unmistakable, just as easy for him to spot as it was all those years ago.

“Do you remember that time we went to the beach? And you got vanilla ice cream all over your bikini because it melted before you could even eat it?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Yeah?”

“And so I licked every inch of you? That’s what I want.”

“Jimin!” you gasp, but as his other hand loops around your back, you don’t fight his touch.

“You tasted so sweet,” he whispers, his mouth hovering over your neck.

“Stop.” But it’s a weak gesture, mechanical.

“You fucking loved it, didn’t you?”

Your heart beats a little faster. “I did.”

“What else did you like, hm? When I fucked you that summer.”

Jimin’s voice lowers, a deeper, seductive tone replacing his usual, cheerful one. It’s the same one he used to use on you, and the pressure building in your core tells you that it’s having the same effect. A hand finds its way to the curve of your ass, and you melt into his body.

“Jimin,” you rasp.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck.”

“Tell me,” he whispers. “What used to make you come so hard that I had you screaming?”

“God.”

“Do you think about that as much as I do? Do you think about the little whimpers you made when you came all over my lap that day? Do you think about how hard my cock was for you? How desperate you were for it after I told you you’d have to wait?”

“You’re such an asshole,” you heave.

“I know. But if I win, I want you under me again. I want to lick every inch of you until all you can think about is me.”

He pulls away, ignoring the hardening of his cock, rasping a deep breath. You blink at him, confused, before taking in his form as he sails the puck into the net.

“That’s one, babygirl. Now show me what you’re made of.”

Sex, it turns out, is Jimin’s greatest motivator. Which is why after he wins in the shootout up to ten, you end up naked in the guest bedroom.

“Your nipples are so hard,” he says, sucking one into your mouth. “That’s how I always knew how needy you were. How badly you needed to be fucked.”

A moan escapes you. He squeezes your thigh again, his other hand roaming up your side.

“You were always so sensitive there. I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

Your hands lurch forward, digging into the open ends of his jacket, pulling him closer.

“When was the last time someone fucked you good, Y/N?” he asks, and your brain searches through your list of ex lovers, turning up empty handed

“I don’t know,” you groan, hissing when you feel his other hand land on your breast.

He clicks his tongue. “You poor thing. Tell me, what do you need, hmm?”

“I don’t know,” you say again. Your thoughts are jumbled, how you got here, stripped naked while he still hovers over you fully clothed, your focus faltering as you clench your thighs. Jimin pulls away, grinning down at you. .

“I bet you’re just as sweet as I remember,” he says. “I bet you still get so wet that when you get fucked the nastiest little sounds come out of you.”

“Fuck, Jimin, god.”

“I told you I would like every inch of you. Do you think I was joking?”

“We can’t,” you say, your eyes flitting to the door.

“Does the door lock?” he asks.

“Yes, but–”

“Then lock the fucking door and come sit on my face.”

Heaven. Jimin has died and gone to heaven. As he laps at your clit again, he can’t believe this is really happening.

“Fuck, harder,” you order, and he finds himself grinning, sucking your bud into his mouth hard. Your legs immediately squeeze around his face, and he reaches up, forcing your thighs down harder, pressing himself deeper into you.

You really shouldn’t be doing this. He has no idea how long you’ve both been away, but all he knows is that they’ve finished singing the entire “12 Days of Christmas” and someone has been getting your friend Minho to do a rendition of “Santa Baby” that hopefully everyone is too drunk to remember. But he can’t help himself. Couldn’t help the electric feeling when he squeezed your hand, couldn’t ignore how your tits spilling out of your dress had him rock hard the second you gave him a knowing look.

And now, knowing what Jimin knows about you, about your past and why things ended, he can’t be mad. While yes, he’s frustrated by your positioning of him as the priority in your life, even seemingly now, he isn’t mad. And whatever happens after tonight, he hopes you’ll both be able to talk about it so you can reframe the future.

Until then, he really, really wants you to come on his face.

His fingers leave your thighs. You lift off of his face, gasping as you look down at him.

“Do you have a death wish?”

“Yes, now smother me with your pussy.”

You roll your eyes, lowering yourself back down onto him. He laps at you again, this time flicking your clit with his fingers before rubbing them through your slick folds. “Fucking missed this pussy. Do you know how many times I think about this? How much cum have I spilled thinking about this?”

“God, you’re such a perv,” you say. But he can hear the lightness in your voice, knowing that despite the slight embarrassment, you’re also flattered.

“How tight is it, hmm? Do you ever fuck your toys thinking about me?”

“Not often,” you tease before you wail as he bites your ass.

“Liar.”

“Ugh, fine. I think about your cock a lot, okay?”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, now are you going to make me come or not?”

“You know, I could, but now I can’t stop thinking about you thinking about my cock and fuck, I’m so hard.”

Jimin feels you leaning forward, your hand roving down his toned chest until you reach the tent in his pants.

“Please, babygirl, don’t tease me too much,” he warns and you chuckle, tugging at the zipper and clasp and reaching into his pants.

Your hand dips into his briefs, tugging the elastic and pants down his hips to free his throbbing cock.

“Fuck,” you say, sliding your hand up and down his leaking shaft. “Were you always this big?”

Jimin groans, sliding a finger into you. You moan. “Shit.”

“You used to take this cock like such a good girl,” he says, sliding a second finger in. “Though I’m not sure how with such a tight little cunt you have. I think I need to fuck it open.”

“Oh.”

“You like that, baby? My fingers fucking you open so you can take my cock? You’re so wet, god, listen to you.”

The room fills with the wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you, his tongue returning to your clit and sucking hard.

“Shit, shit, we need to change positions or I’m going to collapse on your face.”

He obliges, pulling his fingers out so you can lie on your back. You watch as he sucks your juices from his fingers, your mouth slightly parting as he moans.

“So sweet.”

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, your eyes once more turning toward the door. “We gotta hurry. Once we get to the cookie shots, it’s only a matter of time before my dad makes us do round two of competitive games, and they’ll be looking for me.”

“Aw, but I was just getting started,” he whines.

You roll your eyes. “You can fulfill your fantasy later. Skip the foreplay and fuck me already.”

“I don’t know if you’re warmed up enough for that–”

“Jimin, I promise you the second I feel your cock slide into me, I will be ten seconds from cumming because of how good it feels. Now you can take your time with me later, but if you don’t fuck me right now, I might lose my goddamn mind.”

He feels precum dribble from the tip, and he looks at you. “Shit, okay. Well, um, I don’t have a condom.”

“IUD. I’m clean. Please,” Your voice cants into a whine, which makes Jimin feel delirious.

“Okay, lie back down baby, I’ll take care of you.”

Despite your desperation, he moves slowly, sucking your nipples back his mouth, giving a little bite to one that makes you whimper.

“Please, Jimin,” you beg again. He reaches down, taking his cock in his hand and rubbing it through your slick entrance. As the head of his cock dips in, your eyes meet his, and a sigh leaves your throat.

“Yes,” you say when he seats himself to the hilt. You pulse around him, and Jimin hisses at the tightness.

“Shit, watch it babygirl or I’ll come right now.”

“Just feels, so good, fuck,” you pant, your body convulsing around him once more.

He pulls out slightly and thrusts back in, his cock tapping your cervix. Your whole body quakes and you moan loudly.

“Shh, do you want to get caught?”

“Kiss me, then,” you say and Jimin being the fool that he is, he does.

Your lips meet, and you taste like a peppermint candy cane. He licks along your lip, trying to get more of the taste in his mouth. Your lips part, welcoming in, his tongue tangling with yours as he thrusts fully into you.

You moan into his mouth, silencing yourself as his pace increases, sharp snaps of his hips making you curl and clench around him, your wetness coating his pelvis and balls as it drips down your thighs.

On a particularly hard thrust, you come, your body shivering and pussy spasming around him. Your nails dig into his back as you seat him deeper into you, riding out the aftershocks.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

“Mm, feel good baby?”

“Yes. You’re so big; It feels so good.”

He kisses your nose.”Well, I want to make you come one more time before I do, so hold on.”

He rolls you over, propping you up on your knees.

“When I saw you earlier at practice in those leggings, I was imagining this moment. My cock deep in you while I watch your ass bounce on me. Do you think you can show me that, Y/N?”

You moan a yes, thrusting yourself back onto him as he pounds into you. The flesh of your ass bounces against him, and Jimin is hypnotized by it, his hands repeatedly slapping to spank your cheeks as you fuck yourself on him. With each slap, you clench harder, and as he places his hands firmly on your hips and bucks into you with speed and precision, it’s only a matter of time before you’re face down in the pile of coats, moaning freely as he thrusts into you. With one final gasp, you come, legs shaking violently as you succumb to your orgasm. Jimin follows behind, is cock pumping a heavy load of cum into you. You sigh satisfied, holding your hand under yourself to catch it while Jimin watches it leak out.

“Jesus, Y/N. That’s so hot.”

“Well, hot and practical. I’m not spilling your cum onto all my guests’ clothes. Now go get tissue from that bathroom over there. I need to clean up.”

Despite Jimin fucking you within an inch of your life, you manage to make your reappearance with your guests fairly easy, a glass of some concoction your mother has named Jingle Juice in hand.

“So,” Minho whispers after your father divides up the room into teams. “Are you creaming of a white Christmas with Jimin?”

“Ew, Minho! No! That’s disgusting!” You slap him on the arm. “How did you know?”

“Well, first I saw you two go out back and grope each other on the ice. And then you practically ran into the guest bedroom. After about thirty minutes of not seeing you, I figured I’d come check. But then I heard you and that confirmed my suspicions.”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Were we loud? Oh god, does everyone know?”

“I think everyone was too busy drinking or eating or singing to notice. But to answer your question, my god, Y/N, you’re so loud. He should put a muzzle on your or something.”

“Shut up. Besides, this is no big deal. A little Christmas stress relief. A one time thing.”

“Sure it is. Well may Santa bring you more stress relief very soon because you’re glowing from the orgasm he gave you.”

“Two.”

“Huh?”

“Two orgasms. With the promise of a third later if I meet up with him."

Minho looks at you uneasy. “I want to be happy for you, but I’m honestly not sure what to think. I thought you hated him. Or at least wouldn’t fuck him at your parents’ house.”

Heat floods your cheeks as the reality of your decision begins to set in.

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know.”

Minho takes a final sip of his drink, grimacing as he sets it down. “Well Merry Christmas to you, Y/N. Maybe you can fuck him into a better attitude while you’re at it. Because you’ve only got a few weeks before his suspension ends and if he isn’t ready by then, he can kiss his professional career goodbye.”

“I think he can do it. We have plenty of time.”

“I hope you’re right. Not to ruin your post-fuck glow, but be careful. People don’t change overnight. While I’m glad you two had a fun little reunion romp, there’s still a lot of work to be done with Park Jimin.”

#bts smut #bts fanfic #jimin x reader #park jimin #jimin fanfic #jimin smut #christmas fanfic #park jimin x reader

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