#ice skater!derek | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sapphicellegreenaway · 3 years ago

Text

once more to see you

hockey player!aaron hotchner x figure skater!fem!reader

switching training facilities before your most important season should have been a complete disaster, but you manage to find love along the way

word count: 15.0k

warnings: cursing, alcohol consumption, moderate description of injury, needles

a/n: hi! this is the first and only time i'll publish anything in relation to the men of the bau because i wanted this story to live and exist in the world in an iteration that felt was authentic and how i originally pictured it. anyways enjoy nhl superstar aaron hotchner (yes he plays for philly bc they're my dumb little team)

⭒⭑⭒

Aaron swears he’s going to kill whoever’s in charge of renting out the practice facility. At the very least he’s going to give them a piece of his mind.

Realistically, he knows it’s impossible. The rink can be rented by anyone when the Flyers aren’t using it and he typically thinks it’s a great way to promote ice sports in the community. Aaron just wishes the facilities manager didn’t rent it out to figure skaters. They destroy the ice with their toe picks and leave it in terrible shape, which makes it hard to properly execute plays that could be the difference between a win or a loss in a game. It frustrates him because while community engagement is important, his career and the team take precedence on the rink owned by the organization that has him on payroll.

No one else seems to be bothered by the recent decline in ice conditions. Most of his teammates are used to poor ice, growing up playing pond hockey and at rinks that also housed figure skating clubs. While Aaron had those experiences as well, it’s clear he never developed the same nonchalance as everyone else. He complains in the dressing room after every practice until Derek finally says something.

“Christ Hotch, relax. It’s only for another month until renovations at the other rink finish.”

Others chime in, telling him to not take it so seriously, with a couple of them defending the right of the other athletes to use the ice as they please. The grief Aaron catches is enough to shut him up, but he still stews privately over the fact figure skaters are destroying his happy place.

⭑

You want nothing more than to return to your home rink. The Flyers Skate Zone has been nice, the staff incredibly accommodating, but something feels off. You’re having a harder time landing jumps and skating clean programs than you’ve had at another rink. The change in routine is enough to knock you off your game, which is something you absolutely can’t have. You’re coming off a breakthrough season, finishing on the podium at nationals and landing a spot on your first world championship roster. People are expecting you to replicate your success and you want to do that and more.

US Figure Skating has taken a chance placing you on the national team for the current season. Though it was expected, they could have easily chosen the fourth place skater instead. She’s much younger than you, barely fifteen, and is yet to have a serious injury. At twenty-one you’re barely an adult, but this could be the last time you get an opportunity like this. The sport keeps getting younger and you could get left behind if you don’t prove yourself. The grand prix circuit was kind to you throughout the summer and fall, allowing you to earn medals at some of the smaller competitions and hold your own against the big dogs in the majors like NHK Trophy. With its conclusion all your attention is on landing higher on the podium at nationals.

⭑

“Try the triple flip again,” Brenda, your coach, instructs. “You could be more solid on the landing.”

“It’s this fucking ice! I can do one at home that would get me a high GOE,” you complain.

She rolls her eyes and thinks about telling you off, but decides against it. No matter how many times she tells you it’s a mental block you need to get over, you find a way to blame the training facility. “Just give me five solid ones and we’ll call it quits.”

It’s your turn to show frustration, leaving the boards with an impression of your pick, but you peel away from them anyways. Some juniors are mingling in a corner and you warn them to watch out as you skate by, gaining speed in hopes of actually executing the element correctly. The first attempt feels natural, and though you could have been a little stronger on the exit it’s a significant improvement from what you were doing earlier in the session. Jumps two and three also go well, but things go wrong on the fourth try. You catch a bad edge just before takeoff and aren’t able to correct your centre of gravity while in the air. Two and a half rotations happen before you slam into the ground and the entire right side of your body feels like it’s been run over by a bus.

“Fuck!” you scream in frustration as you pick yourself up off the ice. Everything throbs, and it takes an inner strength you didn’t know you possessed to not take your skates off and throw them in a garbage can. You’re tired of the regression that’s plagued you since coming to train here. Circling back to examine just how bad the edge was you notice your pick created much too large a hole, something you’d get points deducted for in competition. Brenda signals you over to her, and your head hangs low as you skate over to the woman who looks just as defeated as you feel.

“You’re done,” she sighs. You can tell it pains her to see your progress plateau, but you’re doing everything you can to get out of this rut — nothing is working. Before you can protest, try to convince her to let you stay on, she’s speaking again. “Our ice time is just about up. Go cool down and meet me in the conference room when you’re done.”

There’s nothing for you to do but sulk off the ice. The other skaters clear out of your way, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your anger. You direct it at the dressing room door, kicking it open so harshly it flies back on the hinges. It makes you feel a bit better, but you’re still in a sour mood as you untie your skates. It’s frustrating not being able to perform at the level you know you can, even in practice. If you could just get out of this rink and back into the one you’re most comfortable at.

After a much longer stretching routine than normal, you pack up your bag and head upstairs for what will no doubt be one of those meetings where you sit silently and take the heat. You realize that your behaviour today was childish, but you couldn’t help but let your emotions overcome you. The next group is well into their ice time when you pass by, and you notice it’s the hockey team that the building is named after. Most of them don’t acknowledge you and keep running drills, but one who looks to be your age is sending you daggers. His anger confuses you, and somehow fuels your own because there’s no reason for him to look at you like that.

The meeting goes much better than you thought it would. Brenda takes your anger in stride and lets you apologize for your outburst before shifting the conversation to altering your training plan. She suggests you take a few days off from the rink, working strictly off-ice, and you begrudgingly agree. There isn’t anything you can do or say to change her mind so you take the updated workout plans with a fake smile. She also tells you that your appointment with your sports psychologist has been moved up a couple of days, which you’re grateful for. It will do you good to work through the things you’re feeling with someone who can actually provide strategies for coping. Things then move to talking strategy and watching tape of competitors to see what to expect at this year’s nationals. The event is in just over a month, and you have the goal of landing on the podium once again, hopefully with the gold medal dangling around your neck.

A couple of hours pass with the pair of you holed up in the conference room, and it’s dark when you gather your stuff and head for home. The complex is deserted and you assume no one but the staff are still here. It turns out someone else was there, and they follow you out, their own gear bag slung over their shoulder. You don’t really pay them any mind, holding the door open out of habit, and fail to recognize the person as the boy who glared while you walked by hours prior. He notices you, however, and makes a point to voice his distaste.

“Hey!” he calls out, “Next time you eat shit don’t put such a big hole in the ice. Other people need it to make money.”

“Get fucked,” you yell back. You really don’t have the time or energy to be accosted by a hockey player. He continues to talk, but you don’t hear it because you slam your car door shut and drive off into the darkness.

⭑

Aaron doesn’t feel like he was in the wrong about the situation until Gideon suggests he apologize a few days later. In his mind, he has every right to be upset about you damaging the ice because it directly affected him. The hole you caused couldn’t be fully repaired, and he tripped at a really key moment during the scrimmage. His bad day was your fault.

“You can’t blame a tough practice on her man,” the captain says as the two of them skate a few warm-up laps. Hopefully taking the moment to talk to the youngster will help him understand that other people are allowed to struggle. “She didn’t mean to fall. Hell, she didn’t want to do it.”

“I get it, or whatever, but it’s still her fault. We’re professional athletes, we need to be at the top of our games.”

He gives Aaron a pointed look and taps the raven-haired winger with the nearest stick “So is she! Did you know that she’s favoured to win both the national and world championships? That things look good for her to be on the Olympic team next year?”

Aaron didn’t know, and guilt twinges his stomach. The next time he runs into you he’s going to apologize.

⭑

You spend your time away from the rink conditioning and regaining focus. The first couple of days are tough, but then you settle into a routine you believe will ultimately make you a better athlete and competitor. Your cardio and weights are upped, and you’re anxious to see how the increase improves your endurance — too often have you been out of breath at the end of a performance. At the suggestion of your psychologist you take a few more days off than originally planned, but it’s the best thing you could have done. You return to the rink ready to nail the final few weeks of training before nationals.

Any other coach would have detested you for taking a week off this close to a major competition, but not Brenda. She understands that you needed the time to refocus and that you’ll work harder than anyone else in the time until you leave for Salt Lake City. Your first practice is fantastic — every element is clean when isolated and within your programs. The timing is off a bit during your free skate on the first run-through but your nerves settle quickly and the next one is spot on. It feels good to be back in control of things.

“I think you’re over that mental block kid,” Brenda laughs when you stop along the boards to get some water. “You’re skating better here than at home.”

You can’t help but agree, a small smile breaking out on your face. “You know, I hate it here slightly less than two weeks ago. Think we should move here permanently?” The comment earns you a slightly aggressive hair ruffling, but it’s worth it. You spend the last hour of ice time alone, running through both of your programs in a mock competition setting.

It’s nearly silent in the complex when Aaron sneaks through the doors. The only thing he can hear is the faint sounds of music he presumes belongs to you from inside the pad. He had begun to think you were never going to reappear at the rink, but learned you were just taking a break when he cornered your coach in the parking lot. The middle-aged lady had told him when you’d be returning and Aaron immediately put it in his calendar so he wouldn’t forget. Now, as he stands against the glass watching you, he’s slightly nervous. What if you don’t accept his apology? No one has ever rebuffed him in the manner you had, not even opponents on rival teams, and he hates the idea of someone smearing his name in the media.

Aaron knew you were good. Well, he was pretty sure you were. He spent the short three-day road trip to Florida watching as many videos of you competing on YouTube as he could find. Though he’s murky on the specifics of what makes a good figure skater, he knows you put heart and soul into every performance and that your elements are strong technically — your scores reflect those facts. Regardless, Aaron is surprised how much better you seem when he’s watching you from the corner of the rink.

You’re looser than in the videos he’s seen, probably because there isn’t any pressure, but you don’t give it any less than a hundred percent. The music drives you forward in a way he’s never seen before — you’re an extension of it, and it of you. As you round a corner to pick up speed Aaron finds himself holding his breath. From watching footage of this program on the plane home, he knows you’re about to attempt the hardest element in it. The quadruple salchow is one of the most difficult jumps female skaters are attempting at the moment, according to his research, and it’s been your most inconsistent element this season from comments online. You’re completing the jump before Aaron even realizes you’ve taken off the ground, but you don’t fall. He exhales and watches the rest of the program with a reserved awe and intrigue. Top-quality athletes recognize greatness, and he now understands everything the team has been trying to tell him for months — he just had to see it to believe it.

When the music stops and you float back to reality from wherever it is you go in the moment to take in your surroundings, you notice the applause. Thinking it’s just from Brenda, you shrug it off, but when you turn around she isn’t clapping. It’s coming from someone else — the boy who was a douchebag the last day before your break. The chances of him being here to make another snide comment are hight, but Brenda insists you should talk to him. You wave him over to a section near the benches that doesn't have glass so you can hear him over the sound of other people’s blades scraping the ice.

“What do you want?” you ask bluntly, taking a sip of water.

Aaron’s taken aback by your abrasiveness but does his best to recover quickly. After all, he’s more than deserving of it. “I wanted to apologize for what I said last week. That wasn’t very, uh, professional of me. I was having a bad day and took out on you, I’m sorry,” he rambles, reminding you he’s human and trying to figure out life the same way you are. “And you’re really talented.”

“It wasn’t fucking cool,” you agree, not quite ready to drop the frosty tone your voice holds, “But it’s fine. I had just been kicked off the ice for a week when you caught me, so I’m sorry too. For snapping.” There’s nothing more for either of you to say, and Brenda is calling your name, so you skate away from him. Over your shoulder you call out, “Thanks for the compliment unnamed Flyers player!”

“It’s Aaron!” he responds. “Aaron Hotchner.”

⭑

A sort of truce befalls the two of you. More of your ice time overlaps, but neither acknowledge each other more than the occasional nod in each other’s direction. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest because preparing for nationals is the only thing that matters currently, and trying to navigate a possible friendship would be too much of a distraction. Aaron is a little put off you don’t try to extend pleasantries, but when it’s explained to him that you’re entering a period that is similar to the lead-up to playoffs he understands. It’s becoming clear that the lives you lead are more similar than he ever could have imagined.

Despite there being no reason to do so, he finds himself making up excuses to stay at the rink to watch you practice. He blows off dinner with Reid and drinks with Morgan when you have the slot after their practice, and when you skate before him he’s at the rink hours early. His schoolboy crush becomes the topic of locker room gossip. Though Aaron swears up and down that he just likes to watch you skate, no one believes him. They don’t go as far as to embarrass him in your presence, but Derek certainly tries on numerous occasions. It’s Aaron’s steely resolve and deadpan expressions that normally save him from public ridicule, but when the guys aren’t looking he sneaks you a small smile to signal he isn’t upset with anything you’ve done. What he doesn’t know is that you’re developing the same sort of fascination with him. You find yourself turning on every Flyers game you can fit into your schedule, watching him intently, and keeping an eye on his stats. The official NHL app now sits on your homescreen, nestled between various social media platforms.

“That boy sure has a lot of interest in you,” Brenda muses one day while you’re talking strategy on how to increase the points total on your short program.

“It’s really nothing, Hotch is just curious about the sport and I’m the most available one for him to latch onto,” you sigh, hoping she doesn’t question you further. “So I was thinking, if I raise my arms during the triple lutz it should give me at least three more points.”

She looks at you like you’ve gained two extra heads. “Are you insane? You’ve never raised your arms during a triple.”

Your smile turns into a wicked smirk. “It can’t be that hard.”

It’s a lot harder than you thought it would be. Though you’ve added the extra step to jumps in the past, it’s been on singles and doubles to rack up points and GOE scores. Jumping has never been your strong suit, and trying to navigate the change in your centre of gravity is difficult. You spend the rest of your ice time popping, under-rotating, or slamming into the ground. A couple of juniors snicker at your failed attempts, but when you remind them they’re stuck on a double loop they stop laughing. It was a little mean, and you remember how hard it was to prove yourself when climbing up the ranks, but you can’t find it in you to care. There’s no need to laugh at someone trying to improve their performance. After a few more failed attempts you cut your losses and head off the ice, more than exhausted.

Bruises start to form on your sides from falling the exact same way so many times, and you trace them lightly through the thin material of your compression top. They’re going to look nasty in a few hours if you don’t ice them soon. A knock on the locker room door stops your actions, and you invite the person on the other side in. To your surprise it’s Aaron, and he’s holding an ice pack.

“I thought you might need one of these,” he says, extending it to you.

You thank him and hiss slightly when the cold hits your skin. There’s a beat of awkward silence before he speaks again. “Can I ask why you’re trying to change that jump?”

“You noticed that?” you know it isn’t a response to his question, but you’re shocked. “Didn’t realize a hot shot like you would actually pay attention to what I do.”

Aaron smirks and shrugs with a nonchalance that seems a little too forced. You explain how changing the position of your arms increases the difficulty of the jump and therefore raises the amount of points it can receive. “So you’re doing it to get more points?”

“Pretty much. It’s a gamble this close to competition, but I’m confident it’ll work out.”

“You’re afraid your program won’t gain enough points to put you in a good position for the free skate,” he notes, “Or you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Once again, you’re floored by his understanding of your sport. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” you say as confidently as you can. “But maybe I just want the challenge.” If Aaron notices the shake in your voice and the worried look in your eye he doesn’t say anything.

You go through your cool-down routine but are surprised Aaron doesn’t leave. In fact, he stays at the rink until you’re finished and follows you to the parking lot. His car is parked a few spots over from you, so you have to raise your voice a little to get him to hear you. “Hey Aaron,” you call, “Do you not have practice?”

“Day off,” he yells back. He’s grinning like an idiot, which prompts you to ask him why. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name.” The smile on his face doesn’t go away, and you try to settle the butterflies in your stomach as you drive home.

⭑

Something shifts between you after that day. It’s subtle, but you’re well on your way to becoming friends. Phone numbers are exchanged, with him insisting his contact name be ‘Hotch’ and nothing else, and the two of you chat regularly outside of the rink. He still watches as many training sessions as he can, and you start making appearances at his practices. It’s far more awkward for you but you push through it for no other reason than wanting to be a good sport. You’re sure there have been times where he wanted to go home but stayed seated on the cold concrete bleachers to offer his support on a hard day. Once Aaron’s teammates catch wind of your budding friendship, they’re pestering you to go to a game. You politely decline each time, explaining that your training schedule is rather rigid and you can’t change it so close to nationals. The competition is just over a week out, and you’re catching a flight to Utah in three days.

Aaron doesn’t let you know he’s a little upset you won’t shift your schedule for him. He understands, he really does, but sometimes he worries you don’t care enough about him to actually put work into the friendship. Instead, he brings you lunch on days where you’re at the rink for eight hours and does his individual workouts alongside yours. The two of you fall into the easy routine of enjoying each other’s company and everyone else is beginning to take notice.

“So,” you say with a mouth full of the pita Aaron brought you, “What are your plans for the All-Star break?”

He’s been toying with an idea for a few weeks now, but Aaron’s keeping it a secret. “I’m just gonna spend it at home with my family,” he shrugs.

“You’re fucking joking. Aaron, you could be somewhere warm and enjoying the beach!”

“I don’t want to go to the beach,” Aaron snorts.

You open your mouth to argue with him, because you’re of the opinion that everyone should love the beach, but you’re cut off by Brenda calling you to return to the ice. “This conversation isn’t over Hotchner,” you say sternly, poking him in the chest to prove your point. He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve gotta be at Wells Fargo in an hour for a team meeting, so I can’t watch this session,” he tells you. You’re a little deflated but understand he can’t play hookie from his job to watch you do your own. Brenda is banging a skate guard on the boards to get your attention, so you wave goodbye and jog over to her. “Y/N,” Aaron yells loud enough that you’ll hear him over the chatter on the ice, “Keep your core tight!”

Your coaching team is perplexed at the comment because it’s second nature to you at this point, but you think it’s sweet. Some of the other girls poke fun at your ‘boyfriend’ and it makes you irritable. Brenda tells them off and suggests they get back to work which makes you feel better. You keep Aaron’s advice in the back of your mind for the rest of your practice, and land every jump almost flawlessly.

The day before you board your flight you have a terrible practice. Brenda chalks it up to nerves, but you know that’s not it. You feel good about the competition and are confident it will go well. Something is off — you just can’t put a finger on it. Frustration eventually boils over and practice is called early. Everyone stays out of your way, letting you cool off, and you huff out a goodbye after promising to meet Brenda at the airport in the morning. Before you’re even out the door you’ve got your phone pressed to your ear, waiting for Aaron to pick up. The Flyers got to start their break a day early due to a scheduling conflict and you hope he doesn’t fly home tonight.

“What’s up?” Aaron’s tone is relaxed and casual, the complete opposite of how you currently feel. Judging by the background noise he’s playing video games, no doubt some dumb first-person shooter game he seems to play constantly. The sound of his voice is enough to send you into tears and make a reply impossible to choke out. His tone changes instantly when he realizes your distress and all activity on the other line halts — the game paused and forgotten about. “Hey,” he soothes, “What’s wrong?”

“Practice was bad,” you choke out, “Like really bad. I don’t think I can do this. Why did I ever think I could do this?” Now across the parking lot and faced with the task of driving home, you throw your bag in the trunk and crumble into the driver’s seat.

“Of course you can, you’re the only person I know that could do it,” he reassures, “I’ll meet you at your place,” The light jangle of keys lets you know Aaron isn’t going to take no for an answer. You don’t fight him, not having the energy to defend your normal pre-competition ritual of radio silence with the rest of the world, and hang up only after insisting you’re okay to drive the twenty minutes to your apartment.

Aaron must have drove well above the speed limit because he pulls into the parking lot at the same time as you. His engine is turned off jarringly fast, and he’s popping your trunk to grab your bag before your gears have settled in park. Though you put up some rather weak protests about carrying your own stuff, Aaron ignores them and hikes your bag higher on his shoulder. When you insist on holding something he tosses you the bag of food he brought with him. Opening it up, you realize he stopped at your favourite sushi restaurant even though he doesn’t like the food. A smile creeps onto your face, possibly the first one all day, and you lean into Aaron slightly when he wraps an arm around your shoulder.

After unlocking your door and settling, both of you flop onto the couch, chopsticks in hand. There’s a blanket of silence over the room as you eat, but it’s far from awkward. Countless hours have been spent just like this, both of you caught up in your own heads and thinking about your futures in sport for there to be discomfort at the lack of conversation. Aaron’s waiting for you to open up, knows you will eventually, and you’re trying to find the words. However, they’re yet to appear, so you let him pull you into his side and turn the television on to some basketball game.

“Thanks for coming over,” you say as the commercials switch on at the end of the first half.

Aaron sends a smile your way, which you do your best to reciprocate. “It’s what friends are for.”

Slowly you open up about practice, venting about how you skated sloppily and couldn’t nail any element no matter how simple it was. You tell him about how tense your muscles are and how scared you are that your fifteen minutes of fame are over, that you’ll never get another chance to represent America on the world stage. Aaron listens attentively, letting you speak for as long as you need. At some point you start crying again and he holds you tighter, making sure you’re comfortable and providing a space to let it all out . Your tears soak through his sweatshirt but he could care less. When you’ve laid all your emotions out on the table he speaks gently, dispelling your doubts and letting you know that you can do it and he believes in you. Aaron’s words make it easier to believe in yourself.

The two of you spend the night on the couch, end up falling asleep, and you’re disheartened when your alarm goes off in the morning. You can’t stay in the little bubble Aaron created for the two of you — the world and its responsibilities taking precedence over the fantasy you wish never had to dissipate. He drives you to the airport, rationalizing it by telling you it’ll be safer to keep your car at home. Realistically there isn’t a difference, but you thank him anyways. Parking was the least of your worries, but the gesture is sweet and you aren’t quite ready to say goodbye yet. When you reach the airport entrance, Aaron pulls into the idling lane and steps out of the car. You follow him, dragging your feet a bit because though you’re excited for nationals you don’t want to leave. This will be the longest time the two of you have been apart since the meteoric rise to friendship

“Make sure you don’t forget about me when you win and get all famous,” Aaron jokes, handing you your suitcase.

You swat his shoulder playfully. “Like you’d let that happen.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Come here.”

He takes you in his arms. You’ve hugged Aaron a couple of times before, but they didn’t feel as serious as this. This time he’s holding you for a purpose and you’re gripping the back of his jacket tightly because you don’t want him to let go. It’s longer than people who are just friends are meant to hug for, so you begrudgingly pull away. Besides, Brenda and some of your teammates are waiting.

“Have a good time at home,” you mumble.

He wraps a single arm around you for one more squeeze. “You have a good time,” he says seriously, with only the gleam in his eyes letting you know you aren’t getting scolded. “Remember to enjoy the moment. I’ll be watching on T.V.”

With your goodbyes said you wander into the airport, suitcase trailing behind you. Aaron stays parked in his spot until he sees you embrace Brenda before driving off. The boarding process is painless, and once on the plane you take your seat beside a junior and put your headphones on. Downloaded to your Spotify is one of Aaron’s classic rock playlists, and though it’s the farthest thing from the music you enjoy you listen to it the whole way.

⭑

Utah’s nice, but you can’t help feeling like something’s missing — Aaron’s missing. You’ve become so accustomed to him watching you train, clapping like an idiot every time you land a jump, that the silence is unnerving. Everyone notices the shift in your performance, and eventually Brenda crumbles and uses your phone to facetime him while you practice. It’s a decent enough substitute — he watches your pixelated figure zip around the ice and though he doesn’t always make comments, just knowing Aaron’s with you in some capacity is enough to let your mind focus on the task at hand. You do the best you can at pushing away the butterflies that appear every time you think about how he’s giving up his freedom to make sure you succeed.

When you aren’t training or doing press you’re talking to Aaron. You call him constantly, narrating what you see on walks around town to settle your nerves and eating at the same time to make it feel like you’re together. The only person to support you in Salt Lake City is Brenda, so talking to him frequently makes you feel far less alone. You wish he could be here with you, but understand he needs time to recharge and can’t just follow you around the country no matter how much you’d like him to.

“What time do you skate tomorrow?” Aaron asks, mouth full of the pizza he’s enjoying. The features behind are different, so you assume he’s settled into his childhood home.

“Um, I think 11:35? I’m not entirely sure,” you respond. Due to the way the event is seeded you’re skating second last, which both settles your nerves and makes you more anxious. There isn’t the pressure of closing out the event, but there’s hope that you’ll score high enough to win the short program and skate last in the free skate.

Aaron hums pensively. “I’ll check the website.” He confirms you do in fact skate after 11:30, and conversation shifts away from skating, which you’re grateful for. It’s the last thing you currently want to think about. You listen with interest as Aaron recounts stories of the pond hockey matches he’s played since getting home. The two of you are on the phone until nearly ten, when you have to say goodnight and head to bed. Tomorrow marks the start of the biggest week of your year.

You follow your pre-competition routine to the letter. At other events this season you’ve been more relaxed, but your professional skating career depends on your performance at nationals so you aren’t taking chances. Five-thirty comes faster than you thought it would, but you’re out of bed and eating your first breakfast quickly. A quick two mile run follows, and then you’re having a shower and grabbing a second breakfast to eat at the rink. You meet Brenda in the hotel lobby before catching a taxi to the rink in an effort to not be late. A solid practice follows, and you manage to keep your imposter syndrome on a leash in the presence of the other skaters.

The time between practice and your warmup is spent pacing the halls of the dressing and equipment rooms, doing your best to keep your mind off the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Some of the other girls send you odd looks as you pass, hair wild and running shoes untied, but you know you’re doing what you have to. After what feels like decades you finish getting ready and go to find Brenda and go over any last minute tweaks. You find her walking down the hall towards you, holding your phone that’s already lit up with an answered call.

“It’s Hotchner,” Brenda says as she tosses you the device.

“Hey,” you say, squeezing the device between your ear and shoulder. “I don’t have much time to talk. My warm up call is soon.”

Aaron laughs and you find yourself cracking a smile at the sound. “I know, I just wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling.”

“Honestly? I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous for a competition.”

His response is cut off by a loud noise. “Where are you?” you ask, slightly started.

“Just at home,” he says quickly. “My sister has some friends over and they’re being loud.”

The line is compelling enough that you don’t question how hastily it was delivered. Aaron stays on the phone until you have to go, keeping your mind off the jittery feeling that’s taken root in your bones. The television cameras catch you talking but you give them a cheery wave and continue telling Aaron about how good the soap at your hotel smells. You hang up when they call your flight to take to the ice for warmup and give your phone back to Brenda for safe keeping.

⭑

Aaron tries hard not to feel too out of place while he takes his seat. For someone who practically lives in arenas he feels like it’s his first time within fifty yards of one. Everyone around him is dressed nicely, and he’s acutely aware of the fact there is a neon orange pom-pom attached to the top of his hat.

As much as he feels like a baby deer trying to stand, Aaron is beyond excited to be in Salt Lake City. It’s been a while since he’s gone somewhere that wasn’t hockey related and getting to support you while he does it is the best scenario ever. There are some potential looks of recognition from those around him, but thankfully no one approaches.

Skaters begin to take the ice and he scans vigilantly for you. You’re doing the best you can to stay warm, jacket zipped all the way up and thick gloves on your hands. Aaron notices you seem to be the loosest of the girls below him but isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. You skate a few quick laps before warming up some jumps. Everything goes well, though he can tell you under-rotated a few of them and didn’t attempt the one quad in your program. The warm up is over as quickly as it began and you’re herded off the ice. Aaron sinks a little further in his seat as gets ready to watch your competitors, doing poorly to hide the nerves he has on your behalf.

⭑

There’s just over five minutes until you take to the ice. You keep your body moving, walking up and down the corridor, and blast your pre-competition playlist so loud you’ll probably have hearing damage when you’re older. No one is in the hall with you but it feels too small, as if the walls are in danger of closing in. Brenda comes to grab you and the pair of you walk to the side of the boards. You don’t watch who’s currently skating, choosing instead to focus on adjusting your feet slightly in your skates.

“Go out there and put on a show,” Brenda says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Fuck the judges.”

You laugh at her remark. “Okay Bren, when I lose points for flipping them off I’m blaming you.”

“Fine by me. I have a bone to pick with Mark Johnson anyways.”

The scores for the previous girl are being announced, so you peel your jacket from your frame and do a couple more laps. Right before your name is announced you press your forehead to Brenda’s. It’s a ritual you started back when you were barely as tall as the boards and you’ve done it every single competition since. You feel grounded looking in her eyes, and you break with a fist bump. It’s show time.

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. You didn’t come to play, and leave everything on the ice. The skate isn’t completely clean, you stumbled on the landing of a triple axel, but you’re happy with it. Despite your fears, both the triple lutz and quad salchow go smoothly. Audience engagement was at an all time high and you finished to deafening applause. Brenda wraps you in a tight hug when you step off the ice before leading you over to the kiss and cry. You chat idly with her and your choreographer, trying to catch your breath, while you wait for your score.

The announcer’s booming voice crackles over the PA as he reads the judges’ decision. “The scores for Y/N Y/L/N please.” You don’t pay attention to the individual numbers, which won’t do you any favours with analytics people, just the final total. “For a total score of 74.83.”

It’s lower than you had anticipated. Not by much, just two or three points, but it could mean all the difference in tomorrow’s skate. Brenda pats your leg sympathetically and whispers in your, “It’s alright. You skated well.” She means well, but you aren’t convinced.

You head back to the dressing room to watch the final skater on the small screen of your phone while you get undressed, too upset to continue being rinkside like some of the other competitors. She’s phenomenal, and you end the day falling to third place. The playlist Aaron made you blasts through your headphones as you do your cool down routine. The average tempo is upbeat and helps to take your mind off the fact you’re not where you want to be, and it’s working as a substitute for the fact he isn’t here with you. Just as you’re about to exit the room and find Brenda to talk strategy, there's a knock on the door.

“Yeah?” you say dejectedly, the word coming out as more of a sigh than you had intended.

The door cracks open slightly, and the head of your best friend peeks out from around it. “Fancy seeing you here,” Aaron says softly, stepping further into the room. Once you comprehend that he’s really here you’re sprinting in his direction, jumping into his open arms. Aaron’s laugh reverberates in his chest, and you feel it as you settle further into him.

“Why are you here?” you whisper. Though you’re elated to see him, you’re confused as to why he would want to spend his break in Utah and not with the family and friends he doesn’t get to see during the season.

He lets you down gently and shrugs. “I had to see if you’d land the quad.” There’s a gleam in his eye that hints at something more but you’re just so happy to see him you don’t care about his intentions. Aaron’s smile matches yours as you shake your head.

“You’re fucking insane,” you quip, but there’s no malice in your voice.

Before you can pester Aaron into answering all your questions about how he got here you’re whisked away to a press conference. Talking to the media is something you don’t particularly enjoy, and it’s even more difficult to stay present when you know you could be spending time with your best friend. Most of the questions are directed towards the girls who placed higher than you, which you’re thankful for. It’s easier for you to zone out, and you root through your mind of places around the city to take Aaron.

“Y/N, how tough will it be for you to better your scores in tomorrow’s free skate?”

The question is one that you expected, luckily, and you’re able to recite the response you worked out with Brenda without really engaging with the reporter. “I mean I obviously didn’t aim to be in third place heading into tomorrow,” you joke, “But I’m fairly happy with where I ended up. The other girls had fantastic skates and deserve to be above me. My plan for tomorrow is to leave everything on the ice, skate cleanly, and be proud of myself regardless of what happens.”

Pens scribble furiously by those that don’t have recording devices to get your words down on paper. There’s some chatter, questions for the other girls, before a young reporter fresh out of journalism school is allowed to speak. He identifies himself as Theo Rateliff before jumping in. “Y/N,” he says, “How excited are you to get back to training on home ice when you get back to Jersey?”

“Um, I didn’t know the renovations were finished,” you stammer. “As far as I know, I’ll be at Flyers SkateZone until the end of the season.”

Theo shakes his head. “My partner was informed this morning that the rink will be good to go by the time you get back.”

You turn to the side to look at Brenda, who just shrugs. “Well, to be quite honest I’ll miss being in Voorhees. I had fun skating there and feel like the rink prepared me well for this competition.”

“Obviously not well enough,” Theo retorts, not missing a beat. “Your odds of winning dropped by seventy-seven percent.”

“Thank you for the reminder Theo,” you snap. “Are we done here?”

The press-coordinator shakes their head in confirmation, and you rip the microphone off your jacket before stomping off. People clear a path for you, not wanting to get caught in your storm. You run right to Aaron, who lets you direct him out of the arena, leaving a gawking crowd behind, and into the cab he called while you were wrapping up.

It’s a silent ride, as Aaron knows you aren’t in the mood for light conversation. There’s no pressing you to talk during the elevator or as you struggle to unlock the door with the temperamental room key you were given. He lets you take a ridiculously long shower and orders take out that arrives just as you step out of the bathroom.

“Where are you staying?” you ask as you detangle your hair.

“Nowhere yet,” Aaron says, looking up from the article on his phone. “I got in early this morning and went straight to the rink.”

You think carefully about your next words before you speak. Your competition routines can be excessive and annoying, and you don’t want to inconvenience him. “You could just stay here. The room is massive and there’s more than enough space for both of us in the bed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice taking a soft lilt. “I’d really like it if you stayed.”

Aaron smiles wider than you’ve ever seen him do before. The two of you sit comfortably in bed, eating the burritos he bought and going down a conspiracy theory wormhole on YouTube. He asks how you feel about him coming to watch your evening training session you have to leave for in twenty minutes. You earnestly tell him you’d be angry if he didn’t stand beside your coach and clap like an idiot every time you landed a jump.

It’s chilly but the sun is shining bright, so you decide to bundle up and walk to the rink. Aaron pokes fun at your beanie and thick scarf, and you swat him in the chest, shutting him up for the time being after his giggles subside. The view is gorgeous, mountains framing the setting sun. You squeeze Aaron’s bicep to get his attention and relish the feeling of his muscle in your grip.

“Look! An owl!”

Sure enough, a barn owl is flying over top of you, in the middle of downtown Salt Lake City. “That’s my good luck charm. Means I’ll skate well tomorrow.”

Aaron pokes your cheek lightly. “I thought I was your good luck charm,” he gasps in a playful manner that has a smile creep onto your face before you could help it.

You roll your eyes. “I guess you can be my secondary one.” Aaron doesn’t seem to mind the fact your arms are still wrapped around his, so you stay that way until for the rest of the journey.

⭑

The night goes according to plan. You skate well in practice and feel as comfortable as possible for tomorrow given the circumstances. Aaron executes his role perfectly, cheering when you do things well and squirting water at you to make you squeal in laughter when things get a little too serious. Once back at the hotel, you collapse into bed almost immediately. You’re so exhausted you can’t even be bothered to climb under the covers, and wait until Aaron pulls them back for himself to crawl in. There’s no awkwardness at sharing a bed, and you sigh contently as he pulls you into his side. Sleep comes easily for the both of you.

You wake before both your alarm and Aaron. It takes you a second to get your bearings and realize you’re pinned against his body, though it’s pleasant and you truly don’t mind. There’s worse places to be stuck. You lay curled into Aaron for as long as you can, but eventually you have to shake him awake.

“Hotch,” you whisper, ruffling his hair, “You’ve gotta let me out.”

He groans something unintelligible but instead of heeding your words pulls you closer. “Aaron, come on,” you try again, “I’ve really gotta get up. Need to shower before I get to the rink.”

He listens this time, but only lets you go after squeezing you tight for a second. You go about your routine with Aaron still passed out in bed and giggle at the way his hair curls around his ears when you pass by. As you’re leaving to get to your practice ice slot he wakes up, lumbering into the bathroom. He reappears a minute or two later to say goodbye.

“Will I see you after practice?” Aaron asks, voice still gruff with sleep.

“Probably not,” you reply, leaning down to tie your shoes. “I won’t be coming back here until after everything is done.”

Aaron nods and wraps you in a warm hug. “You’re going to do great,” he says as he pulls away. “I’ll be there, cheering so fucking loud.”

“I expect you to throw a teddy bear on the ice after I finish.”

The walk to the arena is lonely without Aaron to keep you company, but you do the best you can to push the thoughts of him out of your mind. You need to stay focused on putting on the skate of your life in a few hours and not on how lately you’ve been having more-than-friendly thoughts about your best friend. Brenda is there when you arrive, asking polite questions about what the two of you got up to last night before explaining how you’re going to run your practice.

Your hour of semi-private ice passes in the blink of an eye. The other girls in your flight are just as tense as you, popping jumps and doing a lot of skating to loosen up. A lot is riding on today’s event and you’d be lying if you weren’t feeling the pressure. When you get back to the dressing room and check your phone, you notice there’s a text from Aaron.

Don’t want to disrupt your incredibly rigid pre-comp routine (I’m mostly joking), but I thought I’d share a playlist. It’s songs that remind me of you.

Included is a link to a Spotify playlist entitled ‘my golden girl’. You open it with a smile, noticing that it starts with some of your favourite songs even though they aren’t the kind of thing he regularly listens to before turning into things you’ve never heard before.

Thanks <3, you respond, going to listen to it during my off-ice.

That’s exactly what you do. It filters through your headphones for hours as you stretch, do a quick interview for those watching on television, and get dressed. Though it’s a break from your typical routine, it’s welcome. Knowing Aaron thought about you enough to make you a playlist and send it to you helps calm your nerves.

“Hey kiddo,” Brenda says as she walks to where you’ve taken up root on the floor. Your left hamstring is tight, and you’re trying desperately to fix it before you have to go on the ice. “Go out there and absolutely kill it. This is your best program, and I haven’t seen anyone skate better than what you can do today.”

“Gee thanks for the confidence booster Bren,” you chuckle before hoisting yourself onto the bench to tie your skates.

She doesn’t laugh. “I mean it Y/N. You can still win this thing.”

You’re left alone to finish getting ready and then join the other girls in the tunnel. No one talks, which you’re grateful for. When you were younger and coming up through the ranks the other competitors liked to gossip while they waited, and it was your least favourite part of an entire competition. A camera man waits at the end of the walkway, filming your arrival to the ice pad, and you wave cheerily as you pass by. It can never hurt to endear yourself to those watching at home – maybe they’ll be nicer to you on the internet if things go poorly.

Aaron is standing at the edge of the boards open to spectators during your warmup, watching and cheering intently. In a moment of insane confidence you blow him a kiss as you skate past, and giggle hysterically when he catches it and holds it close to his chest. You’re called off the ice then and spend the time in between your skate really getting into the zone. So much hinges on the four minutes of ice time you have left.

It’s considered bad luck to watch the performances before your own, so you face the wall as you jog lightly in place to keep your body temperature up and the adrenaline flowing. Much sooner than you’d like it’s your turn to take your guards and jacket off. Brenda holds your shaking hands as she whispers last minute words of encouragement, and you stumble through the traditional handshake before presenting yourself to the crowd.

Once the music starts your brain checks out and instinct takes over. You learned when you were younger that your best skates happened when you just allowed yourself to feel every beat of the music, and you desperately need the skate of a lifetime. Going into the first jumping pass you can feel yourself tense up so you think about Aaron’s smile while you guys sat by the lake last night. It works to loosen you up, and you spend the rest of the program thinking of your favourite moments with him. The music fades from your consciousness slightly, but you’re still transporting the crowd to the fantasy world you created. As you strike your final pose the music fades out completely and the roars of applause cascade in. You know you had a flawless performance, beaming as you fist pump the air in the same dramatic manner you chirp Aaron for doing when he celebrates goals.

You bow to the crowd in all directions, waving and laughing as flowers and teddy bears fall onto the ice in front of you. An orange blob of fur catches your eye, and you skate to pick it up before one of the volunteers could put it in the bag that will join your gear in the dressing room. You know Aaron is the one who threw the Gritty toy — no one else really knows of your affiliations with the team outside of the training facility. As you sit in the kiss and cry awaiting your results, you examine the stuffed animal. Instead of the regular Gritty jersey, Aaron replaced it with his own, the number flashing vividly at you and pulling a smile from your nervous features.

Brenda keeps her hand clasped tightly in yours as the PA system crackles to life. “And the scores for Y/N Y/L/N are,” the announcer begins, and your knee begins bouncing rapidly, heartbeat so pronounced in your ears you have to strain to hear. “The free skate score is 155.79, for a total score of 230.62.”

You jump up in amazement. Despite your slow start to the competition you managed to get a season’s best. You’re also five points ahead of the second place skater, guaranteeing you a place on the podium and depending on the final results, a spot at worlds. A volunteer ushers you out of the kiss and cry and you skip all the way down the tunnel. To get out some of the adrenaline you jog the corridor a few times before returning to Brenda.

“Come on,” she laughs, “Aaron’s waiting at the edge of the public area. We can watch the final skate together.”

At the mention of his name you’re jogging again, wanting to see him as fast as possible. “Hotch!” you shriek as you approach, launching into the elaborate handshake the two of you have perfected at this point.

“Hey, golden girl,” he chuckles, returning your actions with just as much enthusiasm. “You looked great out there. I see you got my gift.”

The Gritty doll is still in your hands but there’s no shame. Instead, you tuck it under your arm and rest your head against Aaron’s shoulder to watch the final skater. The girl after you had fallen a number of times, dropping her total significantly and landing her in fifth place. Victory is so close you can almost taste it.

It’s the longest six minutes of your life. Watching the final skater increases your anxiety tenfold — she’s good, has almost as great a skate as you, but she under-rotated a jump and rushed through her program so there was extra music at the end. The clock above your head rings throughout the silent corridor as everyone awaits the scores with baited breath. In under a minute you’ll know whether you’re returning to New Jersey with a gold or silver medal in your suitcase.

You don’t hear anything as they announce her score – just see the numbers flash on the small screen and calculate that it’s not enough for her to beat you. After years of blood, sweat, and an immeasurable amount of tears you’ve crossed another goal off your list. Those around you are jumping and screaming, Brenda evenletting a few tears escape. All you can think about is Aaron, who’s celebrating like he just scored the game winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals, and how much you love him.

Without thinking, you smash your lips against Aaron’s. It’s adrenaline filled and mostly teeth until he wraps one hand around your waist and places the other along your jaw. Then it becomes purposeful, both of you moving in tandem and never wanting it to stop. When Aaron finally pulls away and rests his forehead against yours you can’t stop smiling. The kiss might have happened in the heat of the moment, but you know it’s the culmination of feelings building inside of you for months.

“You’re a national champion,” Aaron mumbles, pulling you flush against his chest in the biggest hug you’ve ever received.

“I’m your national champion,” you whisper back, so much love in your voice it’s threatening to spill over.

He pulls back and grins, kissing you again. “You’re my national champion. My golden girl.”

The rest of your stay in Salt Lake City is a blur. You’re swept up in the numerous press events, galas, and enjoying your blossoming relationship with Aaron. When you finally got back to the hotel after what seemed like hours of people complimenting your comeback, the two of you sat down and talked about the kiss and what you wanted to happen next. It was scary, being so vulnerable, but it needed to happen — you’re both adults and communication is important. So, you’re returning home with a gold medal and boyfriend, two things you’re ecstatic about.

⭑

“A, it’s not straight,” you giggle. Aaron’s trying, and failing miserably, to hang the shadow box with your nationals medal in it above your couch. It’s been almost a month since you returned home, but you’ve been so busy that decorating the apartment you barely spend time in has been at the bottom of your to-do list.

He grunts out a response. “Fuck. Do I have to go left or right?”

“Left.” The picture shifts in the opposite direction. “The other left, Aaron!”

A few minutes later the decoration is sitting perfectly in place. Your child of a boyfriend insists on getting rewarded for his achievement, so the two of you bundle up and get dinner. It’s nothing fancy — just sandwiches from the deli down the street from your apartment, but spending time with him is nice. Aaron’s been on a string of short road trips and you’ve been training anxiously, waiting for US Figure Skating to announce who they’re sending to the world championship.

“How’s practice been lately?” Aaron asks, mouth full with a bite of his BLT. “I miss being able to watch you skate whenever I want.”

After returning from Utah you were immediately shuttled into the freshly renovated rink of your skating club. It’s a little farther into Jersey and certainly not as convenient for him to get to, especially now that the NHL season is picking up and the Flyers are clinging desperately to the final playoff spot. “It’s been interesting,” you shrug, “I’m skating well, and physically I feel great. There’s a mental block or something though because everything feels a little bit off.”

The smile that graces Aaron’s face can only be described as shit-eating. “Duh, I’m not there.”

“Fuck off.” Though you try to make the words come out in a serious tone, there’s no malice in them.

Conversation flips to some ridiculous story Derek told at practice that morning, and you giggle as it gets recounted with flailing arms. You tell a few stories of your own, that leave him in stitches, and as you walk home hand in hand he asks you again to come to a game. With your schedule a little more flexible as you wait for a decision about the upcoming competition stint it will be much easier to see Aaron play. You say yes with a shy smile and don’t miss the way the boy beside you blushes under the streetlights.

Aaron stays over, and the next two nights after that. It’s nice, falling into a relationship with your best friend, because there’s no awkwardness. You know what kind of cereal to keep in your pantry and he knows you don’t eat meat on Mondays. Everything is easy. There are a few bumps in the road, as can be expected with any budding relationship, but for the most part your lives fit seamlessly together.

After some meticulous planning, you found a home game on the Flyers schedule that will coincide with yours. It’s a Friday night near the end of February, and it’s actually the last day US Figure Skating can announce their assignments for worlds. You figure watching your boyfriend is the perfect way to distract yourself from the decision, whatever it may be. Aaron’s ecstatic about your attendance, wanting you to be immersed in as many aspects of his life as possible. The entire day he’s bouncing around your apartment, beyond ready for puck drop.

“It’s literally three in the afternoon,” you grumble as Aaron corrals you into the hall to put your shoes on. “You never leave this early! Why do we have to do it today?” In an attempt to save gas and lower your carbon footprint you’re carpooling with him into downtown.

“Because being in this house is making you more anxious,” he points out. “I’ve caught you staring into the distance one too many times today. Besides, this way you can meet up with some of the other girls and relax before the game.”

Aaron’s right, as he so often is. Your agent hasn’t called to let you know if you made the team or not, nor have any announcements been made on social media. In response to the radio silence you’ve spent the entire day pacing back and forth around your living room and fretting that perhaps the best performance of your season wasn’t good enough. He twirls his car keys around his index finger in an attempt to speed you along and you roll your eyes at his impatience and necessity to be early to imaginary deadlines he set himself..

After ensuring your home is safely secured you hit the road. The drive into Philadelphia is easy, with little traffic, and you spend it laughing at Aaron’s ridiculous Axl Rose impression. It doesn’t surprise you that the staff lot at the Wells Fargo Centre is sparsely populated — most of the guys don’t show up until around five, Aaron included. However, a group of women are standing near the entrance. While this isn’t the first time you’ve met significant others of your boyfriend’s teammates, it’s the first time he won’t be around.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispers as the car settles into park. You offer a small smile that mustn't have been convincing because Aaron lifts the hand that’s intertwined with his to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to the knuckles. The smile becomes genuine and you tease him the entire walk to the door about his proclivity for cheesy gestures.

Aaron greets the other girls before setting his bag down on the concrete and wrapping you in a hug. “Have fun,” you say softly against his lips, landing a short kiss. He winks and opens the door, disappearing inside and leaving you in a fit of giggles that the onlooking girls understand all too well.

There was no reason for you to be nervous — everyone is incredibly kind without their significant others around, just as Aaron promised. You seem to be the youngest in the group, but the other girls pay no mind and treat you as one of their own. There’s a small amount of confusion when your phone chimes with a notification, a few glances of possible distaste, but as soon as you explain you’re waiting on a very important call they understand. Dinner is wonderful, filled with sincere questions about your skating career and how you and Aaron got together. By the time you get back to the arena for the game it feels as though you’ve been a part of the group for years.

You spend the game in the family and friends box, sipping a glass of wine and training your eyes to follow Aaron around the ice. Practice is early in the morning and you want to be productive, so you’re relaxed in your alcohol consumption compared to some of the others. One of the older girls, though you can’t remember what player is her significant other, recently got engaged and is celebrating with as many drinks as those around her will allow. It’s fun to experience a hockey game in this way, but you’re a little on edge. You haven’t heard anything about assignments all day and the organization doesn’t typically leave the announcement until this late in the evening. There’s seven minutes left in the game when your phone rings. You quickly excuse yourself from the group and step into the hall.

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” the chipper voice of your agent Megan says, “How are you?”

A nervous laughter tumbles from your lips. “I think that depends on what you’re about to tell me.”

“I imagined you’d say something along those lines,” she responds. “You’ve always been quite witty.” Before you ask her to just get to the point of the phone call, Megan speaks. “I have some good news and some bad news for you. You’re going to the World Championships, but you aren’t leading the team like we hoped.”

It’s not as bad as she made it sound. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes, and you try your best to remain professional in the hallway of the arena. “Honestly,” you sigh, “I think that’s better. There’s going to be a lot less pressure for me to bring home three Olympic spots. Thanks for letting me know Meg.” She hangs up then, no doubt having to tell another girl she didn’t make the cut.

When you slip back through the door, you find all eyes on you. “What was that about?”

“I made the roster for worlds.”

Earth-shattering applause erupts from everyone in the room, and no one pays attention to what happens on the ice for the remainder of the game. The congratulations continue until you’re waiting outside the dressing room for Aaron to exit. He had a good game, featuring two assists and a blocked shot, and smiles lazily when he sees you leaning against the brick wall.

“This is something I could get used to,” he chuckles, pulling you into him by the belt loops of your jeans. The two of you kiss for a moment, keeping it relatively chaste in fear of getting chirped by his teammates.

“Well,” you sigh dramatically, drawing out the suspense of what you’re about to say, “You’re going to have to wait a bit longer for it to become a regular occurrence. My training schedule just increased exponentially.”

Aaron sits on your words for a moment before it registers. “No fucking way!” he shouts, picking you up by the waist as if the two of you are a pairs team. “You got the spot?”

Having Aaron be so excited about the accomplishment makes it seem that much more real. Tears well in your eyes and you shake your head up and down to signal he’s correct. Aaron presses his lips to yours once again, this time not caring about any insults his friends could throw at him. The kiss makes you feel loved, fully and completely, and you hope you’re conveying the same amount of emotion he is.

“That’s my girl.”

⭑

“Oh my fucking god,” you grumble, picking yourself off the ice for what feels like the hundredth time in the past five minutes. There’s two weeks until you leave for Milan and it looks like you’ve never skated before. Jumps are being under-rotated, spins aren’t being entered properly, and your footwork sequence is abysmal. Nothing about the way you’re performing would let a newcomer to the rink know you’re a world class athlete.

Brenda gives you a sympathetic smile. “Just try again, kiddo.”

You do try again — fifteen more times to be exact. Each attempt at a triple axel is getting farther and farther from what it should be. Before you get even more frustrated you abandon the element altogether, hoping to avoid a complete meltdown. No one questions it when you shift disciplines completely and move about the ice completing a simple foxtrot pattern. Ice dance has always been a great de-stresser for you, and after a few passes you feel your heart rate return to normal. At some point during your break Aaron had entered the rink and is now standing beside your coach, making pleasant conversation. You smile as you skate towards them, ecstatic that the two most important parts of your life blend seamlessly.

“Hotchner!” you shout when you get close enough for him to hear you. At the sound of your voice Aaron smiles, turning to pick up your water bottle and toss it in your general direction.

“I’m wounded, babe,” he feigns pain as you take a drink, “I really thought that we were on at least a first name basis.”

You roll your eyes at his dramatics and playfully squirt water at him. “I’ll call you whatever I want. What brings you this far into Jersey?”

“Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab lunch after you were done. We’ve got a late practice today,” he explains. “Whatever you want, eh? Does that mean I can call you whatever I want?” You don’t miss the suggestive tone to his voice, but choose to ignore it because investigating him never leads to anything good.

Aaron watches the rest of your practice from his spot at the boards and lays himself across the dressing room bench as you complete a quick cool down routine. You have a meeting with your massage therapist in the afternoon, so you follow Aaron to the restaurant he chose. It’s a small vegan place that you sometimes stop at on your way home from the rink. They have the best burrito bowls you’ve ever tasted, and since you’ve gotten together Aaron has become rather fond of them as well.

The two of you sit outside on the curb. New Jersey is uncharacteristically warm for March, and you want to enjoy the sunshine as much as possible. The rest of the day will be spent in dark rooms receiving physical therapy and trying to ease your tired muscles. There isn’t much conversation, but you’re more than content just to be with Aaron. Life moves incredibly fast and your schedules don’t always line up nicely. It’s difficult to spend time with him, especially when you’re weeks out from a major competition, but small moments like this keep you from missing your boyfriend too much.

“Have I asked you to take me to the airport yet? I can’t remember,” you admit as you finish the last bite of your meal.

Aaron laughs at your lapse in memory, knowing he gets the same way when high stakes games roll around. “No, but you would like me to?”

“Do you mind?” you ask, “That way I don’t have to leave my car at the airport for a week and a half. But if you can't, don't worry about it, I’ll grab an uber.”

“Babe, the uber will be like fifty bucks. I’ll take you. What time do you have to be there?”

You give him a much too detailed itinerary of your departure plans and listen to him talk about the drills they’re going to run at practice. Time passes much quicker than you would have liked, and soon you’re kissing him goodbye and watching him wave from your rearview mirror.

It’s almost a week later when you see him again, showing up at a Flyers practice for the first time since training moved back to your home rink. You’ve been instructed to have a rest day, the team not wanting to push you too hard before taking off for Europe. The arena attendants know you well at this point, and chat with you as you sit on a bench away from the media. You know better than you alert them of your presence — some of them no doubt want a comment from you about worlds and how you expect the competition to go. Aaron has no idea you’re even there until long after practice ends, when he sees you leaning casually against the driver’s side door of your car, conveniently parked next to his.

“Hey there, all-star,” you say as casually as possible, twirling your keys around your index finger.

He leans down to kiss you sweetly, and though you probably shouldn’t in a parking lot, you push your body closer to his in an attempt to deepen the kiss. Aaron obliges you, tongue gently slipping into your mouth, staying there until you both hear the shouts of his teammates.

“Fuck off,” he yells at Morgan and Reid, the two of them hollering so loud people can probably hear them all the way back in Philadelphia. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a day off,” you smile, “and I thought I’d come see if I could hitch a ride to your place.” You had originally planned to attend the game in person, but a rough day of training yesterday had you too sore to do much other than lay on the couch.

“The chariot awaits, m’lady,” he says in a terrible British accent, bowing for good measure as he opens the door. Your car will be fine in the parking lot overnight, so you slip in and enjoy the journey into the city.

Aaron’s pre-game routine changes only slightly with you in his apartment — instead of napping alone, you curl into his chest and snore softly, lulling him into one of the most peaceful sleeps he’s ever had. You tie his tie for him and riffle his hair before kissing him good luck. Being alone in Aaron’s apartment isn’t as strange as you thought it would be, and you familiarize yourself with his kitchen while you make dinner. The pre-game show plays quietly in the background, and when they mention how well Aaron is playing you can’t help but smile.

It’s much more comfortable to watch the game in your boyfriend’s hoodie and pyjama pants on the couch than it would be to sit in the stiff arena seats. Time passes at a pretty leisurely pace, with nothing too exciting going on within the game, and sometime in the third period you fall asleep. The rest of the game and all the media appearances pass you by. Aaron figures you must be sleeping when he doesn’t get a congratulatory text when he pulls off a buzzer beater to win. His suspensions are confirmed when he slips through his front door to see you drooling slightly on the throw pillow his mom bought him as a housewarming gift.

You don’t remember climbing into bed, but you wake up with Aaron’s socked feet pressed against your calves. He stirs behind you and mummers something unintelligible.

“What was that, sleepyhead?” you giggle, turning around to run a hand through his hair. It’s rather unruly at the moment and you find it adorable.

“Good morning,” he repeats.

“That’s what that was?”

“Leave me alone.”

The two of you lay in bed for a few more minutes before starting the day. You navigate around Aaron flawlessly — like you’re there every morning. Breakfast is quick and you’re out the door before you have a chance to cherish the domesticity of it all. You have a pretty intense day of training and Aaron has to be at the airport in two hours for a trip to Toronto. He drops you off in Voorhees, kissing you gently before making his way back into the city. You hate to see him go, wishing you could spend more time together before you head to worlds, but you know you’re both adults with real-world responsibilities.

For the first time in this final push you have a practice that is up to standard. Things click into place and you feel good. Really good. Each time you skate a program it’s clean, and the elements don’t feel weak when completed individually. Maybe you’ll actually be able to pull this off.

⭑

Italy is beautiful, but you don’t get much time to enjoy it. A scheduling mishap has team USA leaving two days later than you were supposed to and now you’re all scrambling to find a groove. Every moment is being spent preparing for the competition — off ice training, multiple practices a day, and press conferences. When you get a moment to spare you call Aaron, but oftentimes he’s at practice or fulfilling other obligations. The time difference is brutal and souring your mood. You feel alone, and just wish Aaron could be by your side like he was at nationals.

The morning air is brisk as you exit the rental car US Figure Skating provided and head for the arena doors. It’s quiet while you get ready for the first of the day’s three practice sessions, but as soon as you step on the ice something feels wrong. You run through a mental checklist and assure that nothing is — your skates feel the way they should and you didn’t forget any gear at the hotel. It has to be nerves. The competition officially starts tomorrow and you’re eager to cheer on the pairs teams America has brought. You do your best to skate it out, and by the time you’re allowed to have the ice to yourself you’ve almost convinced yourself everything will be fine.

The music starts and you snap into character. Your short program music is punchy and so are you — all sass and sharp angles as you navigate the opening step sequence. A lump forms in your throat as you set up the first first jumping pass, but you push it down. You’ve done a thousand triple lutz-triple toe-loop combinations and could execute it flawlessly in your sleep.

Everything happens so fast. One second you’re rotating through the air and the next you’re sprawled across the ice. Nothing feels off from a regular fall until you try to pick yourself up. When you can’t move your left leg you look to see what the issue is and find your kneecap where it most certainly should not be. It’s rotated nearly one hundred and eighty degrees, now residing in the back instead of the front.

“Help me!” you scream, mostly out of shock. There’s no pain, which surprises you, but you know it definitely should hurt. Everyone around the ice surface is frozen in place, not knowing what happened or what to do, and you continue to sob helplessly.

Someone sprints to get the onsite emergency responders and Brenda runs to you as fast as her dress shoes will allow. “Don’t look at it honey,” she soothes. “It’s just going to make things worse.”

“It should hurt,” you croak out through the tears, “Why doesn’t it hurt?”

“You’ve got so much adrenaline pumping through your veins you can’t feel anything,” the EMT explains in flawless English. “Can we take your skates off?”

You nod, and the right skate comes off breezily. Brenda unlaces your left skate and the medical team works to pry the boot from your foot. A sharp pain shoots up your leg and you wail in agony. “Shh, it’s okay,” your coach coos, “The skate is going to stay on until we get to the hospital.”

The ride to the hospital feels like time is moving through sludge. The paramedics keep an eye on your blood pressure and do their best to keep you calm. Brenda is typing furiously on her phone, and you ask what she’s doing as the vehicle pulls into the ambulance bay.

“The ISU rep told me to keep him updated,” she explains. “And I’m trying to vote on which alternate is going to take your place.”

You knew that was going to happen, you couldn’t possibly skate, but it makes you unbelievably sad. All your hard work is going to amount to nothing. No one cares about national champions who don’t place at worlds, and the injury is going to sideline you in next year’s olympic race. A string of tears fall from your eyes as the stretcher you occupy is wheeled into the building, mostly for lost opportunities but also because your nerve receptors are beginning to recognize pain again. The emergency room has a bed ready for you, and the doctor arrives as you’re being transferred into it.

“Miss Y/L/N, I’m Dr. Morelli. We’re going to put your patella back into place. It’s going to be incredibly painful, so we’re to sedate you. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you say as strongly as you can, though it comes out feeble and hoarse. A nurse inserts an IV into your arm and smiles at you. They have you count backwards from ten, and by the time you get to eight you’re asleep.

There’s a brief moment of panic when you wake up as you forgot where you are. “You’re awake,” Brenda speaks softly from the bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” you admit. “It hurts so fucking bad.”

She gives you a sympathetic smile. “I know. They’re going to come get you for x-rays in a few minutes and then we’ll go back to the hotel once you’ve been cleared.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “I’ve gotta call Aaron. Bren, give me your phone.”

Laughter comes from the device’s speakers, and you realize she’s one step ahead of you.

“There’s my girl,” Aaron whispers, eyes landing on yours as the phone lands in your hands. “Are you okay?”

The question makes you laugh. “You’re quite the comedian Mr. Hotchner. Of course I’m not okay. My leg is currently being held together by a brace and my dreams are ruined.” You soften when you realize how upset he looks. “I’ll be fine A, I promise.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“There’s nothing you could have done, Aaron. It was a freak accident. You can pick me up from the airport.”

He agrees in a heartbeat and tells you about his day to distract you from the pain. You’ll have to ask the nurses for some medication before you leave. A nurse comes to take you to the radiology department, and you hang up after reassuring Aaron for the hundredth time that he doesn’t need to fly to Italy to bring you home himself.

Brenda holds you that night as the adrenaline wears off and your legs twitches rapidly as a trauma response. She helps you navigate around the small room and makes sure you’re able to use the bathroom. Luckily none of her other skaters are competing, and she’s able to travel back to Philadelphia with you once the doctor clears you. It’s a rough flight – there’s a fair amount of turbulence and each bump makes your leg throb. You don’t get a wink of sleep and are grumpy by the time you touch down in Philly. People steer clear of an angry-looking girl in a wheelchair, and the two of you get through customs incredibly fast. Aaron’s waiting at arrivals with a giant sign and a sweet smile. You wheel yourself over to him as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to collapse into his arms.

“Welcome home, baby,” he whispers, leaning down to catch your lips in an airport appropriate kiss. The reason you’re home so early isn’t brought up which you're incredibly grateful for. Your untimely withdrawal is still a very sore spot, and most likely will be for a while.

“I wasn’t gone long,” you laugh, trying to poke fun at the situation before reality gets you too down.

“Long enough for me to miss you a tremendous amount.”

The three of you exit the airport, and Aaron drops Brenda off at her house before taking you back to his place. Flyers management is allowing him to miss a few games until you become more mobile and can exist on your own for a few hours. Aaron’s bed is calling out to you, but he insists you’ll feel better after a shower, and you know he’s right. Showering isn’t something you can do yourself, so he keeps your leg straight and elevated as you sit on the stool he bought while waiting for you to return. The grime of travelling is washed away and you feel lighter when you swing into bed, stubbornly refusing Aaron’s help.

You convince him to let you watch the broadcast of the event you were supposed to be skating in. It’s probably not the best thing for your mental health, but you want to see how everyone does. Aaron sits besides you, arm wrapped around your shoulder, and listens to you explain the rationale behind every element’s score. When your replacement takes the ice you go silent. It’s too much to see her skating in your place so you bury your face into Aaron’s neck. There’s no jealousy like you thought there would be, just an infinite amount of sadness that you’re not able to be there.

“You’ll be able to get back there,” Aaron reassures you when he feels a tear soak through his sweater.

“That’s not guaranteed,” you sniffle. “I might not ever skate again, let alone compete at any level.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, leading you to quirk a brow. “I know you. You’re going to do it. It won’t be easy, but you’re the most determined person I’ve ever met. People bounce back after major injuries all the time. I’ll be by your side the entire time, helping you through.”

“I love you,” you blurt out. The gravity of your words sinks in and you gasp. You haven’t said those words to each other yet, but they feel right.

“I love you too,” Aaron smiles, kissing the tip of your nose. “Now pay attention, that girl you beat at Skate Canada is up next.”

⭑

Recovery hasn’t been easy. There have been so many days where all you want to do is throw in the towel and cry, but Aaron keeps you going. He insists you do your physical therapy exercises with him so you aren’t alone, and he comes to as many doctor’s appointments as he possibly can. After the Flyers get eliminated from the playoffs he doesn’t return home for the summer, choosing to stay in the Philly area with you. Having him there is a massive help, and you power through the pain.

The Flyers are hosting a family skate before training camp, and it will be your first time on skates in nearly six months. Your doctors have cleared it as long as you take it slow and basically let Aaron pull you around the rink but you don’t care. It gives you hope that one day you’ll be back to full strength.

“Ready to do this thing?” Aaron asks, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

You nod enthusiastically and let him lead you from the bench to the tunnel and down to the boards. Aaron steps on the ice first, keeping his hands up in case you need them for support. A few of the significant others notice what’s happening and they erupt in applause once both your feet are planted on the surface. Aaron joins them, his eyes watering when he sees how happy you are to be skating again.

“I do believe you promised me a few laps, lover boy,” you wink.

“Yes ma’am,” Aaron giggles as he mock salutes. He places his hands in yours and guides you gently, careful not to go too fast or get too close to other groups. The two of you giggle and stop to kiss frequently but no one says anything. You’ve worked incredibly hard to get here and they’re perfectly content letting you have your moment. Standing at centre ice you feel complete, and you know it’s all thanks to Aaron.

⭒⭑⭒

consider reblogging and giving feedback if you enjoyed! it helps a lot x

#aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #this is: a fic #sapphicellegreenaway.writes

162 notes · View notes