#my british rep

[doodlebun]

even though he hangs out in daffodil gardens, i bet he much prefers bluebells

[cor-lapis]

Somewhere out there, Charlotte is still 1 million mora in debt and waiting for the Wriothesley Scoop

(you can find more of my quest summaries here!)

[syaal]

I think of clergy au Laurence sometimes

[noodledrawsandstuff]

The Straw Hats after leaving Wano

The Heart Pirates/Kid Pirates after leaving Wano

[gr8ntaire]

I always feel like seeing British bike dude should make me feel like patriotic or something yk I should feel that automatic sense of loyalty some people seem to have to athletes of the same nationality but tell me why like all of them just make me cringe

[moonchild-in-blue]

Please do tell me your whore thoughts about Dev Patel 👀👀👀

*ahem* 👁️🫦👁️

Honey. Dev Patel is SO. SO. FINE. I wanna gaze into his dark orbs all day and cuddle up against his scrumptioulicious warm chest. I need to take a bite of his arms and legs, and I wanna hear him whimper all pretty and nice.

I wanna take a small brush and gently run it trough his beard and hair while his face is real close to mine. If I could, I would spent my life having him read all of my favourite books with that slutty British voice of his.

I would gladly and willingly die by his hands if that meant I would be put into a chokehold on those beautiful firm arms of his. I need to bite his face and neck and jaw like NOW. I bet he smells like cinnamon bark and old books and sunshine. Wanna tug at his beautiful dark hair while [REACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [OH LORD] [OH GREAT HEAVENS]. Respectfully Mister Patel, I am but a hole :)

[call-me-maggie13]

I’ll really say some shit like “the real royal family” or “the only royal family I care about” like I haven’t spent the entirety of my two off days IN THE TRENCHES of these Princess Katherine of Wales conspiracies and the overlapping symbolism between her and The True Queen Diana Spencer.

[thornieta]

He’s like the human embodiment of a wet paper towel💔💔

[nightwingsgypsyrep]

Ok so might accidentally end up doxxing myself with this one but here we go…

The Himboification of Dick Grayson, and Why It Sucks From A Gypsy Perspective

Warning: this is a long one! Also tw for brief mentions of Dick’s canonical SA/rapes, and discussions of purity cultures.

And disclaimer: none of this is intended to slut-shame anyone, so hopefully it doesn’t come across like that. I’m just hoping to explain the weird sexualisation of gypsies in the media, vs our more conservative attitude to sex. This also isn’t meant to shame anyone or tell you how you must imagine Dick Grayson - if you like dark skinned, more-fem Dick, then you keep on enjoying that! This is just what I’ve noticed as someone who is a gypsy, and some patterns I’ve seen in how Dick is portrayed and received.

So, I have a lot of problems with the depiction/perception of Dick Grayson, and particularly the hyper-sexualisation we see. I am not alone in this, and I know it’s something which has been discussed a fair bit in the past.

Honestly, I don’t even know where a lot of this came from? It’s only really in the past decade or so that we start to see it emerge properly in canon; prior to this, whilst it was agreed that Dick is good looking, he was kind of able to get around as a normal guy, and was praised a lot more for his capabilities and athleticism than for his looks. But with the New 52, there seemed to be this shift where Dick is really reduced to his looks. The Grayson/Spyral comics are particularly guilty of this: so many times we see Dick called an idiot (even if somewhat affectionally), sexualised (even by teen-aged girls when he is in his twenties), and reduce himself to his looks (Dick himself even says something along the lines of ‘It’s a good thing I’m pretty’). You can argue that the whole point of Spyral is that Dick was undercover, but it’s something we still see today (I’m thinking the 2025 Valentine’s Day Damian storyline). We can dismiss this as being ‘out of character’, but with how it’s been a gradually accepted part of DC canon over the last decade especially, I don’t know how long we can reasonably make that excuse.

The gypsy perspective isn’t necessarily the main reason I hate this, it’s just one which I feel capable of offering. (if you’re new here, hi, I’m a traveller/gypsy/showman/whatever you want to call me from a fairground and circus family in the UK. I’ve always stuck to fairgrounds myself but a lot of my family were/are still with the circus so I’m not an idiot and it’s all closely related anyway. I also grew up speaking Romani so there’s that.)

Other reasons I hate it include: the double standards of objectifying Dick being treated as almost acceptable because Dick is a man; Dick as an SA/rape survivor; and the fact that it’s bloody stupid because Dick is a highly competent vigilante and detective - a partner of Batman, then Batman himself, who even on his sick days is solving cold cases for fun. He is a genius ffs.

But anyway, onto the potentially doxxing gypsy perspective.

I know that Dick’s ‘gypsy rep’ has been a bit touch and go over the years. Grayson’s run is quite infamous for her handling of this (the whole internalised racism she gave him during his Tevis mob era, and Bruce’s stereotyping in Gotham Knights still makes me feel icky), and it’s only recently that it’s really been discussed again, mostly being ignored by writers in between. However, I’ve also mentioned before that to me, the writer with the most accurate representation is ironically Morrison (because he wasn’t trying). The thing is, even if writers have kind of circumnavigated the whole ‘gypsy’ thing (a term I use because it’s common in the UK, and is one Dick uses himself, alongside ‘carney’ which is the American English version of the British ‘showman’, a subtype of “gypsy”), it’s been canon since Day One that Dick is from the circus. And due to how circuses work, especially with the hereditary nature and how it was more common for the gypsy family who ran the circus to perform in the 40s when Dick was introduced, even if it wasn’t explicitly stated, Dick Grayson has kind of canonically (or at the very least, subtextually) been a gypsy since his introduction.

So now that bit of house keeping is out of the way, why does the himboification of Dick Grayson really annoy me, as a gypsy/showman/carney myself?

So, the first issue I have is really the exoticism. There’s been a large push especially from fan-artists (though it has been very subtlety reflected in canon) to have Dick portrayed with darker skin, to more “accurately” portray him as Romani (spoiler: this is not accurate). There is a fantastic post which explains this further, but it’s actually kind of colourist to say that Dick Grayson is whitewashed. I’m a full gypsy, not a diddakoi or anything, and I’m pasty as fuck. Sure, my dad was often mistaken as South Asian in his youth, as his family are all very olive-skinned and tan dark in the summer, but my mum is white as a sheet (much to her own father’s annoyance) and I take after her. This is the case for a lot of us, especially in the North of Europe. And yet, I am still ethnically a gypsy. Dick does not lose his ‘gypsy card’ for being white. And the fact that many of the fandom view it as necessary for Dick to have a darker complexion to fit this perception of what a Romani person looks like (especially since this perception largely comes from gorjas who’ve never knowingly met a gypsy before in their lives) is not only inaccurate, but kind of problematic. I don’t mind seeing a darker Dick Grayson, but it’s how people act like he has to be dark skinned to be Romani which is frankly just incorrect.

This is doubly problematic when people use his being Romani to exoticise and sexualise Dick. Like with Esmerelda in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, I’ve often seen the fandom (and even canon, to some degree) use Dick’s heritage to make him seem other, and almost remove some barriers for proper conduct (i.e. be overly affectionate, etc). We see this kind of sexualisation with a lot of non-white characters, like Talia for example, and I think that the push for a visibly non-white, exotic Dick Grayson does fall in line with the same kind of racist hyper-sexualisation we see there. Alternatively, maybe this idea of a ‘sexy gypsy from the circus’ has its roots somewhat in real life, but actually results from major misunderstandings: until the sixties, it was common for circuses to have peep shows, with girls outside advertising it in their underwear; the misunderstanding comes in that these girls were not gypsies themselves (see my next point) but hired gorja staff who worked for or alongside us. It’s not unreasonable, then, that a child visiting the circus (and thus shaping their idea of what a circus is) up until the 60s might misinterpret this as being related to gypsies ourselves (songs like Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves, also add to this misconception that we’re the ones in the peep shows when we are not, even if that song is a bop) - if that child then worked for DC or was in the fandom, as writers/artists/fan-fic authors/fanartists in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, from the 80s to the 2000s, they might have mistakenly thought this was part of our culture, and not a business running parallel to ours (I hope this makes sense?). This is just a theory, but one of the only places I can think of this stereotype coming from, besides just plain racism?

Anyway, this hyper-sexualisation is ironic because a big part of our culture is actually that it is a purity culture, with equal expectations on both sexes to maintain modesty and virginity prior to marriage (of course, it’s a bit more relaxed nowadays but the expectation is still there, even if you’re in your 30s and unmarried!). This is drilled into us from a very young age, so even if Dick was removed from his culture by the age of eight, in a real life situation, he would likely already be well versed in this aspect of our culture. As I mentioned earlier, even before Dick was explicitly stated to be a gypsy, I think it’s definitely possible to read a gypsy upbringing into his character, even if unintentional, as written pre-Grayson - there’s one discussion Dick has about his anxieties about moving in with Kory whilst unmarried (I forget which comic this is from), and I cannot help but feel this resonate with me as a gypsy.

Then there’s the element of dress. TV shows like ‘My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding’ have done a lot to convince people that we all dress immodestly, but first of all: MBFGW focuses on another subtype of gypsy, Irish travellers - not showmen/circus like Dick is portrayed to be; and secondly - it’s such a small percentage of the population who do dress like that, that it cannot be taken as truth. I’ve a fair few cousins who are half-Irish traveller, and none of them dress like that. You’re far more likely to find a gypsy man wearing a shirt, a jumper, a pair of jeans, and boots than any of the gelled hair and vest top combos you see on there.

It’s a big thing that Dick has some questionable fashion choices (which are often featured as justification for his supposed ‘himbo-ness’), and this is definitely true in canon (Discowing, that one polka dot shirt, the mullet era… oh Dick, you disaster), but I’ve seen a lot of people correlate that directly with his growing up in a circus. As someone from that background, let me tell you that is just a Dick thing. It has nothing to do with being from the circus, we all dress rather normally - I’m sat writing this in a blue T-shirt, a pair of navy jeans, and a pair of boots - aka the kind of thing Dick wears more often than not in later not-the-80s canon! The thing is, this kind of presumption is something I’ve experienced myself in real life. I was doing some charity work, and there was a press element - when the journalist found out I was a gypsy from a circus family, and that I had horses, I was told to come to the photoshoot in my ‘little pink sparkly dress or whatever it is I ride in.’ I ride in jeans and a T-shirt btw. They just presumed because my family owned circuses, I must do vaulting and perform and I don’t - I worked in the kiosk or on the rides. The point is, people make a lot of presumptions about us just because we’re from the circus, and it’s not accurate.

Then there’s also the fanon effeminising of Dick: often giving him softer, feminine features, make-up, etc, to make him ‘pretty’. Like with the skin-colour issue, draw Dick however you like. You do you. But don’t use his being a gypsy to justify that. Tbh, the vast majority of gypsy men I know are extremely masculine: physically, the cis-men of our community tend to be quite tall, stocky, with calloused hands and broad shoulders, by virtue of the fact that we have to build up everywhere we work, and that’s a lot of physical labour. In Europe, there’s a big drinking culture, and playing football, etc. Men also tend to dress quite masc and practically for blue-collar work. And whilst I am sure that there are some more gender-fluid gypsies out there (I have quite a few gypsy friends who are openly queer, or trans), I have seen so many posts on Tumblr with Dick presented as being quite soft and feminine looking, with make-up etc, and when people in the notes ask why he’s drawn like that, the artist replies ‘He’s Rom!’ and I just want to facepalm. You can be a gypsy and masc-presenting. You can be a gypsy and fem-presenting. However, being a gypsy ≠ being feminine, and I’m really sick of seeing it. As someone who studies ancient Persia (like, I have a degree in it and am writing an academic book), the similarities are so obvious with how the Greeks portrayed the Achaemenids as effeminate, and like with the Achaemenids, it’s just not accurate. Again, if that’s how you headcanon Dick, then that’s great, but let’s not pretend that Dick being a gypsy has anything to do with it.

So I’ve now discussed the sexualisation aspect of Dick’s character a bit (I’ve probably left something out but oh well), and now I’ll speak a bit about the ‘dumb’ part. This is a far more recent thing, I think, and I suspect it might be because: a) people have weirdly tagged Tim as the Smart!Robin (they’re all geniuses) and thought this somehow means the rest must be dumb?, b) because of how sexualised Dick is, they’ve gone full himbo (see: Dick in the Grayson comics saying ‘at least [he’s] pretty’). However, from a gypsy point of view, this really annoys me as well.

When travelling with the fairground/circus, it is difficult to get a stable education. We tend to go to school in the winter months, but in the warmer months, we are more homeschooled (maybe using education packs from our normal school), or at larger fairs/events, a special teacher may be present. It used to be common that if we were at a ground for two weeks or more, we’d be enrolled temporarily in a local school for that time, but this isn’t really realistic today. However, it is also true that traditionally, our schooling was quite halted. Whilst less common, it’s still fairly normal for us to leave school early - for example, I left school entirely aged 13 to work full time on the fairgrounds (yes this goes against child labour laws but nobody actually cares). As a result of this, a lot of us have very limited education (illiteracy is not unheard of in the older generations), so it’s not uncommon for people to mistake this for us being stupid. But the thing is, this isn’t true. My dad left school aged 11, and eventually got a gorja job in his late 30s - he is now the top in the country at his job. I left school when I was 13, but decided I wanted to go to university, so I sat my GCSEs without studying, got into college, and whilst also working a full time job, got my A Levels and got into what is ranked the number one university in the world. When I got in, people really could not believe that someone of my background could do it, so it was on national news and television. It’s not that other travellers/gypsies are incapable - for the most part, we just don’t see the point as we’ve got a job and a culture wrapped up in one which we want to keep alive and successful. The point is, it’s so common for us to be underestimated, and part of what I loved about Dick’s character is that he is unapologetically clever. But over the last decade especially, Dick is once again being reduced to just a pretty face. Now, growing up, it was a cultural expectation to take care of your looks, and whilst I think I always looked ok (washed hair every day, showered, ironed matching clothes), it was not my primary interest in the same way that it was for a lot of my peers. So having a character who was from the same background as me and allowed to be intelligent and respected for it in a way I sometimes wasn’t was really special. So to see that intellect being taken away from Dick, somewhat, does strike me. If Dick is reduced to just being pretty and flirty, that’s as stereotypical as it comes in my community, and I love it when he can be more. I’m not saying that Dick has to be super serious all the time (that’s what makes Dick’s character so great, even if he is a bit more serious in canon than in fanon, though to be fair that’s probably because canon is a lot harder on him than fanon), but he can be hot and flirty without being dumb and overly objectified.

I hope this makes sense and I also hope that none of my relatives or uni friends see this and immediately work out it’s me - there’s a reason I started a whole side blog to separate my silly little nerdy interests from anything my friends might see - but Himbo Dick Grayson is something which I can’t get behind. Let him be smart. Let him be hot but not overly exoticised.

[heartavenue]

ㅤㅤㅤ . ˚ Very Niche Things That I Scripted Into My Better Cr ₊ ꒱

Oreo’s with just the cookie 

Sprite Lymonade 

Dr Pepper Vanila Floats EVERYWHERE 

People loved ariana grande’s positions more & the content that was scrapped makes it this go round 

Beyonce won aoty for lemonade 

Ariana Grande wins aoty for tun 

Ptv wins a grammy for selfish machines 

Moreso rock/metal gets more love as a genre 

Very niche and very specific but a bridgerton season maybe eloise’s first make her gay…and second I need a regency era butchfemme/studfemme romance PLEASE 

THANKS A LOTS ARE BACK 

More...sapphic...media! Specifically more DIVERSE sapphics I am TIRED of the white girls 

More music based shows in america (MTV is BACK) think about sbs inkaigyo, m countdown in korea 

Alabama isn’t known as the cotton state…how the hell is my black ass gonna rep COTTON

Alabama isn't known for INCEST

Hayley didn’t get pregnant with twins with dylan in modern family 

The last season of b99 is…better. 

Mbav didn’t get canceled 

Shameless doesn’t fall off 

Bisexual Fiona 

Everyone ALWAYS follows the theme at the met gala

Arcane didn’t end like that…also ekko is a stud! 

Moreso a sevika brothel scene 

Red Robin is in my town, In n out, Jack in the box, and Baskin Robins.

Beyonce dropping donk 

Ariana dropping fantasize, ridiculous, he had it comin, jada 

Coryxkenshin finally playing kindergarten 2 

People liked Beyonce’s cowboy carter AND understood the significance of it 

I can spell necessary and sandwich on my first try 

B99 x modern family episode 

Iwtv got way more acknowledgment and SWEPT during awards season

We find out who tf took that book at the end of fear street 1666

Rkelly didn’t produce outrageous by britney spears 

Or write Aaliyah's debut album 

Joanna Ceddia is back on youtube 

Less shortform content 

The Until Dawn and FNAF movies followed the game lore

Wicked beat out Emilia Perez during award season

People don't use the word "tits"

the term "bigback" never existed

The "oh oh oh oh" version of no tears left to cry is the original ver

Pharrell and JT work together on another album (this is so niche but I love justified and I need another album like it STAT)

Birria tacos come in five

British people don't say "wank, shag, fap"

They aren't called wifebeaters

In inside out 2 Riley is gay and valentina/valentine(? I forget her name) was her gay awakening

Rainbows actually have a pot of gold at the end them

Ariana grande singing my hair Jessica rabbit style (courtesy of anon)

There is no such thing as the dark web

Still into you wins a Grammy

Gelphie lezzes out in both wicked films!

Dr pepper bar

Justin Timberlake trifling ass never did that to Janet

There are merch stations inside movie theaters

The library of Alexandria never burned down

The female anatomy was not named after men...

There is a perfume based on the potion in arianas tbim mv

Abbott elementary has a full 3rd season

Adults didn't have an 8 episode but a 22 episode season

Coryxkenshin doesn't leave for long periods of time.

Death to streaming culture and Zeus network

I can find Americone dream more easily (why is this the only flavor that I can't find...)

The rise of boygroups I yearn for another nsync

King Charles chopped ass never did that princess Diana. I am ready to go to war over my girl don't play with me.

Moreso Meghan Markle never received any hate.

A girl group full of sapphics that make music about girls, I'm so sick and tired of ggs only talking about niggas WE GET IT (flo is excluded I love them down.)

Ronald Regan bitch ass never become president.

Glinda is canoncially a lesbian (idk if she is here but she's going to be there idc)

People don't use the word "fanny."

People don't call all Latinos, mexican and they don't refer to all east Asian people as Chinese.

NONBLACK PEOPLE DON'T USE THE NWORD! IM TIRED IM TIRED IM TIRED!

[rdmasevi]

Cowboy in the Paddock

Title: "Cowboy in the Paddock": Formula 1 fanfiction

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader Male ( Cowboy )

Genre: Romance | Humor

Warnings: sexual humor

Summary: When Lando Norris brings his cowboy boyfriend to the F1 paddock for the first time, sparks fly—and not just from the engines.

The sound of engines roared in the distance, but they were nothing compared to the noise Lando Norris made when he saw you step out of the car. Cowboy boots clicking on the pavement, worn jeans hugging your hips just right, a button-down shirt rolled to your elbows, and the ever-present hat casting a shadow over your cocky grin.

"You really wore the hat," Lando said, eyes bright with amusement and affection.

"You said I could be myself," you replied, giving him a little wink as you adjusted your belt buckle—an oversized one with a silver McLaren logo he’d jokingly given you months ago.

"I did. Just didn’t think I’d be dating a walking Marlboro ad."

"You love it."

He grinned and wrapped his arm around your waist, guiding you toward the paddock. It was race weekend, and nerves were high, but Lando seemed lighter with you around. He’d finally convinced Zak Brown and the PR team to let you come backstage—not just as a guest, but as his boyfriend.

As you walked through the paddock, conversations paused. People glanced your way—some curious, some confused, a few downright smirking at the sight of Lando Norris’ boyfriend strolling around like he owned the place.

"Ignore them," Lando whispered. "You look hot."

You gave his ass a subtle pat. “You’re damn right I do.”

The first stop was McLaren’s hospitality unit. Inside, Oscar Piastri blinked as he saw you.

“Is that a cowboy?” he asked Lando, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“Hey, I’m right here,” you said with a grin, tipping your hat. “Name’s [Y/N]. I wrangle engines and British hearts.”

Oscar blinked again, then laughed. “He’s real?”

“Very,” Lando said proudly. “And he knows more about cars than you, so be nice.”

You spent the next hour meeting engineers, shaking hands with media reps, and nearly making Zak Brown spit out his drink when you told him you’d only consider wearing McLaren merch if it came with a matching bolo tie.

At one point, you found yourself alone with the other drivers. Charles Leclerc did a double take. George Russell squinted at your boots. Lewis Hamilton just chuckled softly and nodded in approval.

“So you really brought a cowboy to the paddock?” Max Verstappen asked Lando, who was still glued to your side.

“I did,” Lando said. “And he’s the best damn good luck charm I’ve got.”

You leaned into him, voice low. “You just like when I ride you instead of a horse.”

Lando’s face turned a shade of red you didn’t know was possible. The rest of the drivers erupted in laughter, and Max nearly dropped his drink.

Later, you stood by the garage as Lando got ready to head to the grid. He looked calm, confident, and so damn fast in his race suit.

“Give me some luck,” he said.

You cupped his face with one hand, pulling him into a kiss—firm, warm, enough to remind him that you were there, no matter how fast the world spun around him.

“For you? Always.”

He grinned, helmet under his arm, and jogged off with a wink.

As the engines roared and the lights went out, one thought ran through your mind: Maybe you didn’t need horses or ranches to feel at home. Maybe, just maybe, the paddock was wild enough.

And Lando Norris? He was the fastest damn cowboy you’d ever seen.

My main masterlist

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (ft. Lando Norris) - part iii

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

A/N: a little bit late but I got very worried about accidentally jinxing the Aus GP haha, and then when it all worked out I thougth I might as well use some most recent photos ;)

series: part i, part ii, part iv

1st week of March, 2025

[Excerpt Daily Mail] Tennis player Y/N L/N stuns on red carpet and confirms single status

The current #2 on the WTA rankings enjoyed some time off prior to Indian Wells, as she attended an Oscars Pre Party over the weekend. As a newly minted ambassador for the Dior brand, which she's also repping on court, the athlete was sporting a pink custom gown by the fashion house.

After a short-lived relationship with fellow tennis player Carlos Alcaraz, 21, the 26-year old arrived to the party alone. Speaking to journalists on the red carpet, L/N once again emphasised that she likes being single both on and off the court.

"I really think that it's nice to just focus on myself, you have to be kind of selfish if you want to thrive in such an individual sport," she stated.

While she might be done with tennis players, the star has been spotted spending time with F1 drivers Carlos Sainz and Lando Norris. However, she made it clear there's no room for romance there. For a segment with E! Entertainment, L/N was asked to rate their charisma and started laughing instead. "Carlos is a smooth operator, and therefore also very much taken. But charisma? Norris? He's an awkward little duckling. No, he's a great and dear friend, though."

Norris might not score points with Y/N L/N, he is hoping to make a bid for the WDC this year. The McLaren team has been looking extremely strong during testing, and with the first GP coming up, all eyes will be on the 25-year old British driver. Perhaps him winning will impress L/N enough to make her change her mind, though he'll have to compete with an Oscar nominee.

"Look, all drivers are charismatic in that they're ambitious and talented and that's attractive. Or at least, it's attractive to me. But I just don't really have silly little crushes. The only celebrity crush I've ever had is Sebastian Stan. So if he's single, tell him he can hit me up."

2nd week of March, 2025

[Excerpt WTA content "Jenga Challenge"] Y/N grabs the first block with determination, lodging it out of the Jenga tower with ease. "What is your favourite song right now?"

"That's a really good question for me, because I love listening to music before my matches. I think currently I've got JADE in my playlist, with Angel of My Dreams."

The next couple of blocks also dislodge quite easily, and Y/N throws a triumphant smile to the camera every time she gets a step closer to victory. Twisting the blocks around, she reveals new questions.

"Do I have a nickname? It depends who you ask, I suppose. Some of my friends just shorten my name."

Someone off camera asks after the 'birdie' nickname. "Oh yeah, so my best friend calls me that because of a golfing incident when we first met. No further comment on that haha. You'll have to ask him."

"What's my favourite sport aside tennis? Can I cheat and name other racket sports? I also think it's different when it comes to watching versus playing other sports. I don't really watch that much sports on tv or anything, but I like going to real games and matches. Like I saw the national football and hockey team, I've gone to see a few basketball matches as well. I'll play golf with friends, but I'm not very good at it."

The tower wobbles with the next block, but it holds on in the end. "That was close! Okay, let's see. This one says - what do you do and eat on your days off? Hmm I'll try and go catch up with friends. My favourite food? Chocolate for sure, but I like to have a lot of my favourite meals as healthy options throughout the week anyways. I've worked it out with my nutritionist."

The next question she gets asked is about her idols. "God, well I think for one Serena Williams of course, and my own coach Kim Clijsters. Then there's the other women in my family. I think my idol right now is my baby niece who reminds me to just always look at the world in wondrous appreciation. And that it's okay to have a good cry when things get overwhelming."

On the last question, the tower falters once, twice, before fully collapsing. "Oh I guess you'll never get to hear the answer to this question, then. What's your favourite on and off court friendship?" Y/N winks at the camera. "I think you know, anyways."

3d week of March, 2025

[Excerpt BBC Sport]

Sabalenka defeats L/N in easy sets at WTA Tour

In a somewhat shocking turn of events, Aryna Sabalenka didn't even need 90 minutes to beat Y/N L/N to the BNP Paribas Open trophy. Dropping only 4 games in total, Sabalenka absolutely dominated the match, forcing L/N to continuously having to play catch up.

The defending champion didn't seem to know how to respond to Sabalenka's powerful returns and short volleys, even though their track record of meets speaks in L/N's favour.

The reigning Grand Slam winner later stated that she was just not able to get into her game, and Sabalenka rightly profited off of her lack of focus and concentration. "I just wasn't able to deliver what was needed, and Sabalenka was clearly performing at her best. She deserved to win this one, but I of course hope to turn the tides for Miami."

Both players are set to play the tournament that traditionally kicks off right after Indian Wells, also named the Sunshine Slam. It's one of few stretches of the tennis calendar that sees both male and female players compete at the same courts, outside of the Grand Slams.

L/N previously dated and even competed in the doubles with Carlos Alcaraz, who lost the men's semi-final one day prior. Even though no questions on her previous relationship were allowed at her exit presser, L/N's poor performance casts doubt on whether or not she's struggling with increasing external pressure and her ex' presence. Coach Kim Clijsters responded to reporters questioning L/N's aim of winning all four Grand Slam tournaments in a year. "Red clay has always been her best surface. We're already shifting gears with that in mind, so Miami is more so a way to keep routine and conditioning going. I have no doubt that she's got what it takes to win this, both in terms of physical and mental fitness. But sometimes it seems the media sees it as their responsibility to keep on being as invasive as possible, just to see how much someone can take. It's not your job to test a player's resilience, just because you can."

March 15-16, 2025

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting! ♥

Next part is available here

Sorry for the extra long wait, but we're back to regular programming now!

taglist (open): @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne @glow-ish @batsratswrites

[blank-barrel]

I feel like I'm committing a cardinal sin without drawing a single bag in this photo. Ah well! Just futzing around with his cartoony ass. Continuing my Faust streak of self annihilation.

Seriously though, this game really has rep for quite a few people. Trans women. Nonbinary gears. Overworked volunteer charity workers. Glue sniffers. People stuck in beds. British people. Slayer. What more could you ask for really

[sharktooth-jacket]

Well I said I'd never make another tumblr after I left during the whole porn ban fallout but here I am askhgsj!! PLEASE tell me there's an active OFMD fandom over here because I finally finished watching it over the weekend and I learned that apparently there's an Ed and Stede shaped hole in my life and I'm about to drive everyone I know insane talking about them aslkglaksjjk

anyway MY TAKES!!!

so first of all this show is actually gay. like for real real. I watched the first season with a friend who's pretty big into shipping (no shade, I'm just not into that kind of fandom) and I fully expected this to just be queerbait. FRIENDS I'M STILL SHOOK ABOUT THIS akhgaj, I haven't been able to stop smiling since I finished it!! Because they're actually gay! And that's the point! THE POINT IS IT'S A LOVE STORY ABOUT STEDE AND ED HELLLOOO CAN ANYONE HEAR ME!!! Seriously I hadn't known how much I needed this show until I had it, I've never actually felt like the target audience for a show before

they could have made Ed and Stede so boring and one note AND THEY DIDN'T! I was sure from hearing my friend explain the premise that Stede would be this boring posh guy who's scared of everything, and Ed would be all tough and badass and boring, and that would be it. But no. Stede's a total weirdo who says "buckos" and picks up noses off the floor with his bare hands and Ed's an adorable dork who is scared of his own spider tattoo. I love them your honor akghaskj

also can i just say. Ed's fashion sense. Yes I get that the whole show is about masculinity and he's forcing himself into a style of masculinity that's restrictive and reductive. But consider: IT LOOKS HOT akshgakj I'm obsessed with his jacket with the shark teeth on it (as you can probably guess by the username lol)

SPEAKING OF ED I'll admit I hadn't thought of this until I saw people talking about it but reading his story as a trans man allegory works SO WELL! It's ABOUT him trying to live up to an impossible ideal of masculinity and killing himself in the process and being enraptured with a guy who's soft and learning to find a kind of masculinity he's comfortable with! I'm chewing my own arm off! I loved Jim (canon nonbinary rep holy shit) but as a trans man I just love this read for Ed's character so much 🥹

This is unrelated but my friend had also been trying to get me to watch The Last of Us and the two shows kinda melded in my mind I think? I figured it out eventually but at the end of season 1 episode 3 after Stede's been stabbed and there's the dramatic lighting and everything I was not thinking "oh boy Stede's about to meet the love of his life," I was pretty sure it was zombie time and thinking "oh no and now he has to deal with the zombies too???" alsghaklgk. I was all "is Blackbeard a zombie hunter" and my friend was like. "WHAT" akghjkjgkk

I watched season 2 on my own and my friend had warned me that there were budget cuts and cut episodes and w/e, and obviously I'm sad there's no third season to look forward to but I still really liked the ending and if I hadn't been told there was anything up with the season I don't think I'd have guessed!! They're safe and they're together and they just get to be Ed and Stede now :')

my friend did warn me I probably wouldn't like where they took Izzy in season 2 and...they were right akhgaskfj, it wasn't bad or anything and I liked that Izzy apologized at the end and stopped being so shitty to everyone but I just couldn't get past what he did to Ed in season 1. Plus he just didn't feel the same when he wasn't being weird all the time 😔. I didn't really like Jim's line about how "he was Ed's friend," like Jim. my friend. WAS HE LMAO my friends don't usually call the British Navy on me and stab my boyfriend

on that note though I made the mistake of logging onto Twitter for the first time in like two years to see what people were saying after I watched season 1, and I got a bit worried when I saw people saying that Ed's actions in season 2 made him irredeemable. But uh. He told them to eat cake and then made them kill him, it sucked but I was expecting way worse asksksksgk, I just felt bad for Ed honestly (which I think was intended obviously)

I am so picky with TV shows but everything about OFMD was just so fucking GOOD! The writing, the acting, the cinematography - everyone came into this show to do A GOOD JOB and it SHOWS

STEDE BONNET IS MY BEST FRIEND look at how far he came!!! He was so scared to even talk about running away with Ed in season 1 but now he's all in too 🥹🥹🥹

and I know I already said this but if you told me ten years ago my new favorite show would be one that was entirely about the central gay couple and they canonically kiss and have sex and love each other I wouldn't believe you!!! THIS SHOW IS SO GOOD

OKAY I'm sure I've got more to yell about later but that's my thoughts for now and I wanted to make a post so people know I'm not a bot alkghalkkj, if you like OFMD and love Ed and Stede too let's be friends!!!

[oscarpastryfan]

i’m actually kinda grateful for the british grand prix and the resulting oscar piastri hate because this is the first time i can have my “i stand with my cancelled wife” moment

why is lwky fun to be repping a driver that people dislike?

[camficdiner]

📣 fic announcement — The UNITY Project

While I wait for new fic requests at the diner, I’m sharing something special.

The UNITY Project is my personal take on Quinn Hughes — and a main character who’s nothing like the usual love interest. She’s the unshakable captain of a dominant WNHL team, sharp as hell, cold on the surface, untouchable by design. Their chemistry? It’s complicated. Tense. Icy-hot.

This is a long, very long!! multi-part story that mixes rivalry, slow-burn tension, public image politics, and a push-pull romance that shouldn’t work — and yet.

this story will be a wonderful journey, enjoy it till the end

“THE UNITY PROJECT”

Project UNITY: Part One

You’re not dressed like a hockey player.

You knew that was the first thing they’d say — not out loud, of course. No one in the Bauer headquarters conference room would dare. But you can feel it. The way the room shifts when your stilettos click against the polished floor. The way those three boys — because that’s what they are — glance up with rehearsed indifference when you enter.

Loro Piana. Black. Tailored. The suit’s sharp enough to draw blood, and that’s exactly the point.

Sloane flanks you in designer sunglasses and a sleeveless cashmere top, her stride effortless, dangerous. She chews gum, tosses her braid over one shoulder, and grins like she knows she’s about to ruin someone’s day. And she might. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The Bauer rep stands up too fast. Nervous. “Ladies,” he says, like it’s a peace offering. “Glad you made it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide into the seat at the head of the table without looking at the boys sitting across from you. Hughes, Hughes, and Hughes. You’ve seen enough of them in post-game interviews, blank-faced and monotone, speaking in practiced platitudes. They’re all the same — clean-cut, media-trained, desperate to be liked. Even the older one, Quinn. The quiet one. The one whose stats are brilliant, yes, but whose presence is barely a ripple.

Sloane sits beside you and lets out a long sigh, loud and pointed. “Let me guess,” she says. “You want us to hold hands and grow the game.”

There’s silence. The kind that only follows someone who doesn’t fear consequence.

The rep clears his throat. “This is the UNITY initiative. We’re launching a new cross-program collaboration with top-tier talent from both the NHL and the WNHL. You’ll be staying at the Bauer compound in British Columbia for one week. Isolated. No press. Full media and performance training, joint sessions, team-building.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want us to be seen with them?”

“It’s a visibility thing. Fans love crossover. The sport needs faces. Bold ones. We think—”

“You think,” you cut in, voice low, “that if you throw the ‘wild girls’ in the same space as the golden boys, you’ll get chaos. Views. Clout.”

Sloane leans forward, smiling without humor. “You will.”

Across the table, Jack Hughes shifts in his seat. Luke avoids your gaze. But Quinn—Quinn is looking at you. Not amused. Not nervous. Just…watching.

He’s the only one who hasn’t blinked since you walked in.

“Fine,” you say finally, rising with slow, intentional elegance. “We’ll play your little game.”

And then you look right at Quinn Hughes.

“But don’t expect us to play nice.”

⸻

“We don’t come here to blend in.”

The compound is nestled deep in the mountains — sleek, silent, obscenely expensive. Everything smells like pine and money. You step out of the black SUV with sunglasses on and your headphones in, not because you’re listening to anything, but because it keeps people from trying to talk to you.

It’s all glass, stone, and steel. Ice rinks below ground level. Gyms that look like science labs. Media rooms. Private chefs. Massage therapists on staff. It’s not made for comfort — it’s made for legends.

You drag your suitcase across marble floors and into your suite. One king bed. A view of the mountain. A welcome bag with your jersey number stitched in silver.

This place thinks it knows elite.

But elite isn’t chrome and clean press photos. It’s blood under your nails. Scars on your shins. Four straight cups and a locker room that still smells like champagne and sin.

You change into your gear in silence. Black compression top, dark-lined eye black, your hair slicked back. Sloane walks in with a Red Bull and no shoulder pads. “Let’s make it a statement,” she says, mouth full of gum.

“Always.”

⸻

Blood on ice.

First skate. All players. No teams. Just warm-up drills and light scrimmage.

You step onto the rink like it’s a runway. Head up. Back straight. Sloane’s right behind you, grinning like a demon. The rink buzzes with scattered chatter and the whir of blades. A few guys shoot glances your way — cocky, curious, maybe amused.

That doesn’t last.

The second the drill starts, you slice through the ice like it owes you money. Tight turns, crisp edges, controlled chaos. You’re fluid, but there’s a violence in how you move — purposeful, surgical. The puck clings to your stick like it knows better than to disobey.

And Sloane? She’s fire and fury. Shoulders down, legs pumping, checks harder than regulation allows. There’s a collective realization in the air:

They’re not ready.

Even Jack Hughes whistles low after your first net-front goal. Quinn watches from the bench, elbow on the boards, unreadable — but he hasn’t looked away once.

Then it happens.

A body check. Minor. Legal, barely. Sloane spins on her blade, grabs the guy by the collar and—

Crack.

You hear it before you see it. Helmet to face. Blood sprays across the ice like paint. Players scramble back. Coaches shout. Whistles blare.

You skate over fast, dropping your stick, arms around her waist before she can go for a second round. “Enough,” you grit out, dragging her backwards as she spits out something about elbows and cheap shots.

The guy’s on his knees. Bleeding. Groaning. Trainers already sprinting over.

“Let me go,” Sloane hisses, writhing in your grip. “Fucking let me go—”

You don’t. You grip her harder and speak just loud enough for her to hear. “Save it for the game.”

She stills.

You lock eyes with the Bauer rep across the rink. His face is pale. Some PR girl is on the phone, probably already drafting a statement.

Quinn’s still watching.

Of course he is.

 ⸻

“There’s a difference between being invited and being expected.”

The fight starts before you’ve even gotten your skates off.

Jack Hughes says something — half-chirp, half-joke — about Sloane’s penalty minutes and a past suspension. He doesn’t mean it to hit hard. He means it like a boy who’s never been hit by a girl before.

Big mistake.

“Say that again,” Sloane says, tilting her head.

He grins. “You spent more time in the box last season than you did on the ice.”

Sloane doesn’t flinch. She just steps forward and shoves him. Hard. His back hits the locker stall with a sharp thud, the grin wiped clean off his face.

“Careful,” she says sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to bruise a Hughes.”

He’s staring at her now — really staring — like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or throw something. The room falls silent. Half the players have phones out. Quinn’s across the room tying his laces, not moving, but definitely listening.

You sigh, stepping between them. “Sloane.”

She raises both hands, all mock-innocence. “Just helping the boys understand what physicality looks like.”

Jack wipes his mouth with the back of his glove and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

You lean toward him just slightly, your voice low and razor-sharp. “You’re not in Jersey anymore, sweetheart.”

Then you’re gone, grabbing your bag, slamming your locker shut with one sharp snap.

⸻

Midnight.

The compound is quiet. Everyone’s asleep or pretending to be.

Except you.

You’re on the rooftop terrace, sitting on a cold bench with a bottle of tequila between your thighs and no glass in sight. Hair damp from a late shower. Hoodie zipped halfway. Legs out. The mountains stretch out black and endless beyond the railing.

You hear the door open behind you.

You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

Quinn walks out slowly. No hoodie, just a thin black tee and sweatpants. Hair still messy. Barefoot.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. For a while, there’s only silence and the faint hum of distant crickets.

Then: “You’re going to catch a cold,” he says quietly.

You hand him the bottle.

He takes it without hesitation, drinks straight from the lip, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

More silence.

“Your friend,” he says eventually, “has a temper.”

“She’s honest.”

He looks out at the dark. “So are broken noses.”

You crack a humorless smile. “You saying that guy didn’t deserve it?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he asks, “Why are you so angry?”

That one lands.

You take the bottle back and drink long and slow. It burns less than it used to.

“Because we had to be,” you finally say. “Because every time we win, it’s a fluke. Every goal is lucky. Every fight we win is because someone let us. Every headline asks if we’re ‘too aggressive’ or ‘not marketable enough.’"

You pause.

“No one’s ever taken us seriously unless we were bleeding.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything for a while.

Then, softly: “I take you seriously.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not yet.

But you let the silence stretch a little longer, heavy and real. Two people, under a mountain sky, trying to make sense of their own cages.

There’s no flirting. No leaning closer. Just shared quiet, and the raw edge of something neither of you knows how to name yet.

You hand the bottle back to him.

“Your brother’s a dick.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. He is.”

⸻

"You don’t get to be quiet when I’m bleeding.”

Days pass. A blur of drills, team-building exercises, fake smiles for social media.

Nothing burns.

You and Quinn don’t talk again. Not really. He nods when you pass in the hallway. You nod back. Two ghosts with mutual awareness. A truce, silent and stiff. A cold war on skates.

Jack and Sloane, meanwhile, can’t go more than five minutes without threatening bodily harm or accidental marriage. No one can tell the difference anymore. You’ve walked into the locker room twice this week to find them mid-scream. The third time, they were suspiciously quiet, and you refused to check.

But you — you stay quiet. Controlled. Focused. You skate hard, faster than anyone. You shoot until your shoulder aches. You watch Quinn out of the corner of your eye sometimes, but never for long. That rooftop night isn’t mentioned again. You act like it didn’t happen.

And then the Canucks show up, not big names, not Petey or Boeser, just some guys who share the locker room with Quinn.

It’s a scrimmage. Supposedly light. A media stunt, really. Let the boys play with the girls. Show the fans how cute it is to get along.

They’re not ready.

You score five in under an hour. Breakaways. Cross-crease passes. One snap from the blue line that makes two players stop in place like their controllers disconnected. You don’t celebrate. You don’t need to.

They’re huffing. Frustrated. A few trying too hard. One of them — #48, you don’t care to remember his name — makes the mistake of laughing after you burn him for the fifth time.

And then it happens.

It’s one of the Canucks, #58 — too young to be smart, too cocky to be afraid. You don’t hear what he says at first. Just Sloane going still beside you. Her entire posture changing.

Then he repeats it, louder:

“Didn’t think sucking off execs was part of training, but hey — it’s working for her.”

The ice goes quiet.

Dead quiet.

You don’t move yet. But Sloane does. She skates in front of you, fast, both hands on your arms.

“No,” she says. Her voice is low. Urgent. Terrified, not of him, but of you. “No. Don’t do this. Please.”

You tilt your head.

She grips you harder. “You’re not me. You don’t throw punches. When you do, you don’t stop. You’re—”

You cut her off with a smile.

Polite. Pretty. Practiced. The one you wear in interviews when they ask how it feels to be the only woman in the room.

“Don’t worry,” you murmur. “It won’t take long.”

Then you skate away.

And that smile doesn’t leave your face — not even when your glove comes off mid-stride, not even when you reach him, not even when your fist connects.

Crack.

His nose shatters on impact. He screams, stumbles back. You follow. You hit him again — cheekbone, jaw, ribs. Blood sprays onto the ice. He drops. You don’t.

You lunge. It’s not a scuffle. It’s an explosion. Fists, gloves, blades grinding into the ice. You hear a yelp, something crack. Blood sprays across the white. You don’t stop. You’ve waited too long. Bit your tongue too long. Fought for headlines, for airtime, for pay, for respect — too fucking long.

It takes five people to pull you off this time. Sloane’s yelling now, trying to grab your elbow, but you’re locked in — laser-focused, shaking with something older than this rink, older than this joke.

It isn’t about him. It never was.

You tear your arm away from the people holding you.

And then you skate — fast, bloody, furious — straight toward the bench.

Toward him.

Quinn Hughes.

He’s standing now. But he hasn’t moved. His hands are clenched. His jaw’s tight. But he still hasn’t said a word.

You stop in front of him.

Your voice is cold. Detached. Sharp enough to cut open a ribcage

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice low, shaking with rage. “I thought you were different.”

Still, he says nothing.

“You pretend to be quiet because you’re wise. But you’re not. You’re just safe. Always safe.”

Still silence.

You shake your head, disgust building in your throat.

“They said I fucked my way here. And you, with your ‘I take you seriously’ bullshit, you couldn’t even stand up.”

You lean closer. Not whispering — but close enough that only he hears the finish.

“You’re not quiet. You’re a coward.”

⸻

“She breaks things when she snaps. But when she disappears? That’s when we get scared.”

You’re gone.

No text. No word. No location pinged. Your phone is off. Your locker untouched. The bottle of tequila from the rooftop is still in your drawer — half full.

Thirty-six hours.

Sloane checks everywhere. Your room. The kitchen. The woods behind the compound. The private gym. The outdoor sauna. She even checks the Bauer SUV logs, demanding to know if any of the drivers saw you leave. No one has.

She’s not panicking — not on the outside.

But her voice shakes once when she calls your name across the empty rink. Echoes. Silence.

That’s when Jack stops chirping her.

When Quinn stops skating.

When everyone realizes: this isn’t about a fight anymore. This is something else. This is you, finally unhinged in the worst possible way — quietly.

⸻

Hour 42.

Sloane finds him by the coffee machines. Alone. Quiet. As always.

She walks up without a word. No warning. Just presence.

Quinn looks up, startled. “Have you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sloane says.

And he does.

She steps into his space. Not close enough to hit. Just close enough to hurt.

“You know, I’ve fought a lot of assholes,” she starts. “Guys who called me names. Called her names. Tried to rough us up. Tried to show us our place.”

Her smile is hollow.

“They were easy to deal with. You punch them, you bleed them, they shut up.”

She tilts her head.

“But you? You’re harder.”

Quinn swallows.

“You’re not mean. You’re not cruel. You’re just nothing. You sit there. You watch her bleed, and you do nothing. Because it’s safer to be silent than wrong.”

He doesn’t respond.

Sloane steps even closer.

“She told me once she was afraid of falling in love with someone who wouldn’t choose her in public. Someone who’d kiss her at midnight and still let the world mock her at noon.”

Quinn flinches.

“She didn’t disappear because of the fight. Or because she lost control. She disappeared because when it mattered—”

Her voice cracks once. Just once.

“—you let them make her feel small. And you watched.”

He looks at the floor.

Sloane leans in, real quiet.

“She deserved a sword, and all she got was a silence.”

And then she walks away.

⸻

Hour 48.

The weight in the compound has settled like fog. No one is laughing. No one is skating. Everyone is watching the doors, the paths, the driveway, as if expecting a ghost.

Then—

The elevator dings.

You walk in like nothing happened.

Messy bun. Hoodie. Sunglasses. Coffee in hand. Your knuckles are bandaged, your lips are chapped, and your voice, when you speak to the nearest staff member, is calm.

“I’ll take the 4PM skate, thanks.”

You don’t look at anyone.

Not Sloane.

Not Jack.

Not him.

But the rink feels different now.

Because now they know what happens when you disappear.

And Quinn Hughes?

He’s learning what happens when you make a girl like you think she’s alone.

⸻

“I don’t need a savior. I need someone who doesn’t flinch when I burn.”

You’re lacing your skates when the knock comes.

Three sharp taps. No hesitation.

You think about ignoring it. You think about screaming. But you stand up instead — slow, controlled — and open the door.

It’s him.

Quinn Hughes. Hood up. Eyes tired. Shoulders slouched in a way that makes him look smaller than you’ve ever seen him.

You say nothing.

He steps inside without being invited.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, standing awkwardly by your dresser, like it might bite him. “Talking. Apologizing. Feeling things and making them make sense.”

You cross your arms. “That’s obvious.”

He exhales. “Jack’s an asshole. Yeah. But he’s…he’s mine. He’s my shoulder. I’m his. We don’t fight with others. Not even when we want to.”

You don’t blink.

“I froze,” he says. “Because I’ve spent my whole life thinking that peace means doing nothing. But with you—”

He swallows. “With you, I realized peace isn’t silence. It’s backing someone who bleeds louder than you speak.”

You don’t move. Your arms tighten.

“I saw you,” he says, voice lower now. “The first day. In that suit. On that ice. In the way you look at people like you dare them to matter.”

Something flashes in your eyes.

“I saw you,” he repeats. “Really saw you. And it terrified me.”

You step forward.

One.

Two.

Then?

You shove him.

He stumbles back. Not far. Not surprised.

You shove him again.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

“I deserve that.”

“You don’t get to see me now. Not after—”

“I always saw you,” he snaps, stepping in.

And then you crash.

The kiss isn’t sweet. It’s a battle. Teeth clashing. Hands yanking. His grip is hard, yours is harder. Your back hits the wall. His fingers are in your hair. You bite his lip. He groans into your mouth.

You kiss like you’re still fighting.

Like you’re trying to win.

Like if you stop, one of you will shatter.

You don’t stop. Not until you’re both breathless, lips bruised, eyes wild.

And even then, when you pull back, your voice is like steel.

“This doesn’t make you brave.”

He nods.

“I know.”

⸻

The Next Day. The Panel.

You’re sitting side by side, front and center. Lights hot. Cameras on. Branded water bottles on the table. An executive in a Bauer blazer introduces the UNITY project and cues you both up to speak.

Quinn goes first.

He’s calm. Thoughtful. Careful. But when he talks about “sharing the ice with women who raise the standard,” he glances at you — not as if you owe him something, but like he’s trying to earn something.

You speak second. Clear. Poised. Cold.

You don’t look at him.

You say all the right things: teamwork, evolution, progress, visibility. But your voice is more practiced than usual. More distant.

Because you felt his hands last night. You felt his mouth, his teeth, the tremble in his throat when he kissed you like he’d never meant anything before.

But you don’t trust him.

Not fully.

Not yet.

And maybe not ever.

Because words are easy. Kisses are easy. Even confessions are easy.

But staying loud when the world wants you quiet?

That’s not something Quinn Hughes has proven yet.

Not to you.

⸻

“You wanted a war. Don’t cry when it burns.”

The photo leaks around 8PM.

It’s grainy. Slightly blurred. Taken from the side of the rink, during a private skate. You and Quinn. Close. Too close. He’s got one hand on your hip, you’ve got your head tilted toward him. It’s not a kiss — but it doesn’t need to be.

The internet eats it alive.

“Quinn Hughes and mystery girl from the UNITY project…”

“WNHL captain gets cozy with Canucks star…”

“Sleeping her way into the campaign?”

You see it mid-stretch, mid-practice, mid-breath. And you freeze.

The rage hits before the panic.

You don’t shower. Don’t change. You storm barefoot, in your leggings and sweat-soaked tank top, straight to his room.

You don’t knock.

You slam the door open so hard it hits the wall.

He’s shirtless. Still damp from the post-lift shower. Hair messy, a towel over his shoulder.

He looks up, surprised — but only for a second.

“Did you fucking tell someone?” you snap.

“What?”

“The picture.”

“I didn’t—”

“Bullshit.”

He sets the towel down slowly. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

You step in. “Yeah? Because now it’s everywhere. And guess who they’re coming for? Not the golden boy. Me. I’ll pass like the bitch who fucked her way into a Bauer campaign.”

He tenses. “Don’t put that on me.”

“Where else am I supposed to put it?” Your voice rises, furious, bitter. “You think they’re gonna say Quinn Hughes slipped his tongue in a captain’s mouth to climb the ladder?”

“I didn’t leak that fucking photo!”

“And I didn’t sign up to be your PR nightmare—”

“Then stop showing up in my fucking room!”

You both go silent.

Breathing heavy.

And then he steps forward — fast.

You step back.

“No,” he says low. Dangerous now. “You don’t get to scream and run. Not this time.”

Your spine straightens.

“Watch me.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s angry?” he snaps. “You think I like being the safe one? The still one? The fuckin’ statue everyone poses next to?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re the one who acts like a mannequin—”

He cuts you off by grabbing your wrist.

Not hurting. Just stopping.

The tension crackles like electricity.

“You think you can top me?” he growls. “You think you get to walk in here, say whatever the fuck you want, storm around like you own this place?”

Your breath hitches.

“You don’t,” he says, voice deeper now, steady, dangerous. “Not in here.”

Then he pushes you — not hard, but enough to back you into the wall. His body against yours. Forearms braced beside your head.

Your lips part — but no words come.

“Say it again,” he dares. “Tell me you didn’t want that photo.”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks — cruel, controlled. “That’s not a no.”

Then he kisses you — hard. Angry. Brutal.

Your hands go to his shoulders. You shove.

He grunts. Shoves back.

It’s not romance. It’s war. It’s a question of who breaks first.

You nip his bottom lip. He growls. Picks you up. Slams your back to the door, one hand already sliding down your spine.

“I’ll fuck the attitude out of you,” he mutters against your mouth.

“You can try.”

Clothes tear. Your tank top stretches. His sweats are halfway gone before either of you breathes.

You try to flip him — he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.

“Who’s on top now?” he hisses.

You bite his shoulder.

He hisses — then grinds into you so hard you gasp.

“That’s what I thought.”

It’s a mess. Fast, rough, no rhythm, all rhythm. Your back hits wood, glass, the edge of the dresser. He holds your throat. You scratch his back. Teeth clatter. Moans get swallowed in growls.

He loses control.

So do you.

And when it’s over — when you’re both still shaking — you don’t say anything.

You just slide down the wall, skin flushed, eyes burning.

He leans next to you.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter.

He grins. “So are you.”

⸻

Let Them Watch

The whispers begin before you even make it down the hallway.

You hear them — quiet enough to pretend they don’t exist, but loud enough to make sure you feel them. Your name. His name. That photo. The way he looked at you like you were something holy. The way you looked back like you were already daring him to sin.

The leak has gone viral.

There’s a headline now, bold across every hockey blog and gossip thread:

“Two Captains, One Chemistry: Quinn Hughes and WNHL Superstar Caught In the Heat”

They dissect everything — your posture, your jersey tucked into your pads, the flex of his hands, the look on your face that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite desire. They don’t know what to call it.

You do.

It was the moment before the fall.

⸻

Bauer’s PR department reacts exactly how you expected: full lockdown, rehearsed lines, damage control.

They call for a joint press appearance. They want smiles. Statements. A carefully worded denial if needed — or at least something tame and digestible, something that won’t disrupt the illusion of perfect unity.

You don’t show.

Neither does Quinn.

You don’t need a script.

And he doesn’t want to lie.

⸻

The next day, you skate.

Not for content. Not for training.

Just to feel your blades on clean ice. To move before you explode.

But you’re not alone.

Quinn is there.

He’s waiting in the corner, already laced up, leaning against the boards like he’s been there for hours.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches you move across the ice with the kind of quiet reverence that most people reserve for cathedrals.

You circle once. Then twice.

And finally, you skate toward him.

“I’m done hiding,” you say.

He nods slowly, breath misting in the cold air.

“So am I.”

⸻

That night, Bauer hosts a public event at the compound — a last-minute media session meant to sell the image of togetherness, resilience, athletic excellence.

They ask all captains to stand at the front of the rink.

Cameras flash. Phones are lifted.

You’re already there.

Sloane stands beside you, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Jack hovers just behind, visibly nervous but saying nothing.

And then Quinn steps forward.

Straight past the PR coordinator. Past the stage manager. Past every warning look in the room.

He walks right up to you.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t look at the cameras.

He puts one hand on your waist, the other on your jaw—

And kisses you.

In front of everyone.

It’s not subtle.

It’s not brief.

It’s not sanitized for the sake of optics.

It’s slow. It’s real. It’s messy and public and deliberate.

His hand tightens slightly when you press back into him, and the entire room goes silent — one long, suspended breath between denial and truth.

Somewhere to the right, you hear Sloane exhale.

Then someone claps.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

Flashes go off like fireworks. Voices rise. Someone from PR shouts your name — but you’re already walking off the stage, fingers intertwined with Quinn’s, head held high.

You don’t look back.

⸻

Later, in the quiet of the dressing room, when your heart has stopped racing and the cold is finally sinking into your skin, you sit side by side on the bench. No skates. No cameras. Just two people stripped down to the most dangerous part of all: honesty.

Quinn breaks the silence first.

“I’ve never done that before,” he says quietly.

You turn to him.

“Publicly?”

He nods. “Or… like that. With someone who meant it.”

You want to say something cruel. Some defense. Some sharp quip to put a wall back up between your ribs.

Instead, you just rest your head against his shoulder.

“I’ve never stayed long enough to mean it,” you murmur. “That’s why it scares the hell out of me.”

His fingers brush over your thigh, not sexual — just grounding.

You both sit there, breathing.

No declarations. No big romantic speeches.

But then, right before he stands to leave, he kisses your temple.

And you hear it.

Not out loud.

But in every movement.

I love you.

And worse—

You believe it.

⸻

“You don’t know what you are to someone until you’re unconscious and bleeding — and they beg you to wake up.”

The compound ends like it never happened — just cold mountains and media teams dissolving into memory.

But you don’t end.

Not this time.

You and Quinn leave together. Not loudly, not quietly — just undeniably. A photo of you two at a late-night diner hits the internet three days later. He’s wearing one of your teams hoodies. You’re wearing his hat. Another one gets picked up by ESPN when you’re spotted skating at a public rink, fingers intertwined, no helmets, just grins and scarfed necks.

The headline reads:

“From Enemies to Icy Soulmates: Hughes and WNHL Captain Go Public”

You don’t deny it. You don’t hide it.

Quinn doesn’t let go of your hand once.

⸻

Then comes the pre-season match.

Your first one back. Exhibition. A friendly — but nothing’s friendly once the puck drops. You and Sloane lace up like it’s the Cup Final. New uniforms. New lines. Same hunger.

The stands are packed.

Front row: Jack Hughes.

Second row, hands clenched, blue Canucks cap pulled low: Quinn.

He barely blinks as the game unfolds.

First period? You’re lethal. Assist. Goal. Quick turn, chirp, pivot, another goal.

You’re three points ahead.

And then —

Midway through the second.

Someone on the opposing team gets chirped. Frustrated. Big. You don’t even catch her number before she barrels into you off-puck.

Illegal.

Late.

Deliberate.

The slam echoes.

Your head hits the board with a sound that silences everything.

Your helmet cracks.

And you don’t get up.

⸻

Sloane screams. Drops her stick, skates straight across the ice.

“She’s not moving—she’s not fucking moving—”

She’s shaking you before the medical team can even reach you.

Your eyes stay closed.

“Wake up, you fucking bitch—come on—come on—don’t do this—”

Jack’s already halfway down the stairs, shouting for help.

Quinn?

He doesn’t shout.

He runs.

Down the aisle. Over the barrier. Past the PR staff that tries to stop him. Onto the ice, slipping in his sneakers, barely breathing.

By the time they get your helmet off, blood is seeping from your scalp.

They call a chopper.

You still don’t wake up.

⸻

The hospital is chaos.

Fluorescent lights. Cold metal benches. Quinn won’t sit down. He won’t move. He stands just outside the trauma room, jaw locked, eyes dead.

Jack’s pacing. Sloane’s got blood on her jersey and won’t stop whispering under her breath, some kind of prayer, some kind of desperate chant like if she just keeps saying “wake up” it’ll work.

No one says a word to Quinn.

Because they can see it.

He’s holding himself together with pure force. His hands are clenched into fists so tight they’re shaking. A nurse tries to push him back. He doesn’t even blink.

Finally—after what feels like hours—someone in scrubs walks out.

“She’s stable. Mild concussion. No cranial bleeding. The helmet did most of the work.”

Sloane collapses into a chair.

Jack lets out a breath like he hasn’t exhaled in a decade.

But Quinn?

He crumbles.

He leans into the nearest wall. One hand covers his face. The other presses against his ribs like he’s trying to keep his heart from clawing out.

You wake up to the sharp, sterile brightness of hospital lights and the beeping of machines that sound far too calm for the way your body feels. There’s a throbbing in your skull — deep, pulsing, nauseating. Your mouth is dry, your limbs heavy, your breath thin. You try to blink. Once. Twice. Everything hurts.

Then you see him.

Quinn.

He’s slouched in a hospital chair beside your bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like he’s been in the exact same position for hours. He looks pale, hollowed out, hair messily pushed back like he’s raked his hands through it a hundred times. He hasn’t shaved. There are shadows under his eyes.

The moment your eyes flutter open, his head jerks up.

His eyes lock on yours.

And the first thing he says—without hesitation, without ceremony, without even checking if you’re fully awake—

“I love you.”

Not a whisper. Not a plea. Just truth. Immediate and urgent, like he’s been holding it between his teeth for days and it finally snapped out of him.

You blink at him, dazed. The words settle in your chest like a shockwave. You can’t even find your voice, but your hand twitches toward his, instinctively. He notices. He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs it in both of his, like he’s anchoring himself to the edge of a cliff.

“You scared me,” he says, quieter now, but his voice still cracking under the weight of it. “I thought—” He stops. Swallows hard. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again. And I didn’t know how to live with that.”

You try to say his name, but your throat protests. Instead, you just squeeze his hand.

And then the door opens.

Sloane walks in fast, like she ran down the hallway the second she heard. Her jersey’s still half-zipped, her hair messily pulled back, and there’s dried blood on her sleeve. She sees you.

And stops cold.

Your eyes meet.

And her entire face crumbles.

She crosses the room in a rush and falls to her knees at your bedside. She doesn’t say anything at first — she just takes your free hand in both of hers and presses it to her face, forehead against your palm.

And then she starts to cry.

Loud, gasping, violent sobs that shake her whole body. She doesn’t care who sees. She doesn’t care how she sounds. The hurricane that never breaks is breaking, right there in your lap.

Because this is the first time she didn’t know if she’d get you back.

The first time she wasn’t sure her captain, her best friend, her anchor, would make it.

You lift your other hand — slow, shaky, it hurts like hell — but Quinn helps you prop up your shoulder just enough. You slide your fingers gently through Sloane’s hair, brushing it back from her face the way you always do when she’s too angry to breathe.

And she sobs harder.

Then Jack appears in the doorway.

He doesn’t say anything. No cocky grin. No smug commentary. He’s quiet, unsure, hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t know if he belongs here.

He watches Sloane collapse against you. Watches her break.

And then he walks across the room.

He stands behind her, hesitant. He reaches out, slowly, then rests one large hand on the small of her back.

She tenses instantly. Her shoulders lock. You expect her to shake him off — maybe even growl something sharp and threatening under her breath.

But she doesn’t.

She leans into it.

Just a little. Just enough.

And Jack doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, grounding her with a quiet strength no one ever expected from him.

The room stays still for a long moment.

Quinn’s thumb strokes along your wrist in small, steady circles. His other hand is still wrapped in yours like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

“How are you feeling?” he asks eventually, voice softer now. Careful.

You exhale, shallow and strained, then rasp, “Like I fought a Zamboni and lost.”

It’s not a laugh line — but it makes all three of them smile, a cracked kind of relief that’s just enough to break the tension.

Quinn leans down, presses a slow, reverent kiss to your temple. His hand brushes your cheek. You can feel the way his fingers tremble against your skin.

“You’re not going back to your apartment,” he says, pulling back just slightly to meet your eyes.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re moving in with me. I’m going to take care of you. Just for rehab. Just until you’re okay again. I need—” He swallows. “I need to know you’re safe.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Sloane beats you to it. “He didn’t sleep for two days,” she mumbles against your hand, sniffling. “Didn’t eat either. Made a nurse cry.”

“She wouldn’t let me see you,” Quinn mutters defensively.

Jack smirks, eyes flicking to you. “He got kicked out of ICU for yelling at a vending machine.”

You laugh, barely, and the pain flares behind your eyes again — but it’s worth it.

You close your eyes.

Take a breath.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Take me home.”

⸻

“You don’t need to know how to fall apart. You just need someone willing to hold the pieces.”

You don’t remember the discharge papers. Just the sound of Quinn’s voice, tight and clipped, as he argued with a nurse about the transport team. You vaguely remember Sloane’s hands stuffing your things into a duffel bag with more rage than finesse, and Jack leaning against a wall like he wanted to punch something but didn’t know how to help.

But the moment you do remember — clearly, with painful clarity — is Quinn bending down beside the hospital bed and murmuring, “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His arms were steady when he lifted you, his grip careful but firm, his body angled so your head rested against his shoulder. Your neck ached. Your ribs flared with every bump. But you didn’t complain.

He didn’t flinch.

He carried you like he’d done it before.

The drive was quiet. Sloane sat beside you in the backseat, watching the side of your face with a tension you could feel in your bones. She didn’t say much, just held your wrist lightly, her thumb brushing over your bandages in quiet, repetitive movements like she was reminding herself you were still real.

Jack drove. Quinn sat in the passenger seat, giving him directions to his house even though Jack had been there a hundred times. His voice was flat. Empty. Like all his emotion had been drained out at the hospital and now he was just functioning, step by step, until he could breathe again.

⸻

Quinn’s house wasn’t new to you — you’d seen it once, briefly, after the compound. Sleek lines, tall windows, neutral furniture with just enough personal touches to prove someone lived there. But this time, it felt different.

This time, it was quiet. Still. Waiting.

He didn’t bring you to the guest room.

He brought you to his.

The room was already set up: soft pillows stacked high, your favorite blanket folded at the foot of the bed, your toothbrush in the bathroom, a clean hoodie of his laid over the chair with folded sweatpants underneath. Your name was on everything. Silently. Deliberately.

He’d planned this.

He laid you down gently, pulling the comforter up over your legs before disappearing for a second. You heard him talking in low tones — thanking Sloane, telling Jack he’d text later. The front door opened. Closed.

And then you were alone.

With him.

He walked back in with a glass of water and sat on the edge of the bed, eyes scanning you like he still wasn’t convinced you were real. You were too tired to speak. Too sore. Your ribs felt like they’d cracked into your lungs, and your head pounded behind your eyes.

“I can leave,” he said softly. “Just let me know what you need.”

You shook your head. “Stay.”

He didn’t move for a long time.

Then, slowly, he reached out and touched your cheek, fingers brushing over the edge of the bandage on your temple. You didn’t pull away. He didn’t flinch.

He stayed.

⸻

The first night was hard.

You woke up twice — once in a sweat, not remembering the hit, just the sound of your skull against the board. Once from the pressure in your chest. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. Quinn was there both times. He didn’t talk, didn’t crowd you, just pulled you into his arms gently, let your head rest against his collarbone, and rubbed slow circles into your back until your heart stopped trying to escape your chest.

He made you tea at 3AM. Held the cup to your mouth because your hands were still shaking. Whispered, “You’re okay. You’re okay now,” like a lullaby.

He slept on the floor that night, one hand resting over the edge of the bed where you could reach it if you needed.

You did.

⸻

Over the next few days, you hated it.

You hated the pain. The fog. The humiliation of being helped to the bathroom, of being walked like a child to the kitchen, of being seen at your lowest — without armor, without pride.

But Quinn never made you feel small.

Not once.

He helped you shower, eyes careful, hands patient, no jokes, no smirks — just quiet care. He knelt in front of you to wrap your thigh when the bruising got worse. He sat beside you while you tried to eat and pretended not to notice the tears you wiped away before they fell.

One night, he caught you staring at the wall, fists clenched in the blanket.

You whispered, “I don’t know how to let anyone do this.”

He looked at you for a long time.

Then said, “You don’t have to know. I do.”

⸻

You didn’t expect to fall asleep in his arms the fifth night. But you did.

You didn’t expect to let him wash your hair the next morning, or brush it out gently while you sat in a hoodie three sizes too big, eyes still foggy with pain.

But you did.

You didn’t expect to love him this way — not just in fire, not just in chaos, but in the aftermath. In the caretaking. In the way he held you like you deserved to be held even when you were too broken to believe it.

But you did.

⸻

One morning, nearly a week later, you woke up before him.

The light was soft. The air still. You shifted slowly, every muscle groaning in protest, but you didn’t care. You turned your head — and there he was.

Quinn.

Sleeping beside you, arm around your waist, face relaxed for the first time in days. There was a crease between his brows, like even in sleep he wasn’t sure he could let go. His hand twitched once against your hip.

You stared at him for a long time.

Then reached out, brushed your fingers gently through his hair.

He stirred, half-asleep.

You froze.

But he didn’t pull away. Just shifted closer.

And whispered, “You’re still here.”

You nodded. Let the tears finally fall.

This wasn’t fire.

This wasn’t war.

This was something else.

And maybe — for once — you could stay.

⸻

“You weren’t just part of the story. You were the reason it was worth telling.”

You came back to the ice harder, faster, and more precise than before — not in spite of what happened, but because of it. The concussion. The recovery. The fear. You didn’t run from it.

You used it.

You skated like your blood was made of fury and silk. Every stride cut deeper. Every pass smarter. Every shot heavier. You didn’t just return — you dominated.

And Quinn?

Quinn was always there.

Practice after practice, week after week. At your games, in your locker room, at your side in press conferences when you didn’t feel like smiling. Not hovering, not trying to fix — just present. Supportive. Solid.

A quiet kind of devotion, the kind that could hold your rage without shrinking from it.

And when the Payton Cup rolled around — your fifth final — the nerves weren’t about if you’d win.

They were about how hard you’d fight to make sure you did.

The arena lights were almost too bright. Cameras flashing, thousands of people screaming. Sloane beside you, chewing gum like she was about to take someone’s head off. The two of you bumped shoulders before the puck dropped. That was all you needed.

The game was brutal. Tied for three full periods. Exhaustion set in during overtime, but you thrived on exhaustion. It made you sharp. It made you lethal.

You caught a cross pass from Sloane off a breakaway and flicked your wrist just once.

Bar down. Game over.

The crowd exploded.

Gloves flew. Helmets rained. Sloane screamed something that didn’t have vowels and launched herself into your arms. You fell to your knees together at center ice, the Cup already being pulled out from the cases.

She grabbed your face with both hands, forehead pressed to yours, tears in her eyes.

“I told you,” she whispered. “We were born to do this.”

You choked on a breath. Couldn’t even answer.

Because you were.

⸻

He was waiting in the hallway.

Quinn stood just past the tunnel, a Canucks hat on backwards, his eyes wet but bright as hell, arms open.

You didn’t run to him. You skated.

Straight off the rink, onto the cement, straight into his arms. You nearly knocked him over. He caught you anyway. Spun you once. Kissed you with your helmet still hanging off your elbow and your gloves still in your hands.

“Next,” he whispered against your cheek. “It’s my turn.”

You grinned through your sweat. “Go get it.”

⸻

Game Seven. Stanley Cup Final.

Rogers Arena. Vancouver’s cathedral. Electric.

You were in a private box high above the ice, still bruised from your own final. Sloane leaned beside you, face painted, nose glued to the glass. Jack had his arms crossed but couldn’t stop bouncing on his heels. The whole Canucks roster was on the ice.

But you only watched one.

Quinn.

Focused. Composed. Captain.

Every shift was surgical. Every zone exit clean. The clock counted down in your chest.

Third period. One-goal lead.

Tension so thick you could taste it.

Then—final face-off. Twelve seconds. A shot. A block. A cleared puck.

Buzzer.

They win.

The crowd erupted.

Sticks flew. Helmets tossed. Quinn was mobbed. He let them. For twenty seconds. Then he broke free.

The Cup was raised over his head, sweat-soaked, mouth open in a scream.

And then — he turned.

Looked straight at you.

Straight into the box. Into your eyes.

And screamed: “WHERE IS SHE?!”

You didn’t wait for security.

You shoved the door open. Ran.

Down two flights of stairs, through the crowd, your pass falling off your chest. A team rep tried to grab your arm — you shook him off and kept moving. Sprinting, ducking under the barrier.

Quinn saw you coming.

Quinn skates to the boards, Cup still in hand, and yells — through the chaos, through the noise, through the entire world watching:

“that's my beautiful wife”

The arena loses its mind. You freeze, stunned, half-laughing.

He keeps shouting, eyes locked on yours: “my beautiful, strong and witty wife, i love you so much"

You blink, stunned. Laugh, shaky. “I’m not your wife,” you mouth.

He grins — manic, glowing, breathless — and shifts the Cup into one arm.

Then pulls something from his pocket.

Your stomach drops.

He steps over the bench. Skates right to the edge of the boards. Hands the Cup to Jack — who, for once, looks like he might cry.

Then Quinn Hughes kneels.

On the fucking ice.

In front of 18,000 people, with the Stanley Cup behind him and you in front of him.

The ring in his hand glitters like it already knows it belongs to you.

“I was going to wait,” he says, loud but raw, voice shaking. “I was going to do it when it was quiet. When we were alone. But I’ve never loved you quietly. Not once. And I don’t want to.”

The whole arena is silent.

Even the cameras feel reverent.

“I want every person in this rink to know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. That you fought your way back to the ice, to yourself, to us. And that I will never stop choosing you.”

Sloane is already sobbing.

Jack is wide-eyed, half-laughing, half-emotional, one hand still on the Cup.

Quinn kneels deeper into the ice, palm open.

“Marry me.”

You don’t speak.

You launch yourself over the glass.

You nearly take him down in the kiss. He drops the ring, catches it midair, shoves it onto your finger as the whole arena explodes into applause.

You wrap your arms around his neck. He lifts you. Spins you. Kisses your forehead, your temple, your mouth again.

And then he throws his head back, cradling you in his arms, and whispers to you, forehead pressed on yours:

“i'm the luckiest man alive”

EPILOGUE – The Quiet After

You don’t know how the hell it happened.

The trophies. The bruises. The screaming crowds. The rings. The headlines. The kisses under fluorescent lights. The blood on the ice, and the promises whispered in hospital beds. The chaos of being young and angry and better than anyone expected you to be.

And now this.

lake house in Michigan.

Late summer sun. A breeze rolling in soft through the pines. Ice melting in your glass. Bare feet in the grass.

And quiet.

The kind of quiet you never thought you’d love.

Your daughter is running barefoot across the dock, screaming something about pirates, her curls bouncing wildly, her laugh high and wild and free.

Quinn is right behind her — long legs jogging with just enough restraint to let her feel fast. He’s wearing an old t-shirt, backwards hat, bare feet, still the softest man you’ve ever known.

He catches her mid-sprint, lifts her like she’s air, and spins her once. She squeals. Wraps her arms around his neck and plants a messy kiss on his cheek before wriggling to get down again.

“Go!” he laughs, breathless, pointing to the hammock by the trees. “Your uncles are waiting!”

She tears off down the hill toward Sloane and Jack — who are curled up in the hammock, limbs tangled, pretending not to be as disgustingly in love as they are. Jack lifts her straight into his lap like it’s second nature. Sloane grins, grabs a juice pouch, and starts braiding her hair without even looking.

And you’re on the porch.

Legs curled under you. Bruised still, just slightly, from last season. Healing, always. A blanket over your lap. A book half-open on your thighs.

Quinn walks up the steps slowly. Doesn’t sit right away. Just leans against the porch railing, watching them — your daughter, your best friend, the brother you used to hate.

He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.

“She’s just like you,” he says finally.

You look up. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You tilt your head. “She’s got your eyes.”

“She’s got your mouth.”

“Your hair.”

“She yells like you.”

You smirk. “She skates like me.”

He laughs — the warm, real one. The one he only does here, with no cameras, no press. Just you.

“She’s just us,” you say quietly. “All the best parts. None of the broken ones.”

He moves toward you. Sits beside you, tugs you into him like you belong there — because you do.

“She’s gonna be a menace.”

“She already is.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of your head.

Across the yard, your daughter throws a juice box into the grass and tackles Jack to the ground. Sloane cackles. The sun is starting to dip behind the trees.

And you realize — somewhere in the chaos, somewhere between the fights and the wins and the wreckage and the love—

You built a life.

A quiet one.

A good one.

You squeeze his hand, smile up at him, and whisper, “I still can’t believe I married a hockey player.”

He kisses your cheek, smiling like it’s the only thing he’s ever been sure of.

“Lucky you.”