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silovsmenot · 4 months

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Family Skate | Artūrs Šilovs

Requested by anon…

i love ur writing sm.... what if i suggest an imagine where reader and Arturs go on a skate date, like at an ice rink or something, and he teaches reader how to skate. i think that would be really cute idk that man is soooo beautiful and i want to hold his hand

WARNINGS: As usual, this is just pure fluff. PAIRING: Artūrs Šilovs x f!reader. NOTES: I would sell my soul to hold his hand, ngl. I haven't proof read this, so hopefully no major issues. WORD COUNT: 1792

The closing of the season was bittersweet. The team had fought so hard, but with the 3-2 loss in game seven, the Canucks were eliminated from the playoffs. You’d sat and comforted Artūrs all night, barely sleeping as he sat silently and over-thought every decision and move he made in that game.

The loss was nowhere near his fault, but he blamed himself — as would many of the guys, if you’d have to guess. The wives and girlfriends group chat was quiet for the first time in weeks, only the occasional message coming through about how proud each of the partners was of the players. Messages that you showed to Arty, but nothing could draw him out of his slump.

The next day was not easy, nor the day after that. All of the guys were second-guessing themselves and speaking little of what happened. The press-conference came and went, Arty and the boys answering every question that came their way with the lingering dark clouds above their head. But there was a light on the horizon, something that you knew that Arty was looking forward to — whether he’d admit it or not.

It was no secret that you couldn’t skate. Sure, you could stand on skates and, with knees bent and arms clinging to the side, you could shuffle around the boards. But that wasn’t exactly what you’d call skating. Artūrs had long spoken about taking you to the rink when things were quiet, of teaching you to skate and you were excited for the day.

And with the season now over, and the ice days from being lifted, the Canucks organisation would put on their annual private family skate. It would be your first with the team, and while you’d met and become close with the majority of the other wives and girlfriends, it was a daunting idea.

You’d smiled from ear to ear the night before when Art had appeared in the living room of the small condo beside the Rogers Arena with a pair of skates in your size. He’d had them sharpened and made ready all without you knowing that evening — if he was honest, it was a good escape from the weight that still rested upon him. And the sight of your smile was enough to lift a large amount of the sadness.

Unsurprisingly you were the first pair to enter the rink that morning, the short commute from the condo to the family area taking you only about five minutes with skates in one hand and the Latvian goalie claiming the other.

Weaving through doors, he held open the Canucks changing room door for you and followed close behind. There, you paused for a moment — even now, it looked so empty. It came with a solemn feeling in your chest, but the names were still above the stalls and you spotted his name quickly. Art sat you down first, kneeling at your feet as he worked the laces of the new skates.

“Does that feel okay?”

You quickly nodded in response, hands clasping yours as you pulled onto your feet. You wobbled lightly, but could stand. He led you a few steps, then back and finally nodded in success.

“They suit you.” Art whispered as he leaned in close, planting a tender kiss upon your cheek which still bought a pink flush to your cheeks. He always told you that you looked beautiful, and you’d never tire of hearing it.

You stayed standing as he sat to tie his own laces, shifting on your feet to get to grips with the feeling — turning to smile and wave as the door would open for the first flood of players and their partners. Teddy Blueger and Monique were the first to come in your direction, Teddy giving you a playful and light nudge with a hand ready to catch if you stumbled. Both Teddy and Artūrs were quick to grab hands and pull into hugs, exchanging fast words in their native language while Monique rolled her eyes lightly to you.

“And they’re off.” She teased in a hushed voice, pulling you with her to sit. The changing room would soon buzz with life, and with the bare stalls, it was a welcome change. It wasn’t right when it was quiet and bare.

Bodies soon began filing down the corridor toward the ice, the busy chatter filling the silence nicely as you and Artūrs would intertwine fingers once more. It felt strange to him now, walking down the tunnel to an empty ice rink. Of course, it was no different to training, but everything had ended so abruptly… It still hadn’t quite sunk in for him.

But whatever he was thinking, he hid it well from you — the smile still firmly glued to his lips as he watched your face light up.

“Just take it slow, Art.” You quietly said as you neared the ice, your boyfriend stepping onto the ice without hesitation or any kind of shift to his stance. This was just like walking to him, but to you? You weren’t so sure.

He offered a second hand, ready to guide and balance you as soon as you stepped out onto the ice. With a steadying breath, you took the step — perhaps a little eager as your skates attempted to slip from beneath you immediately, the hands of Artūrs rescuing you before you lost your blades.

The soft sound of his laughter followed instantly, and it was so contagious to you. Any sense of embarrassment was lost in his laugh, the first signs of actual joy on his face since game seven. You didn’t care that it was at your expense, you were just so relieved to see it. And the fluttering would instantly return to your stomach.

“Are you alright?” He spoke through calming laughter, pulling you close to him with a soft thud of bodies. There, he could hold you tight as he made slow skating motions backwards. He wouldn’t spare a glance over his shoulder for he was too enraptured by your gaze, slightly shaken up but still entirely captivated by him.

“I’m fine, just go slow.”

And he would from that moment. You’d had your near-tumble-experience, and that was enough for him. He held both of your hands, skating backwards as you struggled on forwards. He’d give you tips with every movement, bending your knees, not leaning forward, keeping your head up and so many more. You were struggling to keep a note of each tip, but you were comfortable within his hands — Artūrs wouldn’t let you fall.

With every lap of the large rink, you felt more comfortable. The Latvian goalie gave a little raise of his brow as you released one of his hands, to skate side-by-side with a little confidence. You were less step-skating now, and more gliding. He was certainly pulling you along, but you were trying and he was thriving on the sight of you trying your best with this.

“Keep your knees bent, push forward with your skate — yes, just like that.” He encouraged with each passing moment, grin growing exponentially as you were doing well.

Artūrs was a pretty good teacher and an even better balancing point. He did a good job of distracting you from everyone else around, skating with ease or children stumbling and giggling. You were in your little skating world with him, the occasional squeeze of your hand as silent encouragement from him.

You were enjoying yourself. Even when he released your hand with a playful wiggle of his brows, skating backwards in front of you, just out of reach — the look of mischief clear upon his face.

“Artūrs, come back here. Please!” You cried out through the lingering laughter, the confidence leaving your motion instantly. Your gliding movements turned back to awkward step-skating, with hands outstretched for him which only served to have you leaning forward.

“Straighten up, y/n.” He calmly said, stopping himself before you. He was close enough to grab you if you fell, but far enough that you couldn’t just hold onto him. “You can do it.”

You weren’t sure if you could, but you concluded that there was no harm in trying — as long as he caught you. You didn’t want the bruises.

Another heavy, steadying breath parted your lips as you straightened up. Your hands at your sides as you took the first step, pushing your bladed foot forward as he’d taught you. You clenched your eyes shut, half expecting the tumble into his arms or the ice, but you drifted. So you took the second step, skating gliding forward — you took the next step, and the next, until you were skating alone.

Artūrs looked simply triumphant as he watched you, weaving backward without even lifting his skates. He didn’t even try to hide the pride on his face from you as you sheepishly laughed to yourself, hands balled as you stopped yourself from dancing (knowing you’d definitely go tumbling with that).

“You’re a natural, y/n. Want to join the team?” The voice of Jack Hughes shouted as he neared, shooting a cheeky wink in your direction and was gone as quickly as he appeared. You batted his hands away with a dramatic swatting of your hand, gaze playfully narrowing in a glare toward him which only served to make the captain laugh.

Almost as soon as you were getting truly confident with it, the session was over. The honking of the zamboni turning all heads, and the rink staff standing ready at the gate. Couples and families were quick to file off the ice, till it was only you and Art making your way toward the nearest gate. He waited on the other side, hand ready to support you as you’d make the first step off the ice.

In comparison to your step onto the ice, you did it with grace. There was no tumble this time. And as they often did, fingers tangled together at the first touch of his hand — the smiles immediately upon both faces.

“Did you enjoy that?” Art was quick to ask. Your head nodding swiftly and truthfully. “You did really well, I’m very proud of you.”

You simply melted to hear him say that. And you’d only melt further as he leaned down, pulling you into him as lips would collide. His free hand softly playing with the strands of your hair, you could feel how he smiled into the kiss and it was intoxicating.

“Come on, lovebirds — we’re going for a drink!” A voice shouted from down the corridor, abruptly breaking the kiss with a shared laugh. You raised a hand to acknowledge the shout, foreheads resting together as you simply revelled in the moment together.

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