Luke Imagine: Hockey AU
“Hold still, Luke.”
You pause for the tenth time that minute, trying to stare down the blonde boy sternly, though a small smile cracks on your lips.
“Sorry, babe. I’m just – “
“Really happy? You should be.”
He beams up at you – a large, wide-toothed grin that makes him look like a little boy despite his broad, padded jersey and long legs.
“But I’ll be even happier if you could sit still long enough for me to clean this nasty cut on your lip.”
“If I do, will you let me kiss you?”
You sigh dramatically, hands hovering over his face, bloodied towel still in your hand.
“Yes, yes, Luke, now close those pretty lips of yours before you get a mouthful of blood.”
He closes his mouth obediently but beams happily at you – which makes the large cut on his lip bleed more, but he doesn’t seem to mind, blue eyes glimmering despite the dim lighting of the locker rooms.
You focused your attention on Luke’s face one more, one hand gently tilting his jaw up to your face, the other lightly dabbing at the bleeding wound.
Despite the fact that you were standing up and Luke was sitting down on the benches, you were only a few inches taller than him – his long legs were stretched out, occasionally wrapping themselves around your calves.
His hands were half-resting on his thighs, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of your upper thighs, pulling you closer towards him whenever you started to drift away. You were practically centimeters away from his body, and with his thick padded jersey, you can almost feel his chest moving against your torso with every breath he took.
You knew he was eager to go back to his teammates – you could feel it in his antsy fingers on your thighs – but you were determined to fix up his bloodied lip and bruised cheek before he spent the night celebrating.
And Luke deserved to have a night of fun – his team did win the championship, after all.
You know how hard he and his team worked – months upon months of rigorous training and exhausting practices, all leading up to this one night. This one game.
Countless nights spent at the arena skating hundreds of laps and shooting thousands of pucks; passes between team members that were practiced until they were flawlessly executed; running drills and lifting sessions in the freezing snow.
You knew how much this game meant to Luke.
You were there at the end of every night, there to fix him up some hot tea and dinner at four in the morning; trying to unknot his tense shoulders during the quick breaks in between practices.
You saw the sweat that left a pale sheen on his face despite the below freezing weather, you saw the bruises and the cuts that came from a slip-up that he couldn’t afford, a mistake he shouldn’t of made.
You were at every game that led up to the championship; the school rinks to the large stadiums. You made sure you were there from the moment he stepped onto the ice, blue eyes determined, to the second he skated off, yet another trophy in his arms.
You’re my lucky charm.
He always made sure you were always sitting in the front row, his large jersey on your back, so big it nearly touched your knees. He had a superstition; this theory that you’re the reason for his agile skating, his flawless passes, his winning goal.
You’d tell him that it was because of his hard work and dedication – I’m pretty sure it’s just all of your late night training paying off, Luke – but he was stubbornly cheeky about it, insisting that your presence was the reason why he played so well.
I’d be nothing without you.
He’d be stubborn almost to the point of ridiculous to having you attend every single one of his games; driving you six hours to the stadium if you didn’t have a ride; talking to your parents and somehow convincing them to let you stay the night in some strange city for his big hockey game.
You’re not sure how he does it, but you’re fairly certain it has something to do with his baby blue eyes.
Nevertheless, you’d be at every game, there to cheer him on. He made a point to have you in the very front row, closest to the ice – he even argued with a few of the managers in the past to kick people out just to keep you in.
Luke, it’s not that big of a deal – I can sit in the back.
No. My girl has to sit in the front.
You’d call him a superstitious freak, but there’s no deny the fact that you liked it whenever Luke skated up to the glass windows closest to you, kissing the glass and leaving a faint mark, blue eyes staring only at you despite the small entourage of fans that he had acquired.
Back in the game, Hemmings!
Luke would skate off, a smirk on his lips as he rejoined his teammates, tapping the ice with his well-worn hockey stick.
He’d always grin at you while he skated about, pointing to you and blowing you a large kiss or shooting you a cheeky wink after every goal he scored.
That one was for you, babe.
You’d be cheering the loudest and everyone would know that despite the small cluster of girls who screamed Luke’s name with hysterical cries, you were his girl.
It was obvious – you had his name across your back. The oversized jersey might’ve been loose on your shoulder, but the thick black Hemmings was still legible from rows away.
It was an unspoken tradition between the two of you – you’d wear Luke’s very first jersey to every game, the jersey he wore when he was three sizes smaller with thinner shoulders and shakier hands.
It’d still be much too big for you, but you knew Luke loved the way you wore his name on his back.
You were his girl.
And despite the screaming girls, you were his number one fan.
He was particular nervous tonight.
Everything – everything – was leading up to this one game. The championship.
He had spent months and months training and they had come too far just to lose now.
You remember how Luke’s hands shook for the whole entire car ride, and there was nothing you or his teammates could say that would dissipate the worry that creased his forehead.
You remember how he was the last to leave the locker room, and how he pulled you aside before stepping on the ice.
How he cupped your face with his shaking hands and leaned his forehead against yours, his helmet forgotten at his feet and his hock stick leaned on the side of the doorway, waiting for him.
You remember how he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, inhaling your scent, letting your steady belief in him calm him down again.
You think you can almost hear his racing heart through his thick jersey.
Don’t worry, Luke. I know you can do it.
When he finally opened his eyes again, they’re as pale as the ice his teammates were already warming up on, piercing you.
He pressed his lips onto yours and held it there, lingering for as long as he could before his coach could drag him away.
Let’s go, Hemmings! You can kiss your girlfriend all you want when we win!
You grinned before helping him fasten on his helmet, blooping his nose playfully in an attempt to ease his tension.
I love you, Luke.
He’s too nervous to say the words back, but you don’t mind – you already know from the way his lips lingered on yours, from the way he traces the neckline of his jersey on your body, smiling lightly at himself as he does.
With one last longing touch, he turns away and skates confidently onto the rink, the crowd roaring at his appearance.
And then the game began.
It was a close game.
They were neck-and-neck for most of the game, a few points difference throughout the whole entire game.
You could feel your heart beating uncontrollably in your chest just from watching – you couldn’t even imagine how Luke was feeling now.
He hid his nerves well, though – he was just as agile as ever on ice, skating on the smooth surface as if he was meant to be there, as if it was what he had been doing his whole entire life.
He glides almost effortlessly, swooping in and out between the opposing players, dodging their attempts at stopping him from reaching the goal.
You don’t have to see Luke’s eyes to know the fiercely determined look they held, biting his lip in pure concentration.
He’s in his own world now – the world of hockey that he immersed himself so deeply in.
You nearly shriek out loud when another player from the opposing team slams him into the boards surrounding the rink, a deafening crash when his body collides into the solid barrier.
It’s on the opposite end to where you’re sitting, but you can clearly see the smudge of blood on the windows, Luke already up and trying to fight out of his teammates’ grips, yelling at the player who crashed into him.
You can’t make out his words, but you’re quite certain they’re not family-friendly.
The other player receives a penalty, and you’re one of the many who cheer when the other boy skates off the ice.
When Luke skates over to your area again, you can’t help but to let out a gasp, hands flying to your face.
His right cheek is already sporting a bright purple bruise, blood gushing from his nose and lip. He waves off the referee and his coach, mopping up the blood from his face haphazardly before re-entering the game, flecks of red dripping onto the ice behind him.
Your heart seizes up at the sight of Luke’s dark grimace at his injuries, but his jaw is set and his eyes are focused, and you know nothing would take him out of the game – his game.
You watch in worry and anticipating for the remainder of the game, cheering loudly when Luke’s team scores and biting your lip when the other gains a point.
The two teams are tied and time’s almost up – your eyes are practically glued onto Luke, his broad shoulders weaving his way through the thicket of players trying to block him, his hockey stick expertly guiding the black puck to the goal.
The counter seems to be speeding up and it seems as if there’s barely any time left – Luke’s close to the opposite net, pushing himself to skate faster, barely even hesitating to calculate the angle or the speed or the strength, simply slamming the puck as hard as he could towards the goal.
You swear everyone in the arena forgets to breathe.
The puck is flying through the air and all eyes are glued to the little black circle that makes its way towards the net, whizzing through the cold air.
The goalie is a second too late and the puck is too fast for him, rocketing into the goal with a resounding clack as it hits one of the back posts before falling to the ice with a satisfying clunk that no one hears through the roaring cheers that echo in the arena.
You’re screaming at the top of your lungs, jumping up and down and doing a little dance of glee, shrieking in happiness.
It’s in he scored they’ve won they’ve won –
In the middle of the arena, you can see Luke being tackled by his teammates, bodies heaping together and arms patting one another without seeing faces, a deafening roar of happiness coming from the winning team – the champion team.
They spend a few minutes shouting and congratulating one another – we did it, we did it – and everyone is a pile of jerseys and smiles, the worn out creases and the worry lines forgotten in their victory.
Luke skates to retrieve the large golden cup that brands them as champions, and he holds it triumphantly above his head, yelling loudly at the crowd that cheers back at him, twice as loud.
You think you’ve lost your voice.
One by one, the boys skate off the rink, still hollering and laughing and yelling in delirious happiness, greeting their coach, who clapped their backs and kissed their helmets.
Luke hands the large trophy to his coach, who clops Luke especially hard on the shoulders, yelling that’s my boy before escaping his grasp, nearly stumbling to you, a wide smile on his face.
He’s graceful on ice, but once he’s on dry ground again, he’s staggering towards you – you always told him he was a penguin on land – although you suspect this time, it’s due to his elation.
Luke picks you up, engulfing you in his arms before pressing his lips hard against yours.
Your feet are off the ground and you don’t care that his jersey is damp with sweat and you can taste his blood in your mouth but despite it all, you think it’s the best kiss you’ll ever have in your life.
People are watching and hooting but you could care less.
When the two of you finally pull away, you’re both breathless and you suspect there’s blood on your lips but you smile widely at Luke anyways.
Congratulations, champ. I knew you could do it.
Not without my lucky charm.
“Am I good to go?”
Luke looks up at you with innocent wide eyes, clutching at your thighs, a small smile playing on his lips.
You sigh, lightly brushing your thumb across his lips, scrunching your nose at him.
“I guess so – you’ll be good for now, but I’m gonna put some ointment on that bruise before we go to sleep. Wouldn’t want to scratch up that pretty face of yours – you’re gonna have a lot of pictures to take when we get back home.”
“You’re pretty enough for the both of us.”
You make a funny face at Luke and he laughs, finally letting go on his grip on you as you put away the bloodied towel, starting to pack up his equipment into his large duffel bag.
He stands up and groans as he stretches, bones cracking from sitting down.
He presses a gentle kiss on your temple, one hand on your waist and the other carrying the large duffel bag.
“Anything for my champion.”
“I like the sound of that – champion.”
“Don’t get too big-headed – there’s still next year’s games.”
“Just let me have my moment.”
He pouts at you and you laugh, his arms pulling your body closer to him so you can lean your head onto his collarbones.
“C’mon – let’s go celebrate!”