⋆ria

Elsie is bouncing on the balls of her feet on your worn-out living room rug, her hands clasped together under her chin in a pantomime of desperate prayer. Her pigtails, the same shade of brown as yours, are practically vibrating.

You press your fingers to your temple, feigning a headache that is rapidly becoming real. “Honey, I don’t know the first thing about hockey.”

“You don’t have to! I’ll know! I’ll be so good, you’ll see. I’ll be like … like …” She scrunches her face, searching for a name she’s heard on the playground. “Bo Horvat!”

You can’t help but smile. “He doesn’t even play here anymore, sweetie.”

“Quinn Hughes, then!” She declares, the name sounding triumphant. “Avery says he’s the captain and he skates like he has rockets on his feet. Vrooooom!” She demonstrates by skidding across the floor in her socks, nearly taking out a lamp.

You catch it just in time, your heart doing a familiar little lurch. A different voice, a ghost’s voice, echoes in your head. “Clumsy, Y/N. She gets it from you. Can’t you control your own kid?”

You shake it off, forcing the memory of Carl down, down, down until it’s just a dull pressure in your chest. You look at Elsie’s face, bright with a passion you haven’t seen since she discovered glitter glue. How can you say no? You came here for her. For this. For her to have a childhood filled with Timbits and rocket-feet dreams, not tiptoeing around a man’s moods.

“Okay,” you say, the word feeling momentous. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s do it.”

The shriek of joy is probably heard three apartments over.

***

Signing her up online is the easy part. A few clicks, a wince-inducing entry of your credit card information, and Elsie is officially a North Shore Winter Club Atom C3 Ice Cat.

The hard part is standing in the middle of a cavernous sporting goods store on a Tuesday afternoon, staring at what looks like a wall of medieval torture devices.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, clutching a printout of the ‘Required Equipment’ list. “Jock or Jill …”

“What’s a jill, Mom?” Elsie asks, popping up beside you after a full-speed lap around a display of goalie pads that were taller than her.

“I think it’s … protective underwear?” You guess, feeling your cheeks flush. “Let’s, uh, let’s start with skates. Skates seem manageable.”

You navigate the aisles, Elsie’s hand now firmly in yours to prevent further chaos. The place smells like rubber and new plastic. It’s overwhelming. You feel like a fraud, an imposter in this temple of Canadian identity. You find the wall of skates, a dizzying array of black, white, and silver boots with terrifyingly sharp-looking blades.

“Which ones?” Elsie asks, her voice full of awe.

“The … the right size ones?” You offer weakly.

You stand there for a solid five minutes, picking up boxes, reading technical jargon you don’t understand — T-blade, chassis, quarter package — and feeling more and more helpless. Elsie is starting to fidget, her earlier excitement curdling into the restlessness of a bored child.

You need help. You scan the store, looking for anyone in a red employee vest. You see a guy a few feet away, over by the hockey sticks. He’s not in a vest, but he’s wearing athletic pants and a hoodie, and he’s examining the curve on a stick with an intensity that suggests he knows what he’s doing. He’s focused, turning the stick over in his hands. He must work on commission.

Perfect.

You take a deep breath and approach him, pulling Elsie along with you.

“Excuse me?”

He looks up. His eyes are a warm, startling green. For a second, you forget what you were going to say. He’s younger than you expected, maybe mid-twenties, with an easy-going, friendly face.

“Hi,” you manage. “Sorry to bother you, but do you work here? I’m so lost.” You gesture vaguely at the entire store, a silent plea for help.

A small smile plays on his lips. He looks down at his plain gray hoodie, then back at you. “Uh, no. I don’t.”

Your face burns. Of course. The one competent-looking person. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. You just looked like you knew what you were looking at, and I’m … I’m clearly in over my head.”

He chuckles. It’s a nice sound. “No, don’t worry about it. What’re you looking for? Maybe I can help anyway.”

You hesitate. You don’t want to impose on a random stranger. “You don’t have to. It’s just … my daughter just joined a team.” You nudge Elsie forward slightly. “And I have this list, and I think it might as well be in another language.”

He crouches down a little, bringing himself closer to Elsie’s level. His whole demeanor softens. “Hey there. You starting hockey? That’s awesome.”

Elsie, who is usually shy with strangers, beams at him. “I’m gonna be an Ice Cat! And I’m gonna skate with rockets on my feet!”

He grins, a genuine, full-faced grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Rockets, huh? Well, you’re gonna need the right skates for that.” He looks back up at you. “Quinn.”

He offers a hand. You shift the list to your other hand and shake his. His grip is firm and warm.

“Y/N,” you say. “And this is Elsie.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Quinn says, his eyes lingering on yours for just a fraction of a second too long. “Alright, Y/N. Let’s see the list. We’ll get you sorted out.”

You hand him the crumpled paper, feeling a ridiculous wave of relief wash over you. He smooths it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Okay, standard stuff. Skates, helmet, shoulder pads, elbows, shins, pants, jill, neck guard, gloves … stick. Jersey and socks the team will probably provide.” He says it all so casually, as if he’s reading a grocery list.

“Right,” you say, trying to sound like you followed any of that. “Skates first?”

“Skates first,” he confirms. “Most important part. Can’t have rocket feet with bad skates.”

He leads you back to the wall of boots, and this time, he seems to know exactly what he’s looking for. He ignores the flashy, expensive-looking ones and pulls out a simple, sturdy-looking pair.

“These are good starter skates,” he explains, his voice low and easy to listen to. “Good support, but they’re not so stiff that she won’t be able to move. What size shoe is she?”

“A twelve,” you answer, amazed at your own competence in knowing your child’s shoe size. It feels like a small victory.

He finds the right box and kneels on the little sizing stool, right there in the middle of the aisle. “Okay, Elsie. Hop up.”

Elsie sits, and Quinn gently takes her foot, slipping off her sparkly pink sneaker. He slides her foot into the stiff new skate, his movements practiced and sure. You find yourself watching his hands. They’re strong, capable hands.

“How’s that feel?” He asks her. “Too tight anywhere?”

“It feels … hard,” Elsie says, wiggling her toes.

“That’s okay,” he says patiently. “We just need to make sure your toes aren’t all scrunched up at the end. Can you kick your heel back for me?” He taps the back of the skate. “You want your toe to just kinda brush the front cap. Now, stand up. Slowly.”

He holds her hands as she stands, a little wobbly on the foreign blades. You’re struck by how naturally he interacts with her, with a gentleness that sends a strange, unfamiliar pang through your chest. Carl was never like this. He was impatient, always treating Elsie’s childhood needs as an inconvenience.

“It feels weird,” Elsie announces.

“It’s supposed to,” Quinn says, smiling up at her. He presses his thumb against the side of the boot. “The fit looks pretty good. What you’ll want to do is get them baked.”

You blink. “Baked? Like … in an oven?”

He laughs, looking back over his shoulder at you. “Yeah, kinda. They have a special oven here. It heats up the boot so it molds to her foot perfectly. Prevents blisters. Big time.”

“Oh.” The word comes out small. Of course there’s an oven for shoes. Why wouldn’t there be?

“Don’t worry,” he says, as if sensing your bewilderment. “It’s all part of the process.”

He gets her other skate on, tying them with a practiced series of loops and pulls you know you’ll never be able to replicate. “Alright, Ice Cat. Skates are done.”

You feel a surge of gratitude so strong it’s almost overwhelming. “Thank you. Seriously. I would have been here for hours and probably bought her a pair of goalie skates by mistake.”

“No worries at all,” he says, standing up. He’s taller than you thought. “What’s next on the list of doom?”

You both laugh, and the sound is easy and natural. The tension in your shoulders, a permanent resident for the last few years, seems to loosen its grip just a little.

“Helmets, I think.”

“This way to head protection,” he says with a mock-serious tone, leading the way.

He helps you pick out a helmet, explaining the importance of the cage and how it should fit snugly without pinching. He has Elsie shake her head violently from side to side to test it, and she erupts in a fit of giggles. He moves on to the shoulder pads, which he calls ‘shouldies,’ and the shin pads, which he demonstrates how to tape on over his own athletic pants. He turns what felt like an insurmountable, anxiety-inducing task into … fun.

Elsie is completely enamored. She follows him around the store like a little duckling, asking him a million questions.

“Do you play hockey?” She asks, her eyes wide.

Quinn pauses in his examination of a pair of tiny hockey gloves. “Yeah, I do.”

“Are you good?”

He looks over at you, a playful glint in his eye. “I do okay.”

“My friend Avery says Quinn Hughes is the best. You have the same name,” she says matter-of-factly.

Quinn’s smile falters for just a second, a brief flicker of something you can’t quite read before it’s back, wider than before.

“Oh yeah?” He says, his voice a little strained. “Well, that’s nice of Avery.”

You’re only half-listening, trying to mentally calculate the cost of the mountain of gear now piling up in your shopping cart. It’s going to be a tight month. Maybe a tight two months. But seeing the pure, unadulterated joy on Elsie’s face as she tries on a pair of gloves that are too big for her makes it feel worth it.

“Okay, last thing,” Quinn says, steering you back towards the stick rack. “The weapon.”

He selects a few small, lightweight sticks. “You don’t want anything too heavy or too long. The rule is, on skates, it should come up to between her chin and her nose.” He hands one to Elsie. “How does that feel?”

Elsie grips it like it’s Excalibur. “It feels like I’m a real hockey player.”

“That’s because you are one now,” he says softly.

You look at the cart, a jumbled mess of black plastic, foam, and hope. “Okay. I think … I think that’s everything. I can’t thank you enough. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Honestly, it was fun,” he says, and you believe him. “It’s kinda cool, seeing someone get all their first gear.”

“Well, you saved this California girl from a total Canadian meltdown,” you say, pushing the overflowing cart towards the checkout. “I owe you one. A coffee, or … or something.” You feel bold saying it, but his kindness has unspooled something inside you.

“I might take you up on that,” he says, walking alongside you.

You arrive at the checkout, and a young kid with braces and a Canucks hat on backwards is manning the register. He’s humming to himself until he looks up and sees who you’re with.

His eyes go wide. His jaw literally drops.

“No way,” he breathes.

You look from the cashier to Quinn, confused. Quinn gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, but it’s too late.

“You’re … you’re Quinn Hughes,” the cashier stammers, fumbling with the scanner.

The name clicks. Quinn Hughes. The captain. The one Elsie had mentioned. The one who skates like he has rockets on his feet. You feel the blood drain from your face and then rush back with a vengeance. You mistook the captain of the Vancouver Canucks for a store employee. You made him spend the last hour personally shopping for your six-year-old.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, looking at him. Truly looking at him this time, seeing the familiar face from billboards and bus ads. “I am so, so sorry.”

He just offers a sheepish smile. “Told you I do okay.”

“Okay? You’re … him!” You say, gesturing uselessly.

The cashier is practically vibrating. “This is … wow. Just wow. Can I, uh, can I get a picture after?”

“Yeah, man, of course,” Quinn says easily, turning his attention back to the counter.

You start unloading the gear, your hands shaking slightly. The pile grows and grows. The helmet. The skates. The pads. The stick. The cashier rings it all up, his eyes still darting over to Quinn every few seconds.

The final total flashes on the screen. It’s a number that makes your stomach plummet to your shoes. $684.32.

You take a deep breath, reaching for your wallet. This is for Elsie. It’s fine. You’ll just eat ramen for a month. No big deal.

Before your fingers can even touch your debit card, a different card is slapped down on the counter. Quinn’s.

“I got this,” he says simply.

Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“I want to,” he says, his green eyes holding yours. “A welcome-to-hockey gift.”

“No,” you repeat, firmer this time. Your independence, the very thing you fought tooth and nail for, bristles at the offer. You’re not a charity case. You’re not someone who needs a man to pay for her things. The ghost of Carl sneers in your memory. See? You can’t even do this on your own.

“I can’t let you do that,” you say, your voice tight. “You’ve already done way too much.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” he insists, pushing his card a little closer to the machine. “Please. I want to.”

“Quinn, no,” you say, your hand hovering over his, a ridiculous standoff at the checkout counter.

The cashier, your unwilling audience, looks between the two of you, then lands on Quinn with hero-worship in his eyes. He makes a decision.

“You gotta Huggy get it,” the kid says to you, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “It’s, like, for the good of the team. For the next generation of players.”

He quickly takes Quinn’s card and taps it on the machine. The screen flashes green. APPROVED.

It happens so fast you can’t even protest. The receipt prints with a soft whir, sealing the transaction.

You are mortified. You’re grateful. You’re flustered. You feel a hundred conflicting emotions at once. You stare at him, speechless.

“Seriously,” he says, his voice dropping lower so only you can hear. “Don’t worry about it. Seeing her face when she held that stick? That was worth it.”

The cashier bags everything with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He gets his picture, a shaky selfie with Quinn grinning and him looking like he’s about to pass out.

Quinn helps you get the two massive bags into your cart, and you walk towards the exit in a strange, charged silence. The automatic doors slide open, letting in a gust of cool, damp air.

You stop just outside, under the awning. The drizzle has picked up again.

“I …” you start, not knowing what to say. “I don’t know how to thank you. And I’m going to pay you back.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do,” you insist, meeting his gaze. “I will. I’ll get your Venmo or … something.”

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “Tell you what. You want to pay me back?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know when her first practice is.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, a sudden shyness about him. “I’d, uh … I’d like to see how the rocket feet work out.”

Your breath catches. That’s not what you expected.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

“And that coffee offer,” he adds, his confidence returning slightly. “Is that still on the table?”

“Yes,” you say, a real smile breaking through your embarrassment. “Yes, it is.”

“Cool.” He pulls out his phone. “Can I get your number?”

You give it to him, your fingers trembling slightly as you type it onto his screen. He texts you his name so you have his number. The whole exchange feels surreal, like something out of a movie.

“Well,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably … go.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime, Y/N.” He says your name like he’s known it for years. He gives Elsie a little wave. “See ya, Ice Cat. Work on your slapshot.”

“Okay!” She chirps, brandishing an imaginary stick.

And then he’s gone, jogging through the misty parking lot to a car that is, you notice with a detached sense of absurdity, a very nice-looking black SUV.

You stand there for a moment, the receipt for $684.32 clutched in your hand. A receipt you didn’t pay.

You load the gear into the trunk of your beat-up Honda Civic, your mind reeling. You buckle a chattering Elsie into her car seat.

“Mom, was that the real Quinn Hughes?” She asks as you pull out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, sweetie,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “That was him.”

“Wow,” she whispers from the back seat. “He’s nice.”

You look in the rearview mirror, at her wide, happy eyes, and then at your own reflection. You look tired, a little overwhelmed, but for the first time in a very long time, there’s a flicker of something else in your eyes. A tiny spark in the gray.

“Yeah, kiddo,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “He really is.”

***

The number sits in your phone like a secret.

Quinn Hughes.

It doesn’t look right, nestled between ‘Apartment Maintenance Service’ and ‘Elsie’s School Office’. It feels like a glitch in the matrix, a tiny, explosive piece of a different reality that has somehow landed in the middle of your very regular, very complicated life.

For five days, you do nothing.

You compose and delete at least a dozen different text messages.

Hey, it’s Y/N. Elsie’s first practice is Saturday at 8 am. (Too blunt. Sounds like a summons.)

Hi Quinn! Hope you’re having a good week. You really don’t have to come, but if you were serious, Elsie’s practice is Sat at 8. (Too wordy. The backtracking makes you sound insecure, which you are, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

This is Y/N (the crazy lady from the sports store). You are a ridiculously kind person, and I’m still planning on paying you back. Also, practice is Sat, 8 am, North Shore Winter Club. (Better, but still feels … off. Like you’re trying too hard to be cool about it.)

The truth is, you’re terrified. Carl’s voice is a venomous whisper in the back of your mind, a ghost you can’t seem to exorcise. “Someone like him? Don’t embarrass yourself, Y/N. He was just being polite. People with his kind of life don’t have time for … this.” He would gesture vaguely at your apartment, at your life, at you, as if you were something to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

So you don’t text. You convince yourself it’s the right thing to do. He’s a professional athlete. The captain of a goddamn NHL team. He has a life filled with things that are not you, not your daughter, not her first clumsy foray onto a sheet of ice. The encounter in the store was a fluke, a moment of kindness from a stranger who just happened to be famous. To text him would be to presume, to push, to ask for something you have no right to. It’s better this way. Safer.

You focus on the hockey. On Thursday night, you decide to do a practice run with the equipment.

“Okay, honey, let’s get you dressed,” you announce with a false cheerfulness that Elsie doesn’t seem to notice.

What follows is an hour of pure, unadulterated chaos.

You pull the ‘jill’ out of the bag and stare at it, turning it over and over. It looks like a bizarre diaper-thong hybrid.

“Does this go on the inside or the outside of the pants?” You wonder aloud.

“Inside!” Elsie says confidently, having no basis for this knowledge whatsoever.

You wrestle her into the shin pads, only to realize you’ve put them on backwards, the hard plastic shells facing her shins instead of outwards.

“Ow, Mom. That feels poky.”

“Right. Sorry. My bad.” You switch them around. Then come the hockey pants, which are stiff and ridiculously padded. Elsie looks like a tiny, Michelin Man version of herself. She can barely bend her legs.

“I can’t walk!” She giggles, waddling around the living room.

You get the shoulder pads on, then the elbow pads. You struggle with the straps, trying to get them snug but not too tight. Finally, the jersey. You bought her a simple, plain white practice jersey, and as you pull it over the mountain of padding, something shifts. She’s no longer just your little girl in oversized gear. She looks like a hockey player.

The helmet is last. You click the chinstrap into place and tighten the cage. Her small, determined face peers out at you from behind the bars.

“How do I look?” She asks, her voice slightly muffled.

You feel a lump form in your throat. You came here so she could have everything. So she could be anything she wanted to be. And right now, she wants to be this. A hockey player.

“You look,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “like you’re ready to score a hundred goals.”

“A hundred?” Her eyes go wide.

“At least,” you confirm, blinking back tears.

****

Friday night. The night before the big day. You’re making pasta, trying to carb-load your child for her 8 a.m. athletic endeavor. You prop your phone up on the kitchen counter, a recipe for a simple marinara sauce glowing on the screen.

You’re stirring the sauce, lost in thought, when the water for the noodles suddenly boils over, hissing and spitting all over the stovetop.

“Shoot!” You grab the pot, move it off the burner, and frantically try to wipe up the mess with a dish towel. It takes a few minutes to get the situation under control, your attention completely diverted from everything else.

In those few minutes, Elsie, who is supposed to be setting the table with plastic forks and napkins, wanders over to the counter. She sees your phone. She knows this device. She uses it to FaceTime her grandma in California and to play her weirdly addictive penguin-stacking game.

She also knows how to use the little microphone button on the keyboard. It’s how she “texts” her grandma long, rambling stories about her day.

She picks up the phone. The screen is still on your text messages, the blank, unsent drafts to Quinn Hughes a testament to your anxiety. His name is right there at the top of the list. Quinn Hughes. She recognizes the name. The nice man from the store. The man who knew about rocket feet.

Her little finger presses the microphone icon. She holds the phone up to her mouth, just like she does with Grandma.

“Hi Quinn it’s me Elsie the Ice Cat my first hockey is on Saturday at the North Shore Winter Club at 8 in the morning AM that’s really early mom says but I’m gonna be so fast like vrooom okay see you there maybe bye!”

She hits send.

She puts the phone back on the counter, screen down, and goes back to her task of placing a single napkin at each place setting.

You return to the phone a moment later to check the cooking time for the pasta. And you see it. The blue bubble. The sent message. Your heart doesn't just drop. It ceases to exist for one full, horrifying second.

You read the transcribed message, a string of run-on words that perfectly captures your daughter’s chaotic energy. You feel a wave of nausea.

“Elsie!” You call out, your voice sharper than you intend. “Did you touch Mommy’s phone?”

She looks up, her eyes wide and innocent. “I texted Quinn to tell him about my hockey.”

“Honey, you can’t … you can’t just do that,” you stammer, running a hand through your hair. Oh god. He’s going to think you’re a lunatic. That you put your kid up to this.

You snatch up the phone, your thumb hovering over the message, as if you could physically unsend it through sheer force of will. Maybe you can delete it fast enough. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet-

Your phone buzzes in your hand. A new message. From Quinn Hughes.

Your blood runs cold. You can’t look. You have to look.

You open it.

Vrooooom! Wouldn't miss it, Ice Cat. See you there. Tell your mom hi 🙂

The smiley face feels like a judgment. A polite, friendly judgment on your life, which is clearly so out of control that your six-year-old is now arranging your social calendar.

You sink onto a kitchen chair, the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes filling the air. The pasta water is still bubbling. Elsie is humming to herself. Everything is normal, except for the fact that the captain of the Vancouver Canucks is now coming to your daughter’s first-ever hockey practice. Because your daughter invited him. Via a rogue voice-to-text.

You drop your head into your hands. This is a romantic comedy, you think with a sense of bleak irony. And you are the bumbling, flustered lead who is in way, way over her head.

***

Saturday morning arrives at an hour that should be illegal. 6:15 a.m. It’s pitch black outside, and the ever-present Vancouver drizzle is tapping against your windowpane.

Getting the gear on for real is even harder than the practice run. You’re clumsy with sleep, and the pressure of a real, actual timeline makes your fingers feel like sausages.

“Mom, the leg pad is on my arm,” Elsie points out helpfully.

“I know that,” you lie, quickly correcting your mistake. “Just testing you.”

By the time you have her fully suited up, you’re sweating. She looks impossibly small and brave, standing by the door with her new stick in hand and a giant gear bag at her feet. Your gear bag, really, since you’re the one who has to lug it.

The drive to the rink is a blur of dark streets and Elsie’s excited chatter. You, on the other hand, are a bundle of raw nerves. Your stomach is doing flips. He’s not going to show up, you tell yourself. He was just being nice. He had to say that. People don’t actually show up to things a stranger’s kid invites them to.

It’s a comforting thought. It’s also, you suspect, a complete lie. There was something in his text, something about the simple, direct ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ that felt sincere.

You pull into the parking lot of the North Shore Winter Club. It’s already bustling. Cars are pulling in and out, and small, padded figures are waddling towards the entrance, flanked by parents juggling giant bags and cups of coffee.

The moment you step inside the arena, the change in atmosphere is visceral. The air is cold, at least twenty degrees colder than outside, and it carries a distinct, clean smell of ice and wet steel. The acoustics are all echo and reverb — the distant scrape of skates, the sharp crack of a puck hitting the boards, the murmur of a hundred conversations bouncing off the concrete walls.

You find the right dressing room, a cramped, humid space that smells intensely of sweat and rubber. It’s filled with other little girls, all in various states of dress, and a handful of moms and dads expertly lacing up skates and tightening helmets. You feel a fresh wave of imposter syndrome. These parents all seem to know each other. They move with a confidence you completely lack.

You finally get Elsie’s skates on, your fingers fumbling with the laces.

“Have a good skate, sweetie,” you say, kissing the top of her helmet. “Listen to your coach and have fun.”

“I will!” She says, and then she’s gone, waddling out of the dressing room and towards the ice with the rest of her team.

You make your way out to the stands, a disposable cup of surprisingly decent coffee in your hand. The bleachers are cold and hard. You find a spot midway up, giving you a good view of the ice.

The practice starts. It is, without a doubt, the most adorable and chaotic thing you have ever witnessed. Twenty little girls in helmets and oversized jerseys, swarming after a single puck like a school of fish. Most of them can barely stand on their skates. They spend more time falling than skating, picking themselves up with grim determination only to topple over again two seconds later.

Elsie is one of them. She’s all legs and arms, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. But she’s smiling. You can see it even through the cage of her helmet. She falls, she gets up. She chases the puck with a singular focus. Your heart swells with a fierce, protective pride.

You’re so engrossed in watching her that you don’t notice the shift in the stands at first. It starts as a low murmur, a ripple of whispers that travels through the rows of parents. You see a few people pull out their phones, not pointing them at the ice, but towards the entrance at the top of the stairs.

You follow their gaze.

And your heart stops. Again.

He’s here.

He’s trying to be low-key, wearing a dark beanie pulled down low and a simple black jacket, but it’s useless. You can’t hide that kind of fame. You can’t hide that face. It’s Quinn Hughes. And he’s looking for someone.

Before he can take two steps, he’s intercepted. A dad in a Canucks jacket claps him on the shoulder, says something that makes Quinn smile politely. Then another parent approaches, then a teenager from the team on the other rink. A small crowd forms around him, a quiet, reverent-but-insistent mob.

You instinctively shrink down in your seat, pulling your jacket tighter around you. This is a nightmare. This is a five-alarm fire of social awkwardness. He’s a public figure, and you, through your daughter’s technological meddling, have summoned him here, into the den of his most ardent fans.

You watch, half-horrified, half-fascinated, as he handles it. He is endlessly gracious. He listens to the dad tell a long-winded story about the ‘94 playoffs. He signs a napkin for a star-struck mom. He poses for a selfie with the teenager, crouching down to fit in the frame. He never once looks annoyed or impatient. He smiles, he nods, he makes eye contact with every single person who talks to him.

And all the while, his eyes are scanning the bleachers.

You know the exact moment he finds you. His eyes meet yours across the fifty feet of tiered seating. A look of genuine relief washes over his face, and his polite public smile transforms into the real, crinkle-eyed grin you remember from the store.

He says something to the group, a quiet apology, and starts making his way towards you. The crowd parts for him like the Red Sea.

Every parent on the bleachers turns to watch his progression. They watch him climb the cold metal steps, his gaze locked on you. You can feel their eyes on you, their unspoken questions hanging in the cold air. Who is she?

You feel your cheeks burn. You wish a hole would open up in the bleachers and swallow you whole.

He reaches your row and stops.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks, his voice a low, warm rumble that is somehow audible over the rink noise.

You shake your head, unable to form words. He slides in next to you, leaving a respectable but not-too-distant space between you. He smells faintly of coffee and cold air.

“You actually came,” you whisper, the words coming out breathlessly.

He turns to you, his green eyes bright and amused. “Of course I came. An Ice Cat summoned me. It was a direct order.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, burying your face in your hands for a second. “I am so, so, so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I was making dinner, the water boiled over, and she just … she knows how to use the voice text to call my mom and she just-”

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, cutting through your panicked rambling. “Y/N. It’s okay. Seriously.” You look up. He’s smiling. “It was the best text I got all week. Way better than the ones from my agent.”

The sincerity in his eyes makes you believe him. You let out a shaky breath. “Well. I’m glad my parental negligence could be a bright spot in your week.”

He chuckles. “I wouldn’t call it that. I’d call it … efficient.” He nods towards the ice. “Which one is she?”

“Number twelve,” you say, pointing. “The one who just tripped over the blue line.”

As if on cue, Elsie, who had been skating with surprising stability for a full minute, catches an edge and goes down in a heap.

“Ah, a classic fall,” Quinn says with the authority of an expert. “Ten out of ten. Great form.”

Elsie scrambles back to her feet, unfazed, and immediately rejoins the drill.

“She’s tough,” he notes, a hint of admiration in his voice.

“She’s determined,” you agree, a wave of pride washing over you again.

You both sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the chaotic ballet on the ice. The other parents are pointedly not looking at you now, trying to give you privacy, but you can feel the weight of their curiosity.

“So,” you say, deciding to just address the other elephant in the room. “About the gear. I’m serious, Quinn. I want to pay you back. You can’t just buy my kid a full set of hockey equipment.”

He turns on the bleacher to face you more directly. “Why not?”

The question is so simple, so direct, it catches you off guard. “Well, because … because people don’t do that. It was too much. It was an incredibly nice gesture, but it makes me feel …” You trail off, not wanting to say ‘like a charity case.’

“Like what?” He presses gently.

You sigh, looking down at your coffee cup. “Like I can’t provide for my own kid. Which I can. It’s just … it’s been a little tight since the move.”

“I get that,” he says. “But I didn’t do it because I thought you couldn’t. I did it because I wanted to. There’s a difference.” He leans in a little, his voice dropping. “I make a pretty stupid amount of money to play a game. Every once in a while, it’s nice to use it for something that actually feels good. And seeing how excited she was? That felt good. So please, just let it be a gift. No strings attached.”

You look at him. There’s no pity in his eyes. Just honesty. You feel the tight knot of pride in your chest loosen just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But the coffee offer still stands. And I’m buying.”

He grins. “Deal.”

He turns his attention back to the ice, and you fall into an easy rhythm. He points out little things you would never have noticed.

“See how she’s bending her knees when she pushes off? That’s really good. Most kids skate standing straight up.”

A few minutes later, he says, “Her stick’s a little long. After practice, we can grab a saw from the pro shop and take an inch off. It’ll make it easier for her to handle the puck.”

He’s not mansplaining. He’s just sharing. He’s including you in this world that felt so intimidating an hour ago. He makes you feel less like an outsider.

“So you’re from California, right?” He asks, changing the subject. “Big move.”

“Yeah,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “New job. I work in marketing for a software company downtown. They have a new office here.”

“You like it so far? The city, I mean. Besides the rain.”

“I do,” you say, and you’re surprised to find you mean it. “It’s beautiful. And people are nice.” You glance at him. “Almost suspiciously nice.”

He laughs. “We lure you in with kindness, then trap you with the real estate prices.”

“I’m learning that,” you say wryly.

“So you moved up here by yourself? With Elsie?” The question is casual, but you know it’s not. He’s asking if there’s a dad in the picture.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. Just us. It’s, um, it’s a fresh start.”

The phrase hangs in the air. It’s all you’re willing to give, and he seems to understand that. He doesn’t push. He just nods.

“Well,” he says softly. “Welcome to Vancouver.”

A whistle blows on the ice, and one of the coaches sets up a net for a shooting drill. The kids line up, each with a puck. It’s their chance to be a hero.

Elsie is fourth in line. She pushes her puck forward, her movements still awkward but full of intention. She winds up, a comically small wind-up, and swings her stick. It connects with a clumsy thwack.

The puck wobbles, slides, and trickles slowly over the goal line.

A goal.

You gasp, a surge of pure joy lighting you up from the inside. You let out a whoop without even thinking about it. “Yeah, Elsie!”

Beside you, Quinn is grinning. “Look at that! A natural goal scorer!”

You’re both beaming, two adults on a cold metal bleacher, celebrating the smallest of victories. It’s a shared moment, perfect and unscripted. You look at him, at his genuine, happy smile, and you feel something shift inside you. The fear, the anxiety, the ghost of Carl’s voice — it all recedes, replaced by a tentative, flickering warmth.

The practice ends a few minutes later. The kids swarm off the ice, exhausted and happy. You head down to the glass to wait for Elsie. Quinn follows.

The other parents give you a wide berth, stealing curious glances. You try to ignore them, focusing only on the dressing room door.

It swings open, and Elsie waddles out, her face flushed and her hair damp with sweat. She’s searching the crowd of parents for you.

“Mommy!” She yells when she spots you.

Then her eyes move to the man standing next to you. Her jaw drops.

“Quinn!” She shrieks, her voice echoing in the lobby. “You came! You came to see my rocket feet!”

She barrels towards him, her hard plastic gear making it an awkward, clanking run.

Quinn crouches down instantly, bringing himself to her level. He doesn't seem to care that they’re the center of attention.

“I did,” he says, his voice full of warmth. “And they were awesome. I even saw you score a goal.”

“I did!” She says, puffing out her chest. “Coach David said I have good listening ears!”

“That’s the most important thing,” Quinn says seriously.

You watch them, a lump forming in your throat again. He is so effortlessly good with her. So kind.

You spend another twenty minutes in the humid dressing room, wrestling Elsie out of her gear. By the time you emerge, the lobby has cleared out a little. Quinn is leaning against a wall, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up the second you appear. He kept his promise to wait.

“Hey,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Ready to go?”

“Ready,” you confirm, hoisting the now-stinky bag over your shoulder.

You walk out of the arena together, a strange little trio. Elsie is skipping between the two of you, still high on adrenaline and post-hockey praise.

In the cool, gray light of the morning, the spell of the rink seems to break a little. The awkwardness creeps back in. What now? Do you just say goodbye?

Quinn seems to be having the same thought. He stops by your car, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“So …” he starts, shoving his hands in his pockets. “All that gear needs to be properly broken in. And I’m guessing that goal scorer is pretty hungry after her first skate.”

You look at Elsie, who is already starting to droop, her energy crashing. “That’s a safe bet.”

“I know a great pancake place not too far from here,” he says, his gaze meeting yours. It’s not just a casual suggestion. It’s an invitation. “My treat. And,” he adds, holding up a hand before you can protest, “this part is completely non-negotiable.”

You look at him, at this kind, famous, impossibly genuine man who showed up to a six-year-old’s hockey practice because she sent him a garbled text message. You think of the lonely breakfasts you and Elsie have had for the last three months. You think of how easy it was to sit next to him, how normal it felt.

The fear is still there, a faint tremor in the background. But for the first time, it’s overshadowed by something else. Hope.

You smile. A real, genuine smile that reaches your eyes.

“Okay, Captain,” you say. “You lead the way.”

***

Three months pass in a blur of scraped knees, forgotten homework, and the surprisingly pungent smell of a hockey bag left in a warm car. The Vancouver rain has settled into a familiar rhythm, a constant companion to your new life. It’s a life that now, improbably, includes Quinn.

He is … something. 

He’s the text you wake up to in the morning. Morning. Hope the Ice Cat is ready to dominate today.

He’s the familiar face that appears at your door on a Wednesday night, holding pizza boxes and looking endearingly out of place in your small, cluttered apartment. He’ll sit on the floor with Elsie, helping her build a lopsided Lego castle, his long legs folded uncomfortably beneath him.

“The structural integrity of this tower is questionable,” he’ll say with mock seriousness, placing a pink brick on top.

“It needs more glitter,” Elsie will reply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He’s the person you call when your car makes a weird noise, and while he knows as little about engines as you do, he’ll stay on the phone with you while you wait for the tow truck, telling you bad jokes to keep your spirits up.

He is woven into the fabric of your days in a way that is both thrilling and terrifying. You are happy. Genuinely, truly happy in a way you had forgotten was possible. But you keep the happiness in a little glass box, afraid to examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter. You haven’t defined what you are. The words ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ hang in the air between you, unspoken and immense. He’s the Captain of the Canucks, and you’re … you. A single mom from California who still gets lost on the SkyTrain. It feels like two different universes, and you’re just waiting for the laws of physics to correct themselves.

One evening in late November, as a cold wind rattles the windowpane, your phone buzzes. It’s him.

Hey. Got a game Saturday against the Kraken. A big one. I want you guys to come.

You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the screen. You’ve watched all his games on TV, Elsie pointing and yelling “There’s Quinn!” every time he touches the puck. But going to the arena feels different. Bigger. More real.

Your reply is cautious. Are you sure? It’ll be a madhouse.

His response is immediate. That’s the point. I want to show you guys what I do. I want Elsie to see it for real. I’ll leave tickets at will call. Best seats in the house.

A second text follows before you can even process the first.

And during warmups, come down to the glass. Right by the home bench. Promise me.

***

Saturday night arrives, electric and cold. Rogers Arena rises out of the downtown core like a spaceship, glowing with blue and green light. The energy on the street is a palpable thing, a current of excitement that pulls you along with the crowd.

Elsie is vibrating next to you, clutching your hand so tightly her knuckles are white. “Is this where Quinn plays hockey for real?” She asks, her voice filled with awe as she stares up at the massive building.

“This is it, sweetie,” you say, your own heart thrumming with a nervous rhythm.

Inside, it’s a sensory explosion. The roar of twenty thousand people, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs, the dazzling sea of Canucks jerseys. It’s a world away from the quiet, chilly community rink where your hockey journey began.

The tickets are exactly where he said they’d be, and when the usher leads you to your seats, you have to stop yourself from gasping out loud. They aren’t just good seats. They are the seats. First row, right against the glass, a few feet from the players’ bench. You can see the fine scratches on the plexiglass, feel the faint chill coming off the ice.

“We’re inside the TV!” Elsie whispers, pressing her face against the cool surface.

You feel a thousand pairs of eyes on you. Who is this woman and her little girl, sitting in seats clearly meant for high rollers or VIPs? You feel like a fraud, a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes. You pull your coat tighter around yourself.

Then, the lights go down for the pre-game show, and the roar of the crowd swallows your anxiety whole. Music blares, a light show dances across the ice, and when the team is introduced, the noise is so loud it feels like a physical force. Elsie is screaming with delight, completely swept up in the spectacle.

As the team streams onto the ice for warmups, you remember his instruction. Your stomach does a little flip.

“Come on, honey,” you say, taking Elsie’s hand. “Let’s go stand by the glass.”

You make your way to the edge of the rink, right beside the Canucks bench. The players are a blur of motion, skating in elegant, powerful loops, firing pucks that crash against the boards with the sound of a gunshot. They are bigger, faster, and more intimidating up close than you could have ever imagined.

You scan the ice, looking for number 43.

And then you see him. He’s skating near the blue line, talking to one of his teammates. He looks over towards the bench, and his eyes find you instantly.

His expression softens. In the middle of this roaring arena, surrounded by his teammates and thousands of fans, he smiles. And the smile is just for you. It’s a private, intimate thing in the most public of places.

He skates over, gliding to a stop directly in front of you. The inches of plexiglass between you feel charged with electricity. He’s in his full gear, helmet on, and he looks like a superhero. He winks at you.

Then, he crouches down slightly to look at Elsie. He taps the glass with his glove, right in front of her face. She giggles and puts her hand up to the spot.

He straightens up, catches your eye again, and mouths the words, “Watch this.”

He skates away a few feet, scoops up a stray puck with his stick, and with a casual, almost imperceptible flick of his wrists, he sends it sailing through the air. It arcs perfectly over the top of the glass, a black spinning saucer against the bright lights.

Instinctively, you put your hands out. You don’t need to. The puck lands with a soft thump directly in Elsie’s waiting hands, as if guided by a magnet.

It happens so fast. For a second, there’s a stunned silence in your little section of the crowd. Then, a collective groan of jealousy rises up from the kids and adults around you. A father a few feet away lets out a good-natured, “Are you kidding me?”

Quinn just grins, taps his stick on the ice in a little salute to Elsie, and skates off to join the drills.

Elsie stares at the puck in her hands as if it’s the holy grail. It’s heavy, cold, and stamped with the official NHL logo.

“Mom,” she breathes, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. “He gave it to me.”

You look from your daughter’s ecstatic face to Quinn’s back as he skates away, the number 43 looking bigger and brighter than ever. Your heart is doing something wild and untamable in your chest. He didn’t just give her a souvenir. He singled you out. In front of everyone, in his world, he chose you.

The game itself is a blur of speed and controlled violence. You find yourself screaming at the referees, cheering at goals, and understanding, for the first time, the passionate, tribal devotion of sports fans. You see Quinn in his element, a quarterback on ice, directing traffic, leading his team. You see the C on his jersey, and you understand what it means. It’s not just a letter. It’s a weight he carries with grace and power.

They win. A hard-fought 3-2 victory. Minutes after the final horn sounded and the team mobbed their goalie, you feel a ridiculous, overwhelming sense of pride. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Did the Ice Cat approve?

You look down at Elsie, who is clutching her puck and babbling a mile a minute about a slapshot she saw. You smile and type your reply.

The Ice Cat is officially a Canucks fan for life. And her mom might be, too. You were amazing.

***

A week later, Quinn is over for dinner. The game puck has a place of honor on Elsie’s dresser. You’re clearing the plates when he speaks, his tone casual, but with an undercurrent of something serious.

“Hey, there’s another game I want to take you guys to this weekend.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Another one? Don’t you think you’re spoiling her a little?”

“Maybe,” he admits with a smile. “But this one’s different. It’s more important.”

He pulls out his phone and shows you the screen. It’s a schedule for the new PWHL team. The Vancouver expansion team, their inaugural season just underway.

“I want to take Elsie to see them play,” he says, his gaze steady and earnest. “I want her to see them.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You think of Carl, of the countless times he’d scoffed at women’s sports, dismissing it as a lesser version of the real thing. “It’s cute,” he would say, the word dripping with condescension.

And here is Quinn. This man at the absolute pinnacle of his sport, telling you that this game, a women’s game, is more important.

“Why?” You ask, even though you already know the answer. Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Because,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “I want her to know that those women on the ice are every bit the athletes that I am. I want her to see that her dream doesn’t have to have a ceiling. I want her to see women being strong and fast and fierce, and to know that there’s a place for her at the highest level if she wants it.” He pauses, his expression softening. “I want her to see heroes that look like her.”

The glass box around your heart doesn’t just shatter. It evaporates. The cautious, protected happiness you’ve been hoarding inside you floods out, warm and overwhelming. You’re looking at him, really looking at him, and all the fear, all the doubt, all the whispers of your past just … disappear. They’re no match for the man sitting at your kitchen table.

You can’t speak. You just nod, a lump forming in your throat.

He reaches across the small table and takes your hand. His thumb gently strokes the back of it. “So, what do you say? You guys in?”

“We’re in,” you manage to say, your voice thick with unshed tears.

***

The atmosphere at the PWHL game is completely different from the Canucks game. The arena is smaller, more intimate, but the energy is just as potent. It’s a different kind of energy, though. It’s less about corporate spectacle and more about pure, unadulterated passion. The crowd is full of families, of young girls in hockey jerseys, their faces painted, their eyes shining with excitement.

You don’t have glass seats this time. You’re just part of the crowd, and it feels wonderful. Elsie is practically bouncing in her seat, her eyes glued to the ice during warmups.

“She’s so fast!” Elsie exclaims, pointing at a player who streaks by. “Is she faster than you, Quinn?”

Quinn, sitting beside her with a bucket of popcorn, laughs. “Honestly? Yeah, Elsie, she might be. Her first three steps are explosive. She’s incredible.” He speaks about the players with genuine respect and admiration, pointing out a defenseman’s smart stick work or a forward’s creative passing.

He’s not just here to make a point. He’s a fan.

The game is a revelation. It’s fast, skilled, and incredibly tough. There’s a beauty to it, a flow and creativity that you didn’t see in the men’s game. Elsie is mesmerized. She doesn’t just see hockey players. She sees her future. She sees possibility.

During the second intermission, you turn to him, the noise of the arena fading into a dull hum.

“Thank you for this,” you say, your voice full of an emotion you can’t quite name. “This … this is one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. For her.”

He just shakes his head, as if it’s nothing. “I told you. This is the important stuff.”

After the game — a thrilling overtime win for the home team — the crowd streams out, buzzing with excitement. But Quinn leads you in a different direction. Down a series of concrete corridors, past security guards who nod at him respectfully.

“Where are we going?” You ask, your heart starting to beat a little faster.

“Just a little surprise,” he says with a grin.

He pushes open a heavy door, and you’re hit with a wave of noise and the smell of sweat and victory. You’re in the hallway just outside the locker room. Players are milling about, laughing, their faces flushed, their hair matted with sweat.

A woman with a warm, familiar smile and a captain’s C on her jersey turns as you enter. It’s Sarah Nurse. A Canadian icon. An Olympic hero.

Quinn smiles. “Sarah, hey. Great game.”

“Hughes! What are you doing slumming it over here?” She says, her voice friendly and teasing. She gives him a quick hug.

“I’m scouting for the competition,” he jokes. “Listen, I wanted to introduce you to someone. This is my friend, Y/N. And this,” he says, placing a gentle hand on Elsie’s shoulder, “is Elsie. She’s an Ice Cat, and she’s your newest and biggest fan.”

Sarah’s famous smile turns to your daughter. All the intensity from the game melts away, replaced by a genuine warmth. She crouches down so she’s eye-to-eye with Elsie.

“An Ice Cat, huh?” She says. “I’ve heard you guys are tough. I saw you watching from the stands. You’ve got a good cheering voice.”

Elsie is completely star-struck, her mouth slightly agape. She just nods, clutching the strap of her little purse.

“You keep working on that skating,” Sarah says, tapping Elsie lightly on the nose. “It’s the most important part. You work on that, and you can do anything.” She straightens up and looks around, grabbing a stick that’s leaning against the wall. She takes a silver sharpie from a trainer. “How do you spell your name, Ice Cat?”

You spell it out for your speechless daughter, voice sounding distant to your own ears. Sarah signs the blade of the stick. To Elsie. Dream big. Skate hard. - Sarah Nurse

She hands the stick to Elsie, whose eyes look like they are about to pop out of her head.

You watch this scene unfold. You see Quinn in the background, not seeking any of the spotlight, just watching with a proud, happy smile on his face. You see this incredible, powerful athlete taking the time to make your daughter feel like the most important person in the world. You see Elsie, holding a stick signed by her new hero, her world cracked wide open, her future suddenly limitless.

Everything inside you clicks into place. All the fear, all the hesitation, all the baggage from your past that you’ve been dragging behind you for years, feels suddenly weightless. It all just floats away.

All that’s left is this. This man. This moment. This feeling of a love so profound and so real it takes your breath away.

***

The drive home is quiet. Elsie is in the back seat, fast asleep, the signed hockey stick lying carefully across her lap. The city lights blur past the car windows, painting streaks of color in the rain-slicked darkness.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s full. It’s brimming with the unsaid emotions of the night.

You pull up to your apartment building, and Quinn puts the car in park. He kills the engine, and the only sound is the soft drumming of the rain on the roof.

You turn to him. “Quinn.”

“Yeah?” He says, his voice soft.

“What you did tonight …” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “For her. Showing her all of that … I don’t even have the words to thank you.”

He looks over at you, his face illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlight. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do,” you insist, tears welling in your eyes. “Because it’s not just about hockey. It’s … you see her. And you see me. In a way that I don’t think anyone ever has before.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching yours. When he speaks, his voice is low and steady. “Y/N, from that first day in the sports store, when you thought I was a sales clerk and your daughter told me she had rocket feet … I knew.”

He reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“This isn’t just a casual thing for me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not just hanging out. I haven’t known how to say it, because your life is complicated, and my life is crazy, and I didn’t want to push.”

He takes a deep breath. “But I can’t not say it anymore. I love you. I’m completely in love with you. And I’m in love with your loud, funny, brilliant little Ice Cat, too.”

The words you’ve been so afraid of, the feelings you’ve kept locked away, come tumbling out. “I love you, too,” you sob, a laugh catching in your throat. “I love you so much.”

“I’m all in,” he says, his voice firm, a promise. “Whatever this is, whatever this becomes. I am all in. With you, with Elsie. If you’ll have me.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Always, yes.”

He leans across the console, and he kisses you. It’s not a frantic, passionate kiss. It’s a kiss of arrival. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home. It’s full of relief and certainty and the quiet, breathtaking promise of a future you had stopped letting yourself dream of.

He helps you carry a sleeping Elsie upstairs. You lay her in her bed, and he gently leans the signed stick against her nightstand, right next to the Canucks puck. They look like trophies from a life you never could have imagined.

He tucks her in, his movements sure and gentle. He kisses her forehead.

He turns to you in the dim light of the hallway, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you tight. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

Outside, the Vancouver rain falls, washing the city clean. But it’s not just a gray drizzle anymore. It’s the sound of a new beginning. Not a frantic, running-away fresh start, but a real one. A quiet, beautiful, start of a life. With him.

“So,” he whispers into your hair. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

You smile into his shirt, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

Everyone knows you as the nerd, the weird girl in class who only cares about her grades. You’re socially awkward, too, which doesn’t help.

“Does she really just do nothing fun?” One of Quinn’s friends mumbles as you walk by with your nose in a textbook. 

“She’s so weird,” another one says.

Quinn feels sick in his stomach as his friends make fun of you for doing nothing wrong. “It’s such a shame, since she’s so pretty,” Quinn says, trying to change the subject to something nicer without speaking up against his friends.

“If you think she’s so pretty, why don’t you ask her out?” One of his friends scoffs.

“What?” Quinn says, eyes widening.

“Yeah,” another says. “I dare you to get with her.”

The sick feeling in his stomach only grows. “Guys, that’s so mean,” he says. Unlike his friends, Quinn was raised right and has no interest in playing with a girl’s heart like that.

“What, are you scared?” One says while shoving Quinn’s shoulder.

“Live a little, Quinn,” says another.

“Fine,” Quinn says, even though it makes him feel sick. “I’ll do it.”

All of Quinn’s friends start cheering as they collectively push him towards where you’re sitting on a bench. Quinn slaps them away and makes his way to you on his own.

He stands frozen in front of you. For once, what he is feeling is fear. If this goes terribly wrong, he will never forgive himself. He doesn’t want to play with you, but he doesn’t want to disappoint his friends.

As he stands there, lost in thought, you look up, confused.

“Hello?” You say, sounding half annoyed that he is just staring at you.

Quinn snaps out of his thoughts, looking at you. “I- uh-” he tries and fails to start speaking out of nervousness. Not nervousness of rejection, but nervousness that comes from doing the wrong thing.

You raise an eyebrow, setting your book in your lap.

“I was wondering,” Quinn starts, taking a deep breath. “Would you maybe wanna go out sometime?”

Your eyes widen in shock, and you close your book and throw it aside. “Out out? Like on a date?” You ask in disbelief.

Quinn almost chooses to back out, but seeing your face completely melts him. You look so excited, like you’re trying to contain it but can’t. He refuses to take that smile off your face.

“Yeah, I think you’re really cute,” he says softly.

The smile on your face grows huge, and you sit there awkwardly, trying not to seem weird. Quinn can’t help but find it adorable.

Quinn looks to the side of you, seeing your phone. “Here,” he says. “I can give you my number,” he adds.

You nod quickly, scrambling to grab and hand him your phone. As he types his number in, you stand, watching with sparkling eyes and a big grin.

Quinn smiles warmly as he hands your phone back to you. “See you…” He takes a moment to think. “Friday?” He asks.

You nod relentlessly again. “Friday sounds great.

—

Friday afternoon, you stand in front of your mirror in the nicest, short black dress you own, which you have never had the proper occasion for. For once, you applied more makeup than just mascara, and you even put on all your pretty jewelry and matching heels.

You smile at yourself, finally feeling beautiful and not being focused on a thousand other things. Suddenly, you hear a knock at your door.

Quinn is here.

You throw your purse over your shoulder and jog to the door. You smooth your dress one more time and take a deep breath before you pull the door open.

Standing in front of you is Quinn in a black button-up shirt and a pair of denim jeans. He’s holding flowers, and he has a soft smile on his face.

Seeing you, Quinn’s jaw drops. He had always known you were pretty, but seeing you so different does something to his brain, and he still can’t quite tell what it is. As he snaps out of his trance, he hands you the flowers.

“These are for you,” he says.

Your smile grows as you take them from him, lifting them up to your nose to smell. You step back, offering to let him come inside. He enters, closing the door behind him.

“I’m going to put these in water, make yourself at home for the time being,” you tell him. Then, you disappear into the other room.

Quinn looks around, taking in his surroundings. He sees that there’s one coat hung up on the coat rack, one pair of shoes at the door, and one backpack against the wall.

Did you really have no roommate?

He frowned as he continued to notice more proof. His heart sank slightly at the thought. No wonder you had been so excited when he asked you out; you probably feel lonely.

Before he can think about it too much more, you emerge from the doorway with the same huge smile on your face, and for some reason, it’s contagious.

“Ready?” You ask, readjusting your purse.

He nods, opening the door for you like a gentleman.

—

At the restaurant, you both sit tucked in a corner booth. Just based on your reactions, it is no secret that this is a new experience. The way you look around with a sparkle in your eye doesn’t go unnoticed to Quinn.

The date starts off calm.

“So, what do you do in your free time?” Quinn asks.

You smile. “I like to study most of the time, but sometimes I read,” you reply.

Quinn smiles. “I like reading too,” he adds. “But I don’t have much time because of hockey and everything.

You smile. “I went to one of your games recently,” you say. “You have quite the talent.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You went to one of my games?”

You nod. “I was looking for ways to get out in the community more,” you say. “I stay in my dorm a lot.”

That pretty much proves Quinn’s assumptions to be true. He nods in understanding.

“I guess since we’re here, I might as well admit that I’ve actually liked you for quite some time,” you tell him, smiling sheepishly as your eyes shift down to your hands.

Quinn’s eyes widen. “You have?” He asks.

You nod, making eye contact again. “I thought I would never have a chance,” you say.

He sits there, frozen.

“So I hope you know that this is one of the best things that has ever happened to me, and I’m really glad I caught your eye,” you add. “I don’t get noticed by guys as amazing as you.”

As soon as you admit to your feelings, Quinn feels an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He feels like the most evil guy in the world for following through with this stupid dare. He feels like he should tell you the truth, but after hearing you pour your heart out, he can’t do it.

It’s too late to back out.

So for the whole date, the sick feeling in his stomach only grows.

—

Later that night, after he has dropped you off, he stares at his ceiling, regretting everything. You’re such a nice, genuine person, and he is playing you.

He will truly never forgive himself after the day he has to break your heart.

—

After three weeks of talking and going on dates, you finally ask Quinn the question he’s been dreading.

“Quinn?” You ask, looking up at him with big eyes as you sit curled against his side, movie playing softly in the background.

“Hm?” He looks down at you.

“What are we?” You ask him.

Quinn freezes, unable to find an answer. “I mean…”

“It’s just,” you start. “We have been hanging out for like a month, and what we have isn’t casual,” you say.

He nods, not sure what else to do.

“Are you ready to make it official?” You ask nervously.

He wants to tell you no. He wants to admit everything and apologize for doing something so horrible. But seeing the look in your eyes? The nervous, sparkly gaze, he can’t say no to you.

He feels terrible.

He forces a smile, turning his head towards you more. “I would love to make it official,” he says to you.

The excitement on your face is immediate. You practically jump up, only to latch back onto him in a light hug.

“I know it’s so early to say this, but I love you, Quinn,” you admit. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

Quinn wraps his arms around you, chin on the top of your head. He stares at the wall with guilt as he runs his hand over your back. “I love you too,” he says, unable to leave your words one-sided, even if the sincerity is.

You pull back again, and he immediately forces a smile back onto his face. Your gaze goes from his eyes to his lips, and back to his eyes again.

He notices, and does it back without even realizing. The next thing he knows, you’re leaning in. He can’t think of any way to get out of it, so his lips connect with yours in a kiss.

Quinn feels his cheeks flush at the action.

When you pull apart, you curl back against his chest and into his arms.

He squeezes you, attempting to distract himself and make himself feel better about what he’s doing.

—

You and Quinn have been together for eight whole months when he starts to catch feelings.

He had a whole plan to break up with you by telling you that he plans on having a career in hockey, and he wants to focus on it more, and that he can’t give you the attention you deserve.

It was all planned out.

But when he’s finally with you and ready to do it, he looks into your eyes and realizes that he would actually miss you if he leaves you. 

He’s been with you so long that you’ve just become a big part of his life, even if he doesn’t realize he likes you yet.

So when you smile at him, he opens his arms like usual. When you enter his embrace, he holds you tighter than usual, burying his face in your hair.

The only difference, though? This time, he feels his cheeks heat up, and for once, he doesn’t feel bad. He doesn’t feel the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. 

He enjoys holding you.

And even though he’s very aware of the difference, he doesn’t yet realize that he has fallen in love with you.

—

After ten months of dating, Quinn realizes that he’s fallen head over heels for you.

Seeing you in the stands at one of his hockey games, cheering loud and proud anytime he does anything, already makes his heart start beating. But what really makes him realize is what happens after the game.

“Quinn!” You exclaim as you run towards him, barreling right into his arms. “You played so good!”

Quinn smiles, but not on purpose this time. He just can’t help it. When he hugs you back, he presses a kiss to your forehead without a thought.

“Thank you, baby,” he says, the pet name slipping out.

You feel a giddy feeling take over you as he uses that term of affection for the first time. “Baby?” You ask, teasingly.

He immediately turns red with embarrassment, stuttering over his words. “I- I mean, if that's okay-”

As he stumbles over his sentences, you grab the back of his head and yank him into a kiss.

In that moment, Quinn realizes just how much he actually loves you. He doesn’t hold back anymore. He pulls you in by the waist, melting into the kiss and reciprocating everything.

Sure, he’s done similar things with you before, but this time it’s deeper and more intimate. The longer it goes, the more he melts. Even you can tell the difference, but you don’t comment on it due to being too lost in the moment.

When the two of you finally pull apart, you rest your foreheads together, panting breathlessly with soft smiles on your faces.

Quinn feels so overcome with love at the moment that he gets all giddy. He wasted so much time intentionally pushing away his feelings and focusing on the “dare” that he didn’t even stop to think that he might see things differently now. He feels stupid for taking so long to realize, but now that he knows, he plans on trying to be the best boyfriend he can.

The two of you go back to his room that night, and you sleep over for the first time. He gives you one of his hoodies and a pair of his sweatpants for you to sleep in, and you get cozy very quickly.

You look at him with a big smile. “Your clothes are so comfy,” you say, reaching towards him.

Quinn joins you in bed, smiling down at you with nothing but affection. “You can keep those. I have so many,” he tells you as he slides in next to you.

Your whole face lights up with excitement, and you curl up against his side. “Thank you, Quinney,” you say.

He feels his heart flutter at the nickname. You’ve called him that countless times before, but now that he fully understands his feelings, it really hits different.

Suddenly, you yawn, nuzzling your head closer to his chest.

Quinn immediately starts stroking your hair gently, lulling you into sleep.

“Goodnight, y/n.”

“Goodnight, Quinney.”

As your breathing evens out, Quinn feels more warmth spread through his chest. He stares at your soft features, more awestruck than he’s ever been. He wishes deeply that he had opened his eyes to this earlier on and seen that he had something, or someone, so amazing right in front of his eyes.

Slowly, the rise and fall of your chest and the soft sound of your breathing ease him into sleep, holding you close against him.

—

After a year and a half of dating, it’s safe to say that Quinn is utterly obsessed with you. He had distanced himself from the friends who dared him to date you just months after he fell in love.

In fact, Quinn has practically forgotten that he’s with you because of a dare. In his head, he asked you out because he wanted to.

Things are going great between you. You hang out almost every day, you love each other dearly, and you both can’t imagine a life without each other.

But unfortunately, things have to go wrong.

One day, you’re walking around campus with your hand in Quinn’s, chatting calmly as you make your way down the sidewalks.

“You’re still with her?” You hear a voice call from behind you.

You both turn around to see one of Quinn’s friends. You instinctively grab Quinn’s arm tighter, and he takes a step in front of you.

“What do you want?” Quinn asks, annoyed. He can tell that his “friend” is trying to cause trouble.

“The dare has been long over, buddy,” the guy says with a smirk. “You can leave her now.

Quinn glares at his friend, attempting to shut him up without saying anything.

“What dare?” You ask quietly.

“Nothing, baby,” Quinn says too fast. He feels fear spread through his body.

“Quinn didn’t tell you?” The guy scoffs. “Back when Quinn was still exciting, we dared him to get with you.”

Quinn’s jaw clenches angrily until he feels you pull away.

“You got with me because of a dare?” You ask, emotion taking over your voice.

“Yeah,” says the guy. “It was always for a dare…

He never loved you.”

Tears spill from your eyes before you can stop them. A sudden surge of anger takes over you, and you march the two steps right back in front of him.

“Fuck you,” you say through gritted teeth.

Then, your hand moves on its own. You don’t even realize what's happening until you feel the sting on your hand, hear the sound of a slap, and see the shape of your hand printed in red across Quinn’s face.

You hear a group of boys laughing and see the guy run back over to his friends, but you focus back on Quinn.

He reaches up, gently rubbing his cheek as he stares at you with hurt eyes.

Your anger turns into pure hurt, and a sob escapes your mouth.

“Was it all a lie?” You ask, shaking your head.

“Honey, no,” he attempts, but you storm off before he can even try to explain.

You stomp down the sidewalk, crying loudly, despite your efforts to keep quiet. You don’t know exactly where you’re going, but your feet keep moving anyway.

Quinn chases after you as his eyes start to burn. “Y/n,” he calls over and over.

But you just keep walking.

He suddenly jogs up behind you and grabs your shoulder. “Y/n, please,” he pleads.

You spin around in one, quick, angry motion. “Get away from me!” You yell, voice cracking as you do. You continue walking away.

“Will you please just let me explain!” Quinn begs, still chasing after you, overcome with the fear of losing you.

You don’t respond. You just walk faster.

Still, Quinn does not leave you alone.

“Y/n, please! I promise you it wasn’t all a lie!” He shouts.

You spin around once more, causing Quinn to stop in his tracks. You’re practically seething with anger as you look up at him.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you grunt. “Fuck you and your stupid games.”

You begin walking away once again. Then, you hear the infuriating sound of Quinn’s footsteps continuing behind you. This time, you don’t turn around again.

“Fuck off!” You shout, walking even faster.

Finally, Quinn lets you go, figuring if he wants to even have a shot at saving this, he needs to give you some time alone. He stands there frozen, watching you walk away. Tears burn his eyes, and he feels his heart split in two.

When you leave his sight completely, he lets his tears fall as he begins the walk back to his room.

—

That night, you both grieve alone. You cry in bed all night, cursing Quinn under your breath between sobs.

Quinn, on the other hand, stares at the ceiling with tears silently streaming down his face. He knew he should have told you, but how do you even bring something like that up?

He knows he needs to fix this, and he is going to fight until he can’t anymore because if he loses you, he doesn’t know what he will do.

He has no idea how he could possibly win your trust back or even let him talk to you, but he brainstorms ideas anyway.

—

He gives you three whole days to calm down. Three torturous days. Being without you after constantly being with you is the emptiest Quinn has ever felt. He doesn’t doubt the fact that it feels even worse for you, but he can’t bear to think of it.

Quinn knows you’re in your room when he knocks at your door. He doesn’t expect you to open, but you do. When he looks into your eyes, he half thinks you’re gonna let him in. But unfortunately, you had not expected him, so you slam the door in his face and lock it after realizing who it is.

He quickly tries to push the door open, but fails in his attempts. “Baby, please,” he shouts through the door.

No response.

Quinn sighs, leaning his forehead against the door. “Fine,” he starts gently, talking loud enough for you to hear through the door. “I know you don’t want to talk or see me, but please just try to listen,” he says, emotion pulling at his voice.

Still no response, but Quinn hears the shuffle of you sliding to sit on the ground by the door. He knows he wasn’t meant to hear it, but it makes him smile just a little.

He slides down to sit with his back to the door, too. “Since the truth is already out, yes, I asked you out because my friends dared me to,” he says.

Tears pull at your eyes even though you already know the truth.

“But I don’t regret it one bit,” he adds.

Your breath hitches, and tears flood your eyes, because how could he be so cruel?

“I don’t regret it because then I never would have realized that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says.

Your heart starts beating fast even though you’re still filled with doubt.

“Sure, it started as a stupid dare, and I was too stupid to back out of it. But then I got to know you, and I learned how amazing you are,” he continues.

Tears spill from your eyes again.

“And it took me way too long to realize that I do love you, but when I finally did, I guess the whole ‘dare’ part of it all slipped to the back of my mind.” He sighs, “And I am so, so sorry, y/n. I know I should have told you, and I feel like shit for it.”

You shift, pressing your forehead to the door.

“And I will spend forever apologizing, even if you don’t forgive me, because now I don’t know how to live without you. I love you.”

You let out a shaky breath, and he hears it.

“I love you,” he repeats. “More than anything.”

Suddenly, the door opens behind him,m and he jumps up immediately. When he turns, he’s met with your rosy cheeks and teary eyes. He looks at you nervously, not saying a word.

“You mean that?” You ask hopefully.

He nods, gently lifting a hand to wipe a tear from your cheek. To his surprise, you don’t stop him.

“How can I believe you?” You ask.

He exhales, having expected this. “If I didn’t mean it, I would have ended things a long time ago.”

You look up at him, still not quite convinced.

“And why would I be trying so hard to get you back if I didn’t love you?” He adds, trying his hardest to convince you that he is truthful.

That does it. Your sobs fall from your mouth uncontrollably as you walk right into his arms, hugging him tightly. He holds you back even tighter, burying his face in your neck.

“I love you so much, baby, you don’t even understand,” he mumbles against your skin.

“I love you too, Quinn,” you reply, reaching a hand to play with his hair.

The two of you stand like that for what feels like hours before you drag him through the door and onto your couch. Quinn lies down on the corner of the couch, and you curl up on top of him. 

The fact that you forgave Quinn is practically a miracle to him. If you hadn’t forgiven him, he wouldn’t have known what he would have done.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to you.

You prop yourself up to look him in his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” you smile.

Quinn smiles too, pinching your cheek. “I know,” he replies.

The two of you start laughing together, finding humor in the situation now that the air is cleared.

“I really do love you,” Quinn says, leaning his forehead against yours.

You smile. “I love you too, Quinney.”

He leans closer, giving you every chance to pull away, and you don’t. So his lips connect with yours in a warm kiss, one that feels more real than ever.

When you finally pull apart, you both giggle again, tucking close together again.

“I promise I won’t hide things from you anymore,” he whispers.

You nuzzle closer against his chest. “I believe you.”

Quinn presses two kisses to the top of your head, wrapping his arms tighter around you and pulling you closer. As the tension melts, he relaxes and smiles against your hair.

And as he holds you, he thinks back on how this all started. If he had backed out of the dare because it was “mean,” he would never be lying here with the love of his life.

He doesn’t regret a thing. 

a/n: loved writing this! I'm surprised i buckled down enough to write something so long. i hope you enjoy this <3

taglist: @idkwhatthisis2009 , @rusty436 , @dancerbailey3 , @thejordiverse

jack hughes could not help but feel accomplished. 

this was it. 

this was exactly what he had worked for his entire life. 

years of blood, sweat, and tears. early mornings at the rink while the rest of the world was still asleep. restless nights spent skating in cities that blurred together. the countless ups and downs. expectations. the pressure that never really let up. 

it all led him here. 

the job wasn’t done - not even close but for once, jack let himself sit in the glow of a win that followed one of the most mediocre road trips of the season. 

he deserved that much. 

right? 

it was one of those wins that left his skin buzzing long after he hopped off the ice, the kind that lodged itself deep within his ribs and stayed there; warm, fuzzy, and electric. so. maybe that’s why he ended up at a bar with the rest of the team, riding the high of scoring the OT winner. the place was packed with the exact kind of post-game energy they craved - loud and reckless. 

music pounded through the walls, the bass vibrating through the floor beneath his white sneakers. glasses clinked and people shouted over one another. laughter spilled from every corner of the room. the whole place reeked of beer, expensive cologne, and fried bar food. 

luke was off in some corner with his head tipped back like he didn’t have a care in the world because if jack had to guess, he was trying to charm his way into the blonde sitting to his left. a couple of rookies had drifted towards the bar a while ago, leaning against the counter with a confidence that could overturn the world as they pretended to - and failed miserably at - not staring at the cute bartender. the rest of the team was scattered, half-hidden in sticky booths or crowded around tall tables. every few minutes, jack would hear his name or have a drunk grin thrown his way. a slap on the shoulder. another drink offered his way. 

and still, beneath it all, there was this other feeling. 

this distance. 

like it was some invisible pane of glass between him and the rest of the world. 

maybe it was because moments like these just gave him too much room to think. for as much as he tried to throw himself into the chaos of it all, he always seemed to hover just at the edge. he’d jump from table to table, turning down shots, nursing the same whiskey and coke he had been holding for over an hour. 

at some point, sadie - the devils’ PR manager - wandered over with a paloma in hand and a smile too bright. she was easy to talk to in ways most of the organization was not. she never pushed too hard and filled silences jack usually left hanging. she was nice and funny and sweet.

though, not remotely his type. 

more quinn’s speed, maybe. 

he should text his brother and set something up. it might fix the permanent stick up his ass. 

“you know,” sadie started, tilting her glass towards him, “you’re awfully sober for someone who scored the OT winner.” 

jack laughed under his breath. “i’m alright, just getting older. hangovers last, like, three business days now.” 

the redheaded girl narrowed her eyes. “get the fuck out. we are the same age, dude.” 

her fist landed against his arm with no real force behind it. 

it probably hurt her more than it hurt him. 

jack could only shrug. 

it was easier to joke about random shit than it was to talk about the emptiness that always showed up once the buzz started to fade. he could score a hundred overtime winners and it would still come back eventually, settling around his throat like a hand he could never quite shake off. 

he had no reason to feel that way. 

he had everything he had ever wanted. 

“not the first time i’ve seen you pout into your disgusting coke,” sadie said with a grimace before taking a sip of her sweet drink. 

jack rolled his eyes and lifted his glass, “i’m not pouting. i’m a grown man.” 

she looked at him for a moment, like she knew there was more he was not saying, but she let him keep it. that was another thing he liked about her, she didn’t pry more than she had to. 

“well, for what it’s worth. that shot of yours? it was pretty,” she said with a shrug. 

jack gave her an odd look, “pretty shot?” 

“yeah. super sick or whatever. definitely getting its own instagram post tomorrow morning.” 

he rolled his eyes for what had to be the fifteenth time that night. “yeah, i’m sure.” 

his gaze drifted back over the crowd. his teammates were still loud, glowing, still caught up in a happiness that kept the future from creeping in. 

jack envied that a bit. 

“oh, hey!” sadie said suddenly, straightening in her seat. “remember that friend i told you about?”

he groaned, “i don’t want to date your friend, sadie. hand her off to quinn. he needs it more than i do.” 

sadie had been on a mission the last couple of months, bringing up this mysterious friend of hers whenever she got the chance. according to her; she was sweet, worked in marketing for the NFL, and had just moved from edmonton, canada. jack trusted sadie’s judgment but that wasn’t the point. 

he just didn’t want it. 

not right now. 

then, just as quickly, his attention caught on something - well, more like someone - across the room. 

everything went blurry around the edges. 

at the entrance of the bar, stood someone he knew. 

well, he used to know. 

the room was too dark, too loud and for a second, he could not tell if his mind was playing some cruel trick on him. 

“my sweet honey!” sadie’s voice snapped him right out of it

and his stomach dropped. 

no. 

no fucking way. 

he watched as sadie hurried across the room, her paloma sloshing over the rim of the glass as she weaved through the clusters of people near the door. 

it couldn’t fucking be. 

but then she laughed. 

and jack knew. 

he could spot that laugh anywhere. it haunted his dreams.

soft. sweet. familiar enough that it knocked something loose in his chest before his brain has the time to catch up. 

y/n l/n. 

she looked so painfully out of place, like something far too gentle for the city had wandered into the wrong room by accident. 

jack looked away the second she lifted her head. 

as if staring too long would make her disappear. 

or worse - make her real. 

his fingers tightened around his watered-down drink. 

this had to be some kinda joke. 

because y/n was not supposed to be here. not after all these years. not after he had spent so long trying to bury her somewhere deep enough that even he couldn’t reach her anymore. 

maybe that had always been the problem. 

she had never truly been buried. 

she lived in the quiet spaces of his life. 

in the late nights after bad losses. in the long flights where sleep wouldn’t come. in the hollow ache that followed even his best of moments. 

she was the place in him that nobody else ever got to touch or see. 

and now she was here. 

real. breathing. 

a few feet away from him. 

his chest went tight. 

should he leave? pretend he had not seen her? should he walk over and say hi like nothing had ever happened? ask how she’d been? ask when she moved back? ask if she was seeing someone? married? maybe had some kids and a white picket fence? 

his throat dried out before he could really settle on anything. 

“jacky!” 

oh. 

oh, fuck. 

his head snapped up before he gave it much thought. sadie stood there grinning like she hadn’t detonated something in the center of his chest. 

and besides her - 

y/n. 

her fingers picked at the chipped maroon polish on her nails. she looked older obviously, but in a way that only made her prettier. 

softer yet sharper all at once. 

it had been four?

no, five years. 

maybe a little more. 

jack looked older too. broader. harder around the edges. 

yet, his face still held that same softness it did when he looked at a nineteen-year old y/n. 

she was so beautiful. 

fuck. 

it made his heart jitter. 

“jack,” sadie started brightly, “this is my fri-” 

“y/n.” he cut in before he could stop himself. 

he knew exactly who she was. 

inside and out. 

y/n’s head lifted sharply at the sound of her name in his mouth, and for a second all the color in her face drained. 

“j-jack,” her voice catch itself in her throat. 

sadie blinked, head tilting like a confused golden retriever. “oh my god! you two know each other?” 

did they know each other? 

of course they did. 

the phrase alone felt too small for whatever they had been. 

“something like that,” y/n murmured. 

jack kept his eyes on her, on the way the shock settled over her features like she still couldn’t quite believe he was real and sitting in front of her. 

“well great!” sadie exclaimed, completely oblivious. “i’ll leave you two to catch up. i gotta make sure the rookies don’t go home with any mildly attractive bartenders. that would not be good for my job.” 

and just like that, she was gone. the silence she left behind was immediate and awful. 

what were you supposed to say to someone you hadn’t seen in years? 

hi? hello? 

how are you? 

what are you doing back here? 

did you ever think about me? 

do you think about us too?

“do you want something to drink?” jack asked finally. 

to which she looked up, “uh - sure. please, actually.” 

so, he flagged down the bartender. 

“vodka cran, right?” he asked, softer now. 

she only nodded. 

yet, the stupid insignificant gesture made her heart pitter patter against her chest. 

five minutes later, the drink was in front of her, and y/n had slid onto the stool besides him. 

“t-thanks,” she said. 

jack took a sip of his drink; though by now it tasted like watered down whiskey and anxiety. 

“so,” he cleared his throat. “how are you?” 

y/n promptly choked on her drink and it was ridiculous how familiar it was. so small, so stupid, and somehow it snuffed him right in the chest. 

“fuck-sorry,” she coughed, a small hand pressing lightly into her chest. 

his hands moved before his brain did, hovering near the small of her back before he thought better of it and pushed a napkin forward instead. 

“i’m okay,” she started softly. yet, it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than him. 

then she looked at him, “how are you?” 

the question rang strangely through his ears, mainly because he wasn’t sure he knew the answer to it.  “i’m okay too,” he said after a second. “busy.” 

y/n nodded and wrapped her fingers around her straw. “i didn’t know you worked with sadie. well, she technically works for you,” she said with a quiet, awkward laugh. 

jack smiled before he could stop himself. “she started working for our PR team about a year? and a half ago? i didn’t know she was your friend.” 

“oh, yeah! we’ve been friends since high school!” 

jack hummed, watching the way she popped her fingers just like she did so many years ago. “how long you in town for?” 

the simple question made her straight up. “oh. uh - i just moved back.” 

and something in jack’s expression changed. 

“really?” 

to which she nodded, “yeah. i got a job in marketing for the NFL. mostly remote but they offered more if i moved to jersey as long as i can go into their new york office a couple times a week.” 

jack couldn’t help but smile. 

“that’s great, honey.” 

the nickname slipped out before he could stop. 

stupid idiot. 

his jaw tightened and the headache started as he braced himself for her to flinch at it. 

but she didn’t. 

she smiled, so sweetly and a little startled with a faint flush of rose in her cheeks. 

“thank you, jack” 

the human heart was a stupid thing. 

because, logically. 

they both knew better. 

y/n shouldn’t have been there, sharing drinks with him like she had never left.  jack shouldn’t have been there, memorizing every laugh she gave him like he hadn’t spent years erasing it from his heart.  but logic had never done much for either of them where the other was concerned.  he cleared his throat and shifted on the stool, stirring his drink just to have something to do with his hands.

“how are you liking jersey again?” 

the question was simple but it made her shiver. 

“i’m living out of a suitcase until i can find an apartment,” she shrugged halfheartedly. 

he nodded, and a second later she yawned. 

jack smiled faintly, “tired?” 

“a little,” she admitted. “i’ve been apartment hunting all day. it’s hell.” 

“sounds awful.” he paused, “where are you staying?” 

“the hilton a few blocks from here,” she yawned again, hand slipping from her now-empty vodka cran. 

jack didn’t hesitate and set his glass down. “come on. i’ll walk you.” 

y/n knew she should’ve said no. tell him it was fine, it’s not that far. his team was still scattered around the bar and he should stay. 

but old habits die hard. 

so. fucking hard. 

and when he held his hand out for her, she found out she still didn’t know how to refuse him. 

outside, january in new jersey hit them all at once. it was cold and sharp, dry enough to steal the breath from her lungs. the noise from the bar dulled behind them as they walked, until all that was left was the faint sound of traffic and the rhythmic tap of their footsteps. 

y/n got as far as rubbing her hands together before jack was shrugging off his jacket. 

it was a little big for him but ten-times warmer than whatever she had thrown on before leaving. 

“jack, i’m fi-” 

“take it,” he said, draping it over her shoulders before she could really argue. 

“you can give it back next time i see you.” 

and the words hung between them. 

next time. 

a casual assumption. a quiet hope. 

maybe even both. 

she looked at him for a second, maybe he would take it back and walk away but he didn’t. slipping her arms into the sleeve, the jacket was still warm from him. reeked of his cologne, cold air, and something achingly familiar she refused to examine too closely. 

“did you know sadie was trying to set me up with you?” he asked. 

y/n burst into a fit of surprised giggled. “no shot!” 

jack shoved his hands into his pockets against the cold. 

“she kept telling me about this sweet friend of hers who worked in marketing and just moved here.” 

“she told me she had some hockey player in mind for me,” she smiled. “never said who.” 

for a while, neither of them said much. they walked side by side, close enough their shoulders almost brushed every few steps but never quite. it felt a little strange, how easy silence should’ve been but how heavy it lingered. 

“you seem good,” she said softly, eyes fixed on the sidewalk ahead. 

“you seem better,” jack glanced over at her. 

“most days,” she shrugged. 

by the time they reached the hotel, the walk had felt both too long and nowhere near short enough. 

“i guess this is me,” she muttered quietly. 

jack stopped in front of her and smiled. 

“you look older,” she giggled. 

older looked good on him. it had sharpened him a bit, made him steadier somehow. but there was still something stupidly boyish in his face when he looked at her for too long. almost as if time hadn’t touched the version of him she once knew. 

“you look older.” 

jack laughed, running a hand through his wind ruffled hair. “yeah?” 

and her heart did that stupid little stumble. 

“you do too.” 

“in a good way or bad way?” 

the air shifted between them. “good. really good,” jack whispered but the wind carried it. 

suddenly, it all felt too short. 

like maybe the universe had a sick and twisted sense of humor after all where it gave them back to each other for long enough to remember it and want it deeply. 

whatever it was. 

“it was nice to see you, jack.” her voice was small and soft, sweet in a way only he had known. 

his mouth tipped into something softer than a smile. “it was nice seeing you, honey.” 

there it was again. 

honey. 

as if no time had ever passed. 

y/n looked down for a second, shamefully, to gather herself. “i, um - i wanted to call. or text. but i just wasn’t sure if you still had the same number. 

maybe it was an excuse. maybe it was the truth. maybe a little bit of both. 

“same number.” 

he nodded once, but he didn’t move. didn’t say goodbye either. he just stood there, memorizing every last tiny detail of her face as if she were to disappear into thin air. 

“thanks for walking me.” 

“yeah, of course.” 

silence fell between them once again. however, it felt fragile this time around. her fingers tightened into the sleeves of his jacket. 

“i’ll see you around, jack.” 

his eyes stayed on hers; soft, almost loving. 

“yeah. see you around, honey.” 

with that, she stepped away and gave him once last wave before stepping back towards the hotel doors. and he stood there until she disappeared through the lobby and out of his sight. heart heavy with something he couldn’t name. 

was it hope? 

hope that she wouldn’t disappear again? 

once inside, y/n didn’t even realize she was crying until her fingertips brushed the swell of her cheeks. 

stupid. 

stupid, stupid, stupid. 

stupid because the second sadie and eleanor found out, neither of them would let her live it down. and stupid because the universe had a funny way of working. 

if it didn’t want you to see somebody, you simply wouldn’t. not until it decided the timing was cruel enough to matter. 

so, jack didn’t see y/n. 

y/n didn’t see jack. 

not again until the devils lost the first round of the playoffs to the hurricanes, an overtime loss that ended the series and sent new jersey home earlier than anyone had expected. 

it was the next day. 

april. 

a different bar across town. 

jack wasn’t usually the kind of person to dwell on losses. early on, hockey taught him to move on. there was always another game, another practice, another chance to improve. he had lost before, more times than he cared to count. 

but this one lingered a little heavier. 

it lodged itself beneath his ribs and didn’t budge. 

so, he sat at the bar with his hand curled around his third? or was it fourth - whiskey and coke. luke had been beside him a few minutes ago, but now he was halfway across the room playing darts with a few of the guys. their laughs echoed deliberately - in that way people did when they were trying not to think too hard. 

truthfully, jack barely noticed any of it. 

but he didn’t need to have eyes on the back of his head to see y/n walk in because he felt it. felt it in the way the air shifted and his chest tightened before his mind could catch up. it was a sudden awareness that settled over him like a hand against the back of his neck. 

“didn’t peg you as the sulking type.” her voice was soft, almost velvet against the harsh noise of the bar. 

jack turned. 

she stood to the right of him with one hand wrapped around a tall glass of vodka cran while the other tugged absentmindedly at the hem of her black skirt. her hair was a little windblown from the outside, cheeks flushed a brighter pink and eyes brighter than he remembered. 

and he realized how dangerous this was going to be. 

“you look like some brooding, tortured athlete. it’s really not your best look, hughes," she added, mouth twitching. 

a laugh slipped out of him before he could really stop himself. 

it was low and tired. 

“well, losing in the first round does that to a guy.” but his words lacked bite. 

because it was y/n. 

somehow, with her, everything in him softened.

she slid onto the stool beside him, angling towards him like it was the easiest thing. like they hadn’t spent years as ghosts in each other’s lives. 

“what are you doing here?” his voice was honest, surprised and a little in disbelief. 

“sadie invited eleanor and i,” she said. “apparently she needs some reinforcements while keeping twenty professional athletes from self-destructing in public.” 

“sounds about right,” he laughed, almost sarcastically. 

y/n smiled.

because really what kind of reinforcements could she possibly be? 

jack stared for a second too long, like he was trying to decipher if she was truly real or not. had the drinks gotten to him or was it the gloomy cloud that hung over his head? 

“you staying long?” he asked. 

she shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. “depends how quickly i get bored.”

“what? am i boring to you now?” 

she laughed, a genuine laugh that came from the bottom of her being. 

they fell into conversation after that, easy in a way that shouldn’t have been because of the amount of time spent apart. they talked a little bit about everything and nothing, the way two grown adults did when they were drifting around from what actually mattered because the drinks were too good to stop. 

work. 

new jersey. 

edmonton. 

sadie. 

somehow luke came up. 

but beneath it all, under every toothy smile and every half-teasing comment, there was that same quiet pull that entangled them at nineteen. 

it was sweet and dangerous and unfinished. it got easier, after a while. 

the drinks helped, of course. or they just made it harder to pretend that pull didn’t exist. 

“come on,” jack said finally, rolling his shoulders back as he stood. 

“w-where are we going?” she blinked up at him. 

“outside. there’s a patio. it’s nice. you’d like it,” he muttered, finger pointing towards the back. 

you’d like it. 

such a simple, stupid and little sentence yet it made something in her chest flutter at the mere softness of it. so, she followed him through the crowd and past the noise, heat and stale smell of beer and out the back. april in jersey was a little better than january. the air lacked it’s usual frosty bite but it was just as restless and sharp that it made her shiver the second they stepped outside. 

she couldn’t help but curse herself for choosing maybe the thinnest babydoll top in her closet. 

but jack was shrugging out of his jacket before she could begin to protest. and she didn’t because his voice was quiet and firm in that effortless way that told her arguing would be pointless. 

just take it, honey. you’ll freeze if you don’t. 

so she let him because some fights had always been impossible to win against him. the jacket was still warm from his body, smelling faintly of a different cologne this time around. for a moment, neither of them said anything. they leaned against the railing, side by side. inside, the muffled pulse of music bled through the walls. somewhere nearby, a fire pit crackled softly as an orange light flickered across the empty patio. 

they were alone. 

oh, so terribly fucking alone. 

“are you avoiding me?” 

the words landed between them with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. 

she turned too fast, eyes wide. 

“what?” 

he looked at her then, properly with a tight jaw as regret visibly oozed off of him. 

“what makes you think that?” the slight waver in her voice gave her away before she even finished. 

jack shrugged as the fire creaked beside them, though there was nothing casual about it. 

“i think if i hadn’t run into you in january, you would’ve never reached out. even after moving back.” 

y/n froze and her gaze dropped to her hands like she had been caught red-handed because she practically had. 

he was right. 

oh so painfully right. 

“i didn’t think..” she stopped, swallowed the knot that persisted in her throat and tried again. “i didn’t think you cared to hear from me.” 

jack couldn’t help but frown, the expression deep and real enough to make her chest physically ache. because he had a way with his stupid face to make her feel that. 

“all i wanted was to hear from you.” his voice was soft in a way that was only used for her. 

the world seemed to go strangely still around them. the fire glowed a brighter orange, the wind moved and somewhere inside people laughed. but out there, the entire world narrowed down to that empty patio with two long lost strangers. 

jack took a step closer. 

then another. 

“oh, honey.” 

he was wrecked. he could try to hide it but he had never been good at that. 

and that stupid nickname. 

it did things to her. 

it hit her just as hard every single time. 

y/n’s head spun and his voice blurred around the edges after that. 

something about missing her. about wanting to call and not knowing if he should. something about maybe she would’ve been happier had he never disrupted her life. about a life they could’ve had together. 

and then he was close enough that she could feel the heat of him despite the cold. close enough that all she had to do was lean in and take something she’d been craving for years. 

something heavier settled between them then. 

it wasn’t awkward nor uncomfortable. 

it was almost recognition?

like they were both standing in the middle of something they had done countless times before. 

“i miss you, honey.” 

his words were low and uneven, charged with years of unresolved feelings. her throat tightened but she couldn’t help the teasing smile on her lips. 

“yeah?” 

it came out smaller than intended. 

softer around the edges. 

jack gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh. 

yeah. 

so fucking much. 

and maybe that was what they had been circling around all night. 

she didn’t move, partially because she couldn’t move. she didn’t step back and sure as hell didn’t tell him no. 

not when his hand lifted slowly to her face, rough fingertips brushing her cheek with an impossible gentleness. as if she was something precious to him. something breakable, something untouchable. and he hesitated for a second; long enough to give her an out. 

to stop him if she really wanted him to. but she so clearly didn’t want him to. 

so he kissed her. 

soft at first. 

so soft it hurt. 

a careful, almost disbelieving press of his lips against hers. his mind was having a hard time deciphering whether or not she was real but the second she kissed him back, something in him gave. 

it wasn’t messy. 

it wasn’t rushed. 

it just ached. 

years of unfinished feelings poured into it. 

in the way his mouth moved hurriedly against hers. in the way her fingers fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. his lips were softer than she had remembered. 

everything else wasn’t. 

it was longing and desperation. 

quiet, wrecked coated in a sense of relief. 

the relief of finally touching again. it almost burned. 

her heart pounded hard enough she could feel it in her throat, her wrist and in the tips of her fingers as her hand trembled. jack’s hand slid from her cheek to her waist and spread there in a weak attempt to ground himself using her fleeting warmth. 

maybe that was the worst part. 

how right it felt. how easy it was for her to fall into him. how completely she had failed at staying away. 

their foreheads touched, breaths wildly uneven. his hand still on her waist, her fingers still curled into him. 

for a second, neither of them said anything. 

this was a bad idea. 

a terrible one. 

possibly the worst thing they could do. 

yet, neither of them moved. neither of them let go. 

“do you wanna leave?” jack asked quietly. 

with no hesitation left in her voice, she whispered “yeah.” 

because that had been the problem when it came to jack hughes. 

she had never really known how to say no to him.