mrs cap ¹³

March 14th, 2025 - NYC

“What do you mean fired!?” Your mother’s voice was shrill and pitchy over the line, akin to a fork scraping across fine china. It only made your impending migraine worsen.

You take a deep breath–literally take a moment to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, warm air expelling from your lips–before responding. After the day you had, the last thing you wanted was to say something you didn’t mean to your mom. She meant well.

“I mean,” you slam the fridge shut, placing a bottle of unopened strawberry wine atop your kitchen island, “They fired me mom. I don’t know how else to put it.” You rifle through a drawer, looking for the wine opener. “I could use the term ‘let go’ if that helps?”

You hear your father scoff on the other end, the sound cutting through your mom’s silent disbelief. The phone is tucked between your shoulder and ear as you struggle to unscrew the cork from the bottle, hands sweaty.

“I-I get that, it’s just…” her voice wavers over the phone, and you can tell she’s choosing her words carefully, “I mean, that’s so sudden! Did they give you a reason?”

Oh, they gave me many reasons. 

“Mostly the usual bullshit,” You huff, finally twist the cork off with a loud pop, “Someone from HR–who I’ve never met before by the way, Kevin,” Your boss, who you thought was your friend, “Didn’t even have the decency to tell me himself–sat me down and gave me this long spiel about how they were having to make some ‘tough decisions’ due to budget cuts.”

You pour the drink, pink and frothy, into a comically large wine glass (the size seemed perfect for this occasion) you had gotten during a game of white elephant at a Christmas party years ago. The memory soured when you recalled that it had been a work Christmas party. 

The silence from the other end of the line encourages you to continue your rant: “They said something about needing to downsize staff–merging departments–all that junk.” You take a break to gulp down some of the wine, sweeter than expected. 

“But then–Oh I’m gonna get mad again.” You set down the glass with a loud clink to take a lap around your apartment.

“Okay okay, well we don’t have to talk about it right n–”

“Then! Then, they told me the company was shifting more of their focus to multimedia content and that since my area of expertise was just journalism–just sports writing–and since we already have so many senior sports writers–that they were having to make some tough decisions.” You repeat that part again for good measure. For some reason, that phrasing had upset you the most. 

“What?” Your mother had found her voice again, “You’ve been with them for 5 years! I mean, you’re practically a senior writer at this point.”

Your walk around the apartment comes to an end as you find your place back at the island, “Yeah well, 5 years is a drop in the bucket compared to some of the other guys.” Another swig of wine followed. 

“I’m sorry honey,” It's finally your dad’s turn to pipe up now, “And you’re right, it is bullshit. It’s not fair. We know how much you love what you do.”

“Love” as strong of a word as it was–was somehow still an understatement. The only thing you loved more than sports was writing about them. Loved weaving intricate narratives about everything from baseball to hockey. It has become your entire purpose–it pervaded every facet of your life, evident by the wine glass sitting in front of you–and now? Well, what were you now?

Suddenly, it was as if your countless years of work–of experience you had sought after–didn’t matter. Countless hours spent in the library and a handful of recommendations from your favorite professors had landed you the internship at your (former) company during your senior year at NYU. And after exceeding everyone’s expectations, they had actually offered you a job at the end of your internship. From there, you had spent an innumerable number of days traveling across New York attending Jets, Nets, Knicks, Rangers, Yankees, Mets, Islanders, Sabres, Bills, Giants, Dodgers, Liberty, and Sirens games. Interviewing players, attending events, and tapping away at your laptop from sundown to sunup. Had sacrificed an ungodly amount of sleep to climb your way up to a respectable position at work. 

But you did it all because you were devoted to your work.

But now? 

A sharp pang in your head halts your spiral, the migraine finally fully setting in. 

“Y/N?” Hearing your mom’s voice reminds you that you haven’t spoken in a few minutes.

“Yeah…m’still here.”

Another beat of silence passes, and you imagine your parents exchanging a look with each other, both of them seated comfortably in their living room as they try to find the right words to say.

“You know you’re always welcome to come home for awhile–”

“Mom.”

“I know, I know but hon…do you have a backup plan? We know you want to stay in New York, but you don’t want to settle for a job you hate–one you’re…overqualified for–just to keep a roof over your head.” Your lips find the rim of your glass before responding, letting more of the wine flow down your throat.

Wait, won’t this just make my headache worse?

“I can’t come back home.” Your answer is short, sharp.

“But we–” your mother’s gentle voice is interrupted by your dad’s more forceful tone: “Y/N, don’t be ridiculous. You said you’ve been struggling to pay rent as it is.” You grip the neck of the wine glass harder as he continues:

“There’s no shame in coming home for a while until you get back on your feet, find another job. Hell, it’ll probably do you some good to be back here for awhile–god knows we haven’t seen you since–what?--December?”

“Dear…” your mom chides your father and it almost makes you smile. Almost.

As much as you hate to admit it, they were right. And as much as you loved your job, you didn’t love the paycheck that came with it. Journalism was a dying profession–apparently even more so than you thought, considering how you weren’t even a journalist anymore.

Now you really couldn’t afford this apartment, couldn’t afford to put food on the table (save for the 99¢ ramen), and couldn’t afford to pay back your mountain of student loans. Your folks were right–you were fucked. 

It’s not that you detested the idea of moving back in with your parents (as embarrassing as you found it). Your parents were loving, supportive of you even from a distance. 

What you detested were the memories that came with home. With the lake. With summers. 

What you detested was the possibility of coming face to face with one of those memories. 

“Y/N,” Your dad’s voice calls out from the phone once more, “Come on hon, just come home.”

A shaky exhale stumbles from your mouth, a few tears slipping out along with it, leaving you thankful you had suggested a phone call and not a FaceTime. 

“It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything,” which was a half-lie–because you honestly were, “I’m scared. I don’t want to see him.”

A long silence from the other end of the line makes you immediately regret bringing him up in the first place. You can almost imagine your parents, huddled on the couch together, exchanging equally surprised looks over the fact that you had even dared to mention him.

They couldn’t remember the last time you had spoken Quinn Hughes’ name.

Your mom is the first one who ventures to speak, “I get that but…Y/N, it’s been years–”

“But he’ll be there. Won’t he? He comes home every summer. I know you two still keep up with his family…” You have to make a conscious effort to speak clearly, willing your voice not to shake. It’s maddening.

Your dad sighs.

“I know–I know it’s…” Pathetic, you think to yourself, “I just…can’t. Can’t risk seeing him.”

“We understand,” Your mother’s voice is firm, more resolute, “I know he is the last person on the face of this earth you’d wanna see. I don’t blame you sweetie! But…you have to be realistic. You don’t have many other options here…”

Instead of replying, you pour the rest of the wine in your glass down the sink drain. You didn’t need to be drunk during this conversation, and the pounding in your head had gotten even worse with the mention of…him.

As stubborn as you may be, you were a realist. And realistically, you could not stay here. Not unless you squatted. Wait.

Could be something to consider. What are New York’s squatting laws?

Okay, stop. Just stop.

You clutch your head, massaging your temples. Take a deep breath. We’re going home.

You can make it what, four–five months without seeing him. Right? Then, he’ll be back in Vancouver. I can find another job during that time…

“My lease is up at the end of the month…” your bleary eyes find their way to the calendar hung up on the fridge. Two weeks. How convenient. 

“But if I see him…”

Your dad sighs, and this time it’s not frustration, but something gentler. Understanding. “Sweetheart, you can’t let that stop you from coming home.” he says firmly. “We’ll figure something out. You come home, take a breath. And we’ll figure it out from there.”

You nod, even though they can’t see it. “Okay…” Releasing your white knuckle grip from the countertop, you continue: “I’ll look for plane tickets back to Michigan. I don’t have that many clothes...I can probably donate some of this…junk anyway. And whatever I can’t fit in the suitcase I think I can just mail back…” You glance around your apartment as if some solution you haven’t previously considered will appear, effectively saving you from having to move home. It doesn’t.

“So, yeah….” you trail off lamely, rub at your eyes. 

“I know this is a tough decision Y/N, but it’s the right one,” Your mom sounds like she’s attempting to hide the slight glee in her voice at the promise of you moving back home. 

There’s that phrase again.

“Yeah, I just…” You could use a million words in an attempt to describe the whirlwind of emotions you were feeling right now, but nothing could possibly come close.

“I’m just tired,” you finally settle on that. Tired. And it's not just about today. It’s everything. 

“We know, hon,” your mom says quietly. “We’ve got you. Just get through the next two weeks, okay?”

You nod, even though they can’t see it. “Okay.”

The call finally ends, after a barrage of encouragement from your understandably worried parents, and the silence in your apartment has never felt so loud. 

Maybe it was the alcohol in your system, or maybe it was the heavy silence pressing in on you, but Quinn floated into your mind once more.

He had a funny way of doing that–even after all these years–at the worst possible moments. He had a knack for that, even after all these years–showing up uninvited, always at the worst times. Holidays. Birthdays. Awkward first dates with guys who were everything but him. Loud nights out with your friends, laughter echoing around you while your mind drifted elsewhere.

You always thought of him when you drank too much. So why did you open that bottle of wine?

You lie down on your floor, the room beginning to feel too small. The plush carpet, tickles your neck, and you try not to think of how dirty it probably is. Staring up at the ceiling, you count the cracks in the plaster–anything to keep your mind from wandering, though it already has.

“Is college scary?” Your voice comes out quiet from beside Quinn, and he has to strain to hear you over the sounds of jet skis and boats zipping across the lake.

The sky was turning the color of old film–faded gold, streaked with a burnt orange at the edges. The lake below caught the setting sun on the horizon, turning it molten.

He scoffs, “Why? You thinkin’ of dropping out before it’s even started?” 

When you don’t answer, Quinn turns his attention to you.

You sit beside him on the dock, one knee tucked to your chest, the other leg hanging loose over the edge, toes skimming the sun-warmed surface of the lake. You won’t look at him–can practically feel his eyes burning holes into your head.

Quinn frowns, nudges you with his shoulder, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Nothing–forget it,” you mutter to him, tracing the warm wood of the dock with your fingertip.

“No, it’s not nothing,” Quinn imitates your gloomy tone, “Tell me.”

You shrug, the movement barely more than a twitch. “It just feels like everything’s about to change.”

Quinn clears his throat, mouth going dry. “That’s ‘cause it is.”

“That’s reassuring, Q.”

“Well–I mean,” He leans back, bracing his palms on the dock, “In like a good way, you know? Sure it’ll be different at first…but this is what you’ve always wanted, right?”

You sigh, so forcefully that it blows a strand of hair out of your face, “Yeah…but now it’s–like–really here. And I’m just–I’m having so many second thoughts and–”

“Y/N,” Quinn interrupts your spiral, “You’re allowed to be scared, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t ready for this.”

You glance at him then, finally, eyes searching his face for something solid to hold onto. He’s not smiling, not teasing you like usual. He’s just… there. Steady.

You hum thoughtfully, and Quinn watches as your eyes follow a boat cutting across the water like a knife, leaving ripples in its wake. His attention lingers on you for a moment, watching how your eyes squint to take in the scene before you. Watching how the sunset threads through your hair, setting it aglow with fleeting light. Watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, seemingly at ease now.

“Seriously,” Quinn finally adds, and you can hear the smile in his voice, “You’ve worked your ass off too much not to enjoy this.” Quinn places his hand atop of yours that rests on the dock, warm fingers wrapping around you. 

“When did you get all wise and mature?” You murmur, side-eyeing him with a small smirk.

“Isn’t that like…my thing?” Quinn replies, as smug as ever.

That makes you laugh, loud and real, leaving Quinn to smile.

A comfortable silence stretches between the two of you, interrupted only by the sound of the water rippling against the wood of the dock.

Quinn’s hand is still on yours.

“I don’t want some things to change.” You whisper, turning your head to finally meet his gaze.

His blue-green eyes find yours, expression shifting into something serious, almost unreadable. Your throat tightens. 

“Some things don’t have to.” Quinn whispers back. His voice is soft in a way only he can be. And you believe him.

You shake your head in an attempt to rid yourself of the unwanted memory, the carpet itching your neck again.

“Fuck this,” clambering to your feet, you survey the apartment that you’ve called home for 5 years. 

Two weeks. You had two weeks to pack up your entire life and move it all back to Michigan. 

Might as well start now, you figured, glancing at the clock–9:43 p.m.

After all, there were worse things to dwell on.

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April 23rd, 2025 - Vancouver, BC

Quinn’s apartment is dark, illuminated only by the screen of his phone, displaying his mom on the other end, hundreds of miles away. As Quinn’s season had drawn to a close, their calls had only picked up with frequency, as though Ellen could sense that he wanted–needed–an outlet.

“So have you started packing?” She asks, half-joking. 

“I’m actually all packed up,” he breathes, voice tinged with sleep. 

“What!?” Ellen turns her full attention towards her eldest, “Luke just got home yesterday!”

His youngest brother had already returned home amidst round one of the Stanley Cup Playoffs after an unfortunate injury in game one against the Hurricanes. With both of his brother’s home for the summer, Quinn felt like there was nothing left tethering him to Vancouver. The sooner he could get home, the better.

“Yeah, well…” He runs a hand over his face, pulling at the skin of his eyelids. A bad habit. “With the season I had, I just wanna be home already mom.”

Quinn closes his eyes for a moment, and can practically hear the lapping waters of the lake back home in Michigan. 

He doesn’t just want to go home, he needs to be home. 

Ellen gives him a look, laced with understanding and sympathy that Quinn can’t see, his eyes still closed. “I know Quinn…”

His silence stretches on, and Ellen can tell he doesn’t want to linger on the topic any longer, not eager to relive his own chaotic season.

“Well, you’ll never guess who’s home righ–”

“Up-Up-Up!” Jack’s voice cuts through his mother’s, cutting her off. Quinn raises an eyebrow. How long had he been there?

“Who’s ho–”

“Hey Quinny,” Jack grins, suddenly appearing from his hiding spot. “Did you see that trade rumor about Petey? Guy’s about to be on the moon the way people are talking.”

The absurdity of Jack’s sudden outburst was enough to make Quinn forget what he and his mom had been talking about. In any other circumstance, trade rumors would be the absolute last thing Quinn wanted to talk about–it was different coming from Jack. Quinn exhales a short laugh despite himself, the weight in his chest loosening slightly. “No, what now?”

“Some Canucks blogger swears he’s going to the Rangers during the off-season. Insane, right? That like…defeats the whole purpose of…well, you know.”

Quinn just chuckles, runs a hand over his face again. Ellen gives Jack a look, imperceptible to Quinn from over the phone. 

“Don’t tell him.” Jack silently mouths to his mom, angling the phone screen away from his face for just a moment. Ellen gives a slight upturn of her head, as if to say she understands–though she doesn’t–not really.

Why wouldn’t Quinn want to know Y/N was in town?

Ellen had spoken to Y/N’s mother a few weeks ago, had caught her during an early morning walk in the neighborhood. As the two strolled on, Y/N’s mother had let it slip that her daughter would be moving back home. Then, the flood gates had opened, and Ellen had become privy to Y/N’s newfound unemployment fiasco.

Her mom was quite the talker.

In all honesty, Ellen was somewhat looking forward to your return. She hadn’t seen you in–what, seven years now? The girl who had grown up alongside her own children as the summer’s went by, her life unfolding before her eyes–just across the street. She had watched Y/N and her eldest son’s friendship grow and change, swell and settle into something unspoken by the time they hit seventeen–something neither of them had ever really named. But Ellen saw it. They all had. Even Luke, oblivious as he was as a child, had once asked, “So, are they, like… a thing or not?”

But that was a long time ago. And things had changed. 

Ellen shifts her focus back to her eldest, watching the subtle way his features soften with Jack's easy distraction. He looks tired, in a way that isn’t just physical. Worn in the soul.

Jack is still talking–doing his best to keep Quinn’s mood light. It’s working, in the half-hearted way younger brothers always manage to. Quinn even smiles, briefly.

Jack’s ranting finally trails off, a comfortable silence settling over the family. 

“Well, I know it’s late there,” Ellen takes the phone from Jack, reluctant to end her call with Quinn but wanting him to get the sleep he clearly needs. “We’ll let you sleep, and we’ll see you soon! In…?”

“My flight is scheduled for the end of the week. I’m coming in on Saturday.” 

“Perfect! Lukey and I will pick you up from the airport.” Jack pipes up, leaving Quinn’s field of vision once more to disappear into some corner of the lake house.

He just sighs, too tired to argue.

When the call finally ends, Quinn is plunged into the darkness of his apartment once more, the low glow of the city peeking out from behind his curtains. He’s alone. Really alone, and the silence is almost too much for him. 

The apartment is still, and not in a peaceful way. It’s the kind of still that feels heavy. Like the air itself knows he doesn’t want to be here anymore. Quinn settles further into bed, runs a tired hand over his face again, then lets it fall limply to his chest.

His duffel bags are lined up neatly by the door, already zipped shut. There’s nothing left in the fridge but half a protein shake and a jar of pickles he hasn’t touched in months. The season ended some time ago, but it still feels like he's stuck on the ice–skating in circles, going nowhere.

His teammates were either home or already on vacations with girlfriends, wives, fiancées–people waiting for them. People to miss them. Quinn’s only company had been an empty apartment, his own anxiety, and now the echo of his mom’s voice trying not to sound too worried.

He feels like he’s been holding his breath since October.

The season had ended in a blur–early, disappointing, and loud in all the wrong ways. The press, the expectations, the weight of a captaincy that felt more like a cage than a crown. Quinn smiled when he needed to. Said the right things. Held it together. But the cracks were there.

Quinn finally closed his eyes, letting the darkness settle over him as he imagines the lake–the way the breeze smells like pine and freshwater and a little bit like childhood. He thinks of Jack, Luke, his parents, the handful of friends they had invited over the years to spend summers with them. And then, just before sleep tugs him under, he thinks of her.

She'd lived just across the street–always there, every summer, like muscle memory. She had a way of slipping into his thoughts when he was too tired to guard them. When his defenses were down and his heart too full or too empty to fight it.

He doesn’t know if he dreads the memory of you or quietly waits for it. Maybe both.

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“Alright,” Ellen’s voice echoes throughout the house, prompting Jack to sheepishly return to the kitchen,

“What was that?” She asks, her tone dripping with suspicion.

The middle child reappears with a not-so-innocent grin on his face, followed by Luke, who was oblivious to the conversation that had just taken place.

“What was what?” Jack feigns innocence. 

“Why didn’t you want me to tell Quinn that Y/N is back home?”

Luke shoots Jack a look, eyebrows raised.

“It’s a long story mom…” Jack sighs, looking to his younger brother for assistance.

“Well, good thing we’ve got all the time in the world!” Ellen turns back to her meal prep, urging Jack to continue.

Luke opts to stay quiet, continuing into the kitchen. He opens the pantry in search of a snack that will surely spoil his dinner, all while carefully avoiding eye contact with his brother. Jack sighs and rolls his eyes. Typical.

“Okay well,” Jack huffs, leaning against the counter carefully, not putting too much pressure on the arm attached to his still-healing shoulder, “We don’t know the full story but…you know they used to be inseparable? Like every summer, attached to the hip?”

Ellen hums in acknowledgment, her knife slowing on the cutting board. “Of course I remember. I practically raised that girl alongside you boys.”

“Right, well…” Jack pauses, trying to find the right words. “Luke and I are like…99.9% sure that something was going on between those two. Like… more-than-friends kind of thing.”

His mom doesn’t miss a beat, “Obviously.”

Jack beams, “Yes! Obviously–thank you!”

Luke snorts from inside the pantry. “We all knew, Jack. It wasn’t subtle.”

“Anyways,” Jack continues, “You remember the party we had here for Quinn–the summer he got drafted? He said Y/N couldn’t make it because she had some orientation to go to at NYU?”

Ellen looks up now, brows drawn and nodding.

“Well, I texted her about it after–just to tell her we missed her–and she was here! In town! She said Quinn didn’t invite her–and even told her–Mom get this–he told her NOT to come!” Jack is practically vibrating from recounting the drama. 

He would never admit to it himself, but Jack Hughes was a gossip.

Ellen fully halts her cutting, a frown gracing her features now. “What? That doesn’t sound like Quinn.”

“No,” Jack agrees. “But apparently it’s what he did.” Y/N had no reason to lie about such a thing–nothing to gain. But the thought of Quinn doing that to her of all people? It was inconceivable. 

“And then everything else just went downhill from there. Y/N tried to keep in touch but Quinn just ghosted her–stopped talking to her I mean.” Jack continues, more bluntly, “I mean, he didn’t call her–didn’t apologize. Didn’t ask her to visit him, didn’t offer to visit her. It’s like…after that last summer ended, he just decided it’d be easier to pretend she was never here.” Jack finally finishes, letting Ellen digest his words.

Luke finally speaks up, mouth full of a granola bar, “I’d bet that’s why she hasn’t been back since.”

“Uhhh, yeah! Ya think?” Jack shoots back in a mocking tone.

Ellen doesn’t respond right away.

One hand resting gently on the edge of the counter, the other clutching the knife a little too tightly. Her jaw tenses ever so slightly, and for a moment, she looks like she’s weighing something. Measuring what to say next.

“I didn’t know,” she finally says. It’s quiet, more to herself than to either of her sons. “I thought maybe… they just drifted.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters, sinking into one of the kitchen stools, “I don’t think she had much of a choice but to drift.”

The kitchen feels too quiet now, despite the clatter of Ellen’s knife against the cutting board and the low hum of the fridge. Jack drums his fingers on the counter, restless energy buzzing just under his skin.

“I still think it’s a bad idea,” he mutters. “Telling him now.”

Ellen pauses, giving him a look. “So what, Jack? You want him blindsided? Walk out on the dock and–boom–there she is? That’s worse.”

“And how do you think Y/N would feel?” Luke adds.

Jack opens his mouth, then closes it again. He hates that they’re right. Hates even more that he doesn’t know what is right anymore.

Luke finally finishes his granola bar and dusts his hands off. “I mean, maybe they won’t even see each other. She’s only here for a little while, right?”

“No,” Ellen says quietly, depositing the chopped vegetables into a bowl. “She’s not just visiting. She’s moving back. At least for now.”

That lands heavier than anything else so far. Luke’s eyes widen and Jack’s head snaps up, “What!?”

Ellen nods, solemn. “Her mom told me. She lost her job in New York and can’t afford her apartment now. She’s staying until she figures things out.”

Jack lets out a low whistle. “Shit.”

Luke looks between the two of them, brow furrowed. “So… they are gonna see each other.”

Ellen leans against the counter, folding her arms. “Eventually.”

The three Hughes fall into silence. Not the kind that’s comfortable. 

Jack stares out the window, where the cul-de-sac is illuminated by street lamps, a soft glow spreading through the neighborhood and mingling with the setting sun. Your house sits across the street, as it had for years.

“Quinn doesn’t even say her name anymore,” he says quietly.

Ellen just sighs, eyes following her son’s which rest on the house across from them. 

Summer hadn’t even started yet, and it was already shaping up to be one that everyone would remember. For better or for worse.

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