Hii! I would like to request the girl finding a picture of her in his wallet with any of your AU’s, whichever one you picture it fitting the best! I think this would be really cute. Like he would be like "I forgot it in the car can you go grab it for me?" And it's left sitting open so she undeniably sees it then subtly brings it up in conversation! However you picture it I know it'll be good. Super fluffy
aww yess i like this! this kind of gives hannah and james just bc she's just not used to that kind of thing and a guy having pictures of her everywhere for him to always see
but i also can see this for most of my other fics as well :P
au masterlist
hannah followed her boyfriend into the house, carefully dropping the bags of groceries onto the counter once they reached the kitchen. his mom smiled, "thanks for going out for me. hopefully it wasn't too much."
"you're welcome. i think that was the last of it," james smiled and hannah nodded. she started to unpack everything and help put it all way, not noticing how her boyfriend patted his pockets in search of something.
"shit, i think i left my wallet in the car," he mumbled, catching the girl's attention.
"i can grab it," hannah stood up.
"are you sure? i can just run back out," james said but the gymnast shook her head. it would take two seconds and she was closer to the door anyway. "i don't mind. i'll be right back."
she swiped the keys off the counter and made her way back outside. hannah hummed to herself, feeling chipper and energetic. she didn't really know why, but she had been in a happy mood all morning—really since her and james got to his house last night.
maybe it was because she knew kristine and michael well now and wasn't a stranger to them or their home like she felt a little bit last summer. her and james had been together over a year now and she wasn't just some girlfriend anymore. she knew what to expect and wasn't worried about trying to gain their approval.
hannah unlocked her boyfriend's car, opening the front door and scanning her eyes across the cup holders for his wallet. she found it laying open on her seat, probably leaving it there when he went to grab the bags of groceries. she reached for it, but stopped when she noticed a familiar looking picture in the spot where his driver's license usually was.
her own bright smile stared back at her while she processed the fact that james had a photo of her in his wallet. it was her most recent media day headshot for the athletics page. she didn't even know how or when james printed it out and put it into his wallet, but just looking at it there made her chest feel warm and fuzzy. she couldn't stop thinking about how he took the time to do that and have it there so he'd always see her.
after the initial shock, hannah finally closed the car and headed back to the house knowing james was waiting. her mood felt even brighter than before.
when she got back inside, him and his mom had almost all of the groceries put away. "found it. it was on the seat," she handed it to him.
"how obvious. thank you," he pecked the top her head.
she did what she could to help with the last of the groceries before kristine shooed them away to do whatever. it was nice out and all the new bruins rookie could talk about was getting into the pool while they were at the store, so the two ran up to his room to change.
"wait, sunscreen," hannah reminded before her boyfriend dashed outside. he pouted, rolling his eyes slightly as he walked back to her. he was such a kid at heart sometimes.
"i hate that you're skin concious," he muttered which made the younger duke sister laugh.
"hey, i'm just trying to protect you from skin cancer," she shrugged, rubbing the cream into his skin.
james rubbed in the areas hannah couldn't quite reach, but she watched him to make sure he did it correctly and not half-assed. a soft laugh escaped his lips seeing her focused expression. "you're watching me like a hawk."
"i'm making sure you're doing it right," the girl countered.
"you sound like my mom."
"hey, that's a good thing! sunscreen is important!" kristine called from what she overheard in the kitchen. the couple laughed though.
"let me do you since you did me," james took the bottle from her, squeezing some onto his hand.
hannah pulled her hair to the side, a soft smile on her lips while james started rubbing it into her shoulders. she jumped a little from how cold it was at first. "sorry," he muttered.
he rubbed it in how he knew she would like it, his hands careful and gentle down her shoulders and over her back. she was still thinking about her picture in his wallet—wondering if she should mention it or just let it be.
"okay, your back and shoulders are good," james determined after a moment.
"thank you. you're free to dive into the pool," she giggled when he raced outside without a second thought. hannah got out just in time to see him disappear under the water.
"so refreshing," he said when he came back up.
the gymnast finished applying the sunscreen to her chest, stomach and legs. when she felt she was fully covered, she walked closer to the edge of the pool. james swam towards the egde, staring up at her. "you better come in."
"i will. i need to acclimatize myself first."
"you wouldn't have to if you just jumped in," the brunette grinned.
hananh loved swimming, but she was not the kind of person to just jump right in unless someone was throwing her in (probably james because he loved doing that.) instead, she sat down and swung her legs in. her boyfriend took that as his opportunity to perch himself there, letting his head rest in her lap.
"thanks for coming home with me on your long weekend off," he hummed after a beat of silence.
hannah got monday off because her boss was going to be out of town and was nice enough to let the interns take it as a vacaction day, so the brunette booked the first train into long island to spend it with james who was also coincidentally in town for the same weekend.
"thanks for having me," she ran her fingers through his brown locks.
"of course. you're always welcome here," she blushed when he pressed a little kiss into her thigh. "how is the internship going though? do you like it?"
"i like it. it's fun. i've met some cool people and i've been exploring new york more," when summer started, hannah was terrified of hating her internship because she's never been in a new city by herself before. now though, she loved it and quickly made friends with the other interns who weren't as new to the city and were able to show her around more.
"good. i'm glad you feel more comfortable," james met her gaze with a smile.
"me too. how's your summer going? how's the lake house?" hannah had to live vicariously through everyone when they were in michigan now. "it's good. everyone is good. they miss you and can't wait to see you."
"i miss them too. it feels so weird being away for the summer."
"it feels weird having you away," james agreed making her heart skip a beat. she squeezed his arm, "is that why you have a picture of me in your wallet?"
james paused for a moment, trying to figure out how she knew that until he remembered her grabbing his wallet for him in the car. a bright blush coated his cheeks that hannah found absolutely adorable.
"uh, well..i-i've had that. i put it in like..close to the start of the season. thought you looked really pretty when you showed me the photo so i figured out how to print it small so it could be in my wallet," james explained shyly.
now it was hannah's turn to blush some more. "i can't believe you really wanted that in your wallet."
"why wouldn't i? you looked so pretty and i get to see you every time i open it."
james lifted himself out of the pool, leaning closer to capture hannah's lips with his. she cupped his cheek, kissing him back and loving how their lips felt together.
"i love you," he mumbled when they broke apart.
"i love you more," hannah grinned and let him pull her into the pool.
she dove under, her entire body getting wet. it did feel refreshing after the long island sun beating down on them. when she came back up james was there to greet her. "feel acclimatized?"
"now i do," she giggled when he wrapped his arms around her torso.
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GENRES ▸ fluff, neighbors, mutual crush, meet cute, fraser is just sooo cutie
SUMMARY ▸ moving to boston means figuring out the t system, over crowded bars, and moving furniture. you soon realize it also means midnight elevator rides with your cute mysterious neighbor.
WORD COUNT ▸ 2.7k words
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ first fic for fraser!!!!!!!! tbh before i like really really got into hockey i first saw him in a tiktok edit and i was like who is this cutie with glasses (literally my weakness), so i need fraser to wear his glasses more please and thank you :) also bruins win today!!! (and gabe perreault point / rangers win but thats besides the point i guess LOL i do wanna write a very self indulgent fic for gabo soon) - but enjoy!!
the first time you notice your neighbor is in the elevator.
it’s late. like unreasonably late. the kind of late where the building is silent and the hallway lights feel a little too bright after a long day.
and a long day you've had. it was only your first week after moving to boston and between moving furniture, settling in, and getting extremely lost on the T (for the third time, mind you), there was nothing more you wanted to do than lay in your bed that you're pretty sure you overpaid for only a day before.
you step inside the apartment's elevator, press your floor, and just as the doors start to close, a hand stops them.
the doors slide open again.
a tall guy steps in: dark hoodie, sweats, dark curly hair still damp like he just showered. he smells faintly like cold boston air and something sharp you can’t place. and he's wearing glasses.
he smiles and nods politely. “hey.”
“hi.” you manage to get out like you aren't going to collapse out of exhaustion any second.
the elevator starts moving.
he’s quiet. not awkward quiet, just… quiet, which in your tired state, you definitely appreciate. small talk over the weather sounded like your worst nightmare when your pillows and the real housewives were calling your name, cute neighbor or not. comfortable silence fills the ride between you two.
you just assume he’s another neighbor coming home from work. but, the next night it happens again.
same elevator. same tall guy. same tired late hour.
“hey again,” he says, surprise lining his light eyes as he smiles. he's cute, you notice.
seemingly built, gorgeous eyes, and an adorable smile? if he was setting the bar for boston men, you think you would be sticking around for a little bit.
so after staring at him for maybe a second too long, you get out a “hi!” and nearly tumble into the elevator as he moves aside for you. real smooth, y/n, real smooth.
after the ride, though, as he lets you step out first the gentleman he is, you assume that is the extent of your relationship. relegated to late-night tired elevator pleasantries and to never go any further. but the third night?
same thing.
you start to think the two of you must have the exact same schedule, because somehow you always end up in the elevator together around midnight.
and so far, you can catalog a few things about him, sure and slowly. for one, he always carries a duffel bag. two, he’s always a little tired (much like you usually are) and sometimes, refer to night two and night three, sometimes he’s a little bruised.
but you’re a polite neighbor. so you don’t ask, as much as you want to. curiosity does get to the best of you though, and some nights before you sleep, your mysterious neighbor creeps into your thoughts.
maybe he's a boston mob gangster? it would explain why he's always in dark clothes. or maybe some sort of boston batman vigilante? also possible.
until one night, a few days later, the elevator doors open and he steps inside like usual,
and this time you can’t help it.
because to you, he looks like he just walked out of a bar fight. taking inventory, you notice there’s a small cut near his eyebrow, his red knuckles are taped, and there’s a bruise blooming along his cheek.
you stare after wincing a bit, and he notices immediately. definitely a mobster. his shoulders drop a little like he already knows the question is coming.
you open your mouth. do i ask? close it. maybe shouldn't. open it again. well, fuck it.
you're a little unsure what to say, so you start with “…are you okay?”
he exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck like he isn't sure how much to explain to you. “before you ask…”
he gestures vaguely at his hurt face. “…hockey.”
you blink. oh. “…hockey?”
“yeah.” he says it like that should make perfect sense.
the elevator dings softly as it passes another floor. you look at his knuckles again. “…you fight people? in…hockey?”
he shrugs. “sometimes.”
you stare at him for a second longer, then you nod slowly. “oh, okay.”
he glances at you sideways, surprised.“…that’s it?”
you shrug. “i mean… i guess that explains the bruises. i honestly thought for the last few days you were some sort of mob gangster but this seems like a much better explanation.”
he lets out a quiet laugh. the first one you’ve heard from him since the elevator rides started. and in that moment, you decide you want to hear it a lot more.
“definitely not as cool as that.”
the elevator reaches your floor. the doors slide open. you step out first, then pause when you realize he’s stepping out too.
“…you live on this floor?”
he nods toward the apartment two doors down. “yep.”
you blink. in your tired daze the last few nights you must've never realized he left the elevator behind you every time.
“…you’re my neighbor. like my neighbor, neighbor.” wow, y/n, absolutely killing it with the social cues tonight.
“looks like it, neighbor.”
he shifts his duffel bag on his shoulder, and you think he might end the conversation and immediately leave but he continues, “fraser, by the way.”
you blink, and realize your cute neighbor is introducing himself to you. right. names. that's a normal thing people exchange when they meet.
“y/n,” you say quickly, gesturing vaguely toward yourself like that wasn’t already obvious. “by the way.”
fraser nods once and smiles, like he’s filing the information away somewhere.
“nice to meet you, y/n.” he glances toward your door.
“so,” he says, nodding at it slightly. “new to the building?”
you follow his gaze. “is it that obvious?”
he smiles again a little. “you got lost in the elevator that very first night.”
your mouth falls open. “hey, i did not get lost.”
“if you recall, you pressed the wrong floor twice.”
you groan, covering your face with one hand. “okay in my defense-”
“i did note there was a lot of button staring involved.”
“i just moved here!” you protest. “the T already tried to kill me three times that day, i didn’t need the elevator betraying me too.”
fraser laughs again, softer this time. “boston learning curve.”
you sigh dramatically. “oh trust me, i know."
you both smile at each other for a second, and you let it linger, before you gesture lightly toward the hallway.
“goodnight, fraser.”
“night, y/n.”
he heads toward his apartment two doors down, unlocking the door and disappearing inside a second later.
you stand there for another moment, a little flustered from the interaction. then you unlock your own door and step inside, dropping your bag onto the floor with a sigh.
your neighbor plays hockey.
scratch that, your neighbor, fraser, plays hockey.
your neighbor, fraser, who is also very cute.
you shake your head and collapse onto the couch. boston might actually be growing on you.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
the next time you see fraser, it’s not in the elevator.
it’s a random saturday night, and you’re sitting in a loud bar somewhere in fenway with your friend across from you, half-listening to her complain about a coworker while you nurse a drink that’s basically melted ice at this point. not any fault to her, but you were just a little overstimulated.
the place is absolutely crowded, packed with the kind of weekend energy that only seems to exist in cities like boston: people yelling over music, bartenders sliding glasses across the counter, the faint smell of beer and fried food hanging in the air. not too much of your scene.
you’re nodding along to whatever story she’s telling, scanning the wall of televisions in front of your in pure boredom, when you suddenly cut her off mid-sentence, recognition filling your body.
“…wait.”
she glances up. “what?”
you squint harder at the screen, double checking, no triple checking, for confirmation. another angle change of the camera and - there he is, on the tv.
bright arena lights in the garden, helmet on, jersey tucked under his pads, and a 93 visible on his sleeve as he glides across the ice. you're more sure than anything.
it's fraser. your neighbor fraser. your neighbor fraser who apparently plays professional hockey and is currently on national television. playing. for the bruins.
you stare. “…oh my god. it's him. my neighbor.”
your friend swivels toward you immediately. “THAT’S him??? your mysterious hockey elevator boyfriend?”
you’re still staring at the screen, watching as he skates into frame again, helmet tilted slightly, curls poking out underneath that you usually see in their damp form. definitely him.
you ignore your friends description. “…that’s him.”
she looks between you and the tv like she’s just been handed the most unbelievable gossip of her life. “you told me he was like… a tall guy with a duffel bag!”
“he IS a guy with a duffel bag. i thought he like played hockey with his friends, not like in the nhl!”
“he is also on television.”
you take another slow sip of your drink, still watching the game, but also extremely disoriented with this new information. “yeah…that explains the bruises.”
on the screen, fraser gets bumped along the boards and shoves someone back before skating away. your friend leans across the table. “y/n.”
“…yeah.”
“you’re neighbors with a professional hockey player.”
you shrug, trying to play it cool. “i guess? …apparently.”
she groans dramatically. “this is the best thing that’s happened since you moved here. i've lived here all my life and i've never had anything remotely this interesting happen to me.”
you roll your eyes and try to continue the conversation, but you don’t miss the way your gaze keeps drifting back toward the screen every few seconds.
every once in a while the camera cuts to him again. and each time you catch yourself smiling a little.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
much later that night, once you are able to escape your friend and the atrocities at the bar, you step into your building’s elevator again, a little tipsier and a little messier than usual.
the doors start to close, and then a hand stops them. you already know who it is. the doors slide open.
fraser steps inside.
hair still damp again, clad in a t-shirt, duffel bag slung over one shoulder like always.
he looks up, and then he pauses. you notice how his eyes rake over you in your going out outfit, the traditional "boston uniform" of jeans and a black top.
“y/n.”
you tilt your head slightly. “hey.”
a small smile pulls at his mouth. “late night?”
you lean back casually against the elevator wall, needing the support of the cold wall, and suddenly very aware that you just watched him on national television about an hour ago. “…something like that.”
he nods once, like he’s heard that answer a million times before.
the elevator doors close and the car starts moving. for a second neither of you says anything. then you glance at him, and your tipsy mouth moves faster than your mind does.
“…so.”
he raises an eyebrow slightly, curiosity pulling at his face. “so?”
you gesture vaguely at him. “…saw you earlier on tv.”
fraser exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, like this conversation was inevitable. he looks amused now.
“you were watching?”
you immediately regret bringing it up. “i mean…it was on at the bar.”
“right.”
“but, to clarify, i was not specifically watching you.”
he laughs, the delightful sound coming up again. “sure.”
you squint at him a little, grinning. “wow. professional hockey player and already super humble about it.”
that makes him laugh softly, a little sheepish. “i didn’t say that.”
“you implied it.”
he shakes his head, pushing his curls back slightly like he’s embarrassed you caught him. “i just meant… it happens sometimes.”
the elevator hums quietly as it climbs another floor. you fold your arms loosely across your chest, looking at him again like you’re reassessing something. “…so you play in the nhl. like as your job.”
he glances over at you, almost cautious. “yeah.”
there’s no bragging in it. if anything, he looks like he’s trying not to make it a whole thing.
you gesture vaguely toward him. “and you didn’t think to mention that while we’ve been sharing midnight elevator rides all week?”
he shrugs a little, shifting the duffel bag higher on his shoulder. “didn’t really come up.”
you stare at him. “…you showed up with bruised knuckles and a cut on your face.”
“fair point.”
“and you said ‘hockey.’”
he smiles again, smaller this time. “technically not a lie.”
the elevator dings softly as it reaches your floor. the doors slide open and you both step out into the quiet hallway again.
you both walk side to side, while you fish your keys out of your bag. when you reach your apartment, you lean back lightly against your door, studying him again.
“…so.”
he smiles faintly. “you do say that a lot.”
you point at him. “don’t make fun of me.”
“i’m not,” he says quickly, a little amused. “just noticing.”
you shake your head.“…still kind of processing the whole ‘my neighbor is secretly an nhl player’ thing.”
he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish again. “wasn’t really trying to keep it a secret.”
“you kind of succeeded.”
“fair.”
a quiet moment settles between you again. then he clears his throat a little, shifting his weight like he’s deciding something.
“hey.”
you look up. “yeah?”
“…if you’re going to keep watching the games at bars,” he says carefully, “you could just come to one.”
you blink. “…what.”
he nods toward you. “like. actually come. to the garden, i get a few tickets for each game.”
you stare at him for a second, trying to process. “you’re inviting me to a hockey game.”
“technically i’m inviting you to watch my hockey game,” he corrects gently.
“a game that you’re playing in. a bruins game?”
“minor detail.”
you laugh, a little incredulous. “fraser.”
“yeah?”
“that seems like a conflict of interest.”
“how?”
you smile. “what if i accidentally become your biggest fan.”
his mouth twitches. “i think i could handle that.”
he laughs again, softer this time. “i just figured,” he says, shrugging a little, “it might be a little more fun seeing each other not just in an elevator.”
you narrow your eyes playfully. another quiet second passes before you finally nod.
“…okay.”
his eyebrows lift slightly. “okay?”
“i’ll come to a game.”
something bright flashes across his face. “cool! i mean yeah, good, good.”
you bite back a smile. he shifts his weight again, like he’s about to leave, then stops. “…and, um—”
you look back up. “yeah?”
he gestures vaguely with his free hand, like he’s trying to play it off but also very clearly overthinking it. “we could- after, i mean- if you wanted-”
you tilt your head, watching him struggle a little.
he exhales, a small laugh slipping out. “there’s a place a few blocks from the garden,” he says, a little more straightforward now. “we usually go there sometimes. after games.”
you wait. he glances at you again, hope and fear both in his eyes . “i could take you. if you’re already there.”
your smile softens, just a little. “oh i see, so this is like… a two-part invitation.”
he huffs a quiet laugh. “i didn’t plan it like that.”
you pretend to think about it for a second, tapping your keys lightly against your palm. “…does this place have good food?”
he shrugs playfully. “debatable.”
“how honest.”
“but the fries are good.”
you nod, satisfied. “…okay.”
his eyebrows lift again. “okay?”
“i’ll accept your two part invitation. for the fries. and for you.”
he smiles, that same soft, slightly relieved expression. “good.”
you unlock your door but pause before stepping inside. “…but if i end up on the jumbotron looking confused,” you warn, “i’m blaming you.”
he grins. “i’ll gladly take that risk.”
you shake your head, smiling as you step inside your apartment. “…goodnight, fraser.”
“goodnight, y/n.”
your door clicks shut behind you, and in perfect rom com fashion, you sink back against it. suddenly, living two doors down from fraser minten feels like the best decision you’ve made since moving to boston.
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summary: After a chance meeting in Minnesota, reserved Canucks captain Quinn Hughes begins a secret romance with America’s sweetheart — a world-famous actress and singer. When he invites her to Michigan for a family wedding, she’s swept into the chaotic, loving Hughes household, where starstruck brothers, protective moments, and lake house memories show her what it means to be loved for herself.
wc: 6.5k
warnings: none
note: The request is much longer but I decided to place only an extract!
masterlist // imagine masterlist.
Quinn Hughes had never been the kind of guy who stared.
He noticed things, sure. He was observant in that quiet, almost unfair way he had, the kind of person who could read a play before it happened and read a room before anyone said a word. But staring? No. Quinn was too controlled for that. Too private. Too careful with himself.
And then you appeared on the jumbotron in Minnesota.
The Canucks were playing the Wild, and the game had settled into that loud, electric rhythm that came with an arena full of fans trying to make the opposing team feel unwelcome. Quinn was on the bench, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, half-listening to something one of the guys was saying beside him when the entire arena suddenly changed pitch.
It was not a normal cheer.
It was not a goal cheer, not a fight cheer, not even the kind of cheer that came when someone won free tickets or chugged a beer on the big screen.
It was chaos.
Quinn looked up.
And there you were.
You were sitting a few rows behind the glass with a handful of castmates and crew members from the movie you were filming in Minnesota, bundled in an oversized coat, hair tucked loosely under a beanie, laughing like you hadn’t expected to be noticed. Which was ridiculous, because everyone noticed you. America’s sweetheart. The girl whose face had been on movie posters, album covers, perfume campaigns, late-night interviews, award shows, and childhood bedroom walls for over a decade.
The crowd lost its mind.
You turned red immediately, pressing your hands over your face while the people around you cheered and pointed. One of your castmates shook your shoulders dramatically, another bowed down beside you like you were royalty, and you just laughed, embarrassed and bright and impossibly real.
Quinn forgot, for a full second, that he was in the middle of a hockey game.
“Dude,” someone on the bench muttered, following his gaze. “Is that—”
“Yeah,” another player said, dragging the word out. “That is definitely her.”
Quinn didn’t say anything.
He just watched as you smiled up at the jumbotron, gave a shy wave, then mouthed, “Hi, Minnesota,” and the arena somehow got louder.
He should have looked away.
He did not.
By the time the camera cut back to the ice, Quinn had missed the entire last part of whatever tactical thing the assistant coach had been explaining behind him.
And, because life had a sense of humor, the Canucks won that night.
Which meant there were media obligations, postgame routines, and a hallway outside the visitors’ locker room full of team staff, arena workers, reporters, and, somehow, you.
You were talking to someone from the Wild organization, your coat folded over one arm, your face scrubbed softer without the arena lights hitting you. You looked less like a global superstar and more like a very tired girl who had been working twelve-hour shoot days and had agreed to come to a hockey game because her castmates had begged.
Then you looked up.
Your eyes met Quinn’s.
He nearly tripped over absolutely nothing.
You smiled first.
That was how it started.
Not with some grand Hollywood moment. Not with a dramatic sweeping romance or a headline splashed across every entertainment site by morning.
It started with you smiling at him in a hallway in Minnesota and saying, “Good game.”
Quinn, who had spent his entire life handling pressure, blinked and said, “Thanks. Good… watching.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then you laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.
And Quinn, despite wanting the floor to open up and swallow him, laughed too.
Somehow, through a combination of your castmates being nosy, a Canucks staffer knowing one of your producers, and Quinn being gently bullied by three teammates who had seen him forget how to function, numbers were exchanged.
Privately.
Very privately.
At first, it was texts.
Then FaceTime calls from hotel rooms and trailers. Then Quinn finding out you were nothing like the glossy version of yourself people projected onto you. You were funny. Weirdly competitive. Too good at remembering little details. You cried at animal rescue videos. You sent him voice notes of song ideas at two in the morning and then immediately apologized because you forgot he had morning skate.
You asked him about hockey like you actually wanted to understand it.
He asked you about filming like he actually cared.
And somewhere between late-night calls, stolen dinners, and Quinn learning that you always wore sunglasses not because you wanted attention, but because sometimes you desperately wanted less of it, he fell.
Hard.
The relationship stayed hidden because both of you needed it to.
Quinn valued privacy the way some people valued oxygen. You lived in a world where privacy had to be protected like something fragile and endangered. Every friendship was analyzed. Every outfit became a theory. Every person seen near you became a rumor.
So you kept each other quiet.
Jim and Ellen knew, eventually.
Of course they did.
Quinn could hide most things from the internet. He could not hide anything from his mother.
Ellen had noticed the way he disappeared to take calls, the way his voice changed when he said your name, the way he smiled down at his phone like he was trying not to. Jim had noticed too, though he mostly handled it by giving Quinn one long look across the dinner table and saying, “So, are we pretending you’re not dating someone?”
Quinn had nearly choked on his water.
Meeting Jim and Ellen had been terrifying for you, but they had been warm from the start. Ellen hugged you like she already knew how nervous you were. Jim asked about your family, your work, your schedule, and somehow managed not to make it feel like an interview.
They treated you like Quinn’s girlfriend.
Not a celebrity.
Not a headline.
Not a public property.
Just his girlfriend.
Which was why, when summer rolled around and Quinn invited you to Michigan for his cousin’s wedding, you said yes even though your stomach twisted with nerves the second the words left your mouth.
“I want you there,” Quinn had said softly over FaceTime.
You were in your trailer, still in makeup from set, your hair pinned back and your eyes tired. “With your whole family?”
“Yeah.”
“Jack and Luke?”
“Yeah.”
“And cousins?”
“A lot of cousins.”
“And family friends?”
Quinn paused.
You narrowed your eyes. “Quinn.”
“There might be a lot of people.”
You groaned, tipping your head back against the couch. “You’re making me meet the entire Hughes cinematic universe at once?”
He smiled. “Pretty much.”
“What if they hate me?”
“They won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“What if I’m awkward?”
“You are awkward.”
“Quinn.”
“That’s one of my favorite things about you.”
You tried not to smile. Failed. Then the nerves came back again. “What if paparazzi find out?”
His expression softened immediately. “Then we’ll deal with it.”
“I don’t want to ruin the wedding.”
“You won’t.”
“But if people follow me, or if photos leak, or if your family feels like I brought all this attention—”
“Hey.” His voice was quiet but firm. “You’re not bringing anything bad. You’re coming because I asked you to come. Because I want you there.”
That was the thing about Quinn. He didn’t make speeches often. He wasn’t dramatic with words. But when he said something, he meant it so fully that you had no choice but to believe him.
So you flew to Michigan by yourself two days before the wedding, because Quinn had already gone ahead with his family and you had one last day of filming before your break.
You wore leggings, a hoodie, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and absolutely no makeup. It did not matter.
Two people recognized you in the airport bathroom. One gate agent whispered your name so loudly that three more people turned around. Someone tried to take a photo while pretending to check their phone. You smiled anyway, signed a napkin for a little girl who was shaking too hard to speak, and made it through the flight by curling up against the window and reminding yourself that at the end of it, Quinn would be waiting.
And he was.
The second you saw him outside baggage claim, wearing a Michigan hoodie and a backwards cap, hands shoved into his pockets, your chest loosened.
He saw you and smiled.
Not his polite media smile. Not his quick family-photo smile.
Your smile.
You walked straight into his arms.
Quinn hugged you tightly, one hand at the back of your head, the other around your waist. You let yourself breathe into his chest.
“Hi,” he murmured.
“Hi.”
“You okay?”
“Ask me again after your brothers meet me.”
He huffed a laugh and kissed the side of your head. “They’re going to be weird.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No, I’m warning you.”
The drive to the lake house felt like entering a part of Quinn you had only heard about in stories. Michigan in summer was green and golden and wide, the roads lined with trees and water flashing between them. Quinn pointed things out in his understated way.
“That’s where Jack fell off his bike and acted like he lost a leg.”
“That field is where Luke cried because he didn’t score in a soccer game when he was six.”
“That ice cream place was basically our whole childhood.”
You watched him as much as you watched the scenery.
He was different there. Softer. Younger somehow. Less captain, less NHL star, more just Quinn Hughes from Michigan, showing the girl he loved the places that made him.
When you got to the house, Ellen was the first one out the door.
“Oh, honey, you made it!”
You barely had time to smile before she wrapped you in a hug.
Jim followed behind her, grinning. “Good to see you again.”
“You too,” you said, and meant it.
Quinn took your bags inside while Ellen fussed over whether you had eaten, whether the flight was okay, whether you needed coffee, water, a snack, a nap, or possibly all of the above. You insisted you were fine, though the truth was your nerves were buzzing under your skin.
The house was quieter than you expected.
“Where is everyone?” Quinn asked, glancing around.
“Out on the lake,” Ellen said casually, opening a cabinet. “Jack, Luke, Trevor, Cole, Alex, a few cousins. They’ve been out there for hours.”
You froze with a glass of water halfway to your lips.
Quinn noticed instantly.
His hand touched your lower back. “You’re good.”
You nodded.
Ellen, completely unaware of the storm she was about to start, picked up her phone and sent a message to one of her sons.
Then she called toward the hallway, “Quinn’s girlfriend is here!”
It was not meant as an announcement.
It was not meant as a warning.
It was simply Ellen being Ellen.
But somewhere outside, on the lake, that sentence detonated.
Jack Hughes was sprawled on a boat with sunglasses on, arguing with Trevor Zegras about whether they had enough food left to justify staying out another hour.
Luke was half in the water, hanging onto the side of the dock, while Cole Caufield tried to convince him to jump back in.
Trevor’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
Then he sat straight up.
“Oh my God.”
Jack lifted his sunglasses. “What?”
Trevor looked at him slowly. “Your mom said Quinn’s girlfriend is here.”
Luke’s head snapped around so fast he almost swallowed lake water.
Jack stood up. “She’s here?”
Cole frowned. “Wait, like the secret girlfriend?”
“The one Quinn refuses to talk about?” Trevor said.
“The one Mom likes?” Luke added, as if that made the situation ten times more serious.
Jack was already moving. “We’re going back.”
Trevor scrambled after him. “Because we’re starving?”
“Yes.”
“And because we want to see her?”
“Obviously.”
Luke launched himself out of the water with the urgency of a man responding to a national emergency. “Nobody be weird.”
Everyone looked at him.
Luke pointed around at them. “I’m serious. Quinn will kill us if we’re weird.”
Trevor grinned. “You’re going to be the weirdest one.”
“I am not.”
Ten minutes later, Luke was the first one through the back door.
He was still damp, hair messy, wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt that looked like he had pulled it on inside out. He rounded the corner into the kitchen mid-sentence, saying, “Mom, did you make—”
Then he stopped.
Completely.
You were standing by the counter beside Ellen, holding a glass of water, laughing politely at something Jim had said.
Luke stared at you.
You stared back.
Quinn, standing beside you, immediately closed his eyes like he could sense what was about to happen.
Luke turned his head very slowly toward Ellen.
“Mom,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You do know she is literally standing in our kitchen, right?!”
The house went silent for half a second.
Then came thunder.
Feet pounding up the deck stairs. Doors opening. Voices overlapping.
“What?”
“Who?”
“Move, dude!”
“Is she actually—”
“Luke, don’t block the doorway!”
Suddenly Jack appeared behind Luke, then Trevor, then Cole, then Alex, then a cluster of younger cousins, all trying to see into the kitchen at once.
The noise startled you so badly that the glass slipped in your hand.
Quinn caught it before it fell.
Of course he did.
His other hand came up instinctively in front of you, not pushing you back, just shielding you a little from the sudden stampede.
“Guys,” he said, mortified. “Chill.”
Nobody chilled.
Jack’s mouth was open.
Trevor put both hands on top of his head.
Cole whispered, “No way.”
Luke looked like his childhood had just walked into the kitchen and asked for a glass of water.
You gave a small wave. “Hi.”
Trevor pointed at you, then at Quinn, then back at you. “No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.”
Quinn’s face went red. “Trevor.”
“You’re dating her?”
Jack finally found his voice. “Quinn, what the hell?”
Ellen gave Jack a look.
Jack corrected himself immediately. “Sorry. What the heck?”
Luke was still staring. “Are you actually the same person from The Summer We Stayed?”
You blinked, then laughed. “I mean, yes?”
Luke looked devastated by the confirmation. “I watched that movie, like, twenty times.”
“Twenty?” Jack said. “You cried at the end.”
“So did you!”
“I did not.”
“You called Mom after and said it was emotionally manipulative.”
“It was!”
Trevor stepped forward, completely abandoning any attempt at dignity. “I need to be honest. I had posters of you growing up.”
Quinn made a strangled sound. “Trevor.”
“What? I’m being vulnerable.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I had the blue album poster,” Trevor continued, ignoring him. “And the one from that superhero movie. The silver outfit? Iconic.”
You were trying so hard not to laugh that your shoulders shook. “Thank you?”
Quinn looked like he wanted to walk into the lake and never return.
Jack dragged a hand down his face. “This is insane.”
You glanced up at Quinn. “You didn’t tell them?”
“I told them I had a girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” Luke said. “You left out the part where your girlfriend is one of the most famous people alive.”
Quinn muttered, “That felt like her business.”
That softened you immediately.
Because underneath his embarrassment, underneath the chaos of his brothers and friends losing their minds in the kitchen, there was that same careful respect he had given you from the beginning.
He never used you as a story.
Never as proof.
Never as a flex.
You reached for his hand under the counter and squeezed it.
Unfortunately, Jack saw.
“Oh my God,” Jack said, delighted. “He’s holding her hand.”
Quinn glared. “Jack.”
“He’s blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, though.”
Luke leaned toward Cole and whispered, very loudly, “I’ve never seen him this red.”
“I can hear you,” Quinn said.
“Good,” Luke replied.
The younger cousins hovered near the doorway, whispering among themselves. One little girl, maybe nine or ten, clutched a phone to her chest and looked like she might burst into tears from nerves.
You noticed immediately.
You slipped around Quinn, despite his hand tightening briefly as if worried the group would overwhelm you, and crouched slightly to her level.
“Hi,” you said gently. “What’s your name?”
The girl swallowed. “Maddie.”
“Hi, Maddie. I’m Y/N.”
“I know,” she whispered.
A few people laughed softly, but you kept your attention on her.
“Do you want a picture?”
Her eyes went huge. “Can I?”
“Of course.”
That broke the dam.
Within minutes, the kitchen turned into the strangest, sweetest meet-and-greet of your life.
Cousins asked for photos. Someone found a Sharpie. You signed a phone case, two hats, a napkin, and one cousin’s old hoodie because she swore she would “never wash it again,” which made Ellen immediately say, “You absolutely will wash that.”
Trevor insisted on getting a photo “for closure” with his childhood crush.
Quinn stood behind the camera with the flattest expression imaginable.
“Smile, Quinn,” Trevor said, throwing an arm around you.
“I’m not in the picture.”
“Emotionally, you are.”
Jack tried to act cool and failed spectacularly when he asked you about one of your albums and then immediately admitted he knew all the lyrics because Riley played it constantly.
Luke, still somewhere between starstruck and confused, asked, “So when you were in that movie where you played the runaway princess—”
Quinn cut in, “Luke.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to interview her.”
“I’m not interviewing her. I’m asking a question as a fan.”
“As a fan,” Jack repeated, laughing.
Luke ignored him. “Did you actually do the horse stunt?”
You grinned. “Some of it.”
Luke looked at Quinn. “She did the horse stunt.”
Quinn rubbed his forehead. “I heard.”
Trevor leaned against the counter. “I still cannot believe Quinn pulled America’s sweetheart by saying ‘good watching.’”
You gasped. “He told you that?”
“No,” Trevor said. “I guessed. But judging by his face, I nailed it.”
The room erupted.
Quinn turned to you, betrayed. “You told them?”
“I told Ellen.”
Ellen lifted her hands innocently. “It was a very charming story.”
“It was humiliating.”
“It was charming,” you corrected.
Jack pointed at Quinn. “You said ‘good watching’ to her?”
Quinn looked at the ceiling. “I hate all of you.”
Jim, who had been quietly enjoying the entire collapse of his eldest son’s dignity, patted him on the shoulder. “Could’ve been worse.”
“How?”
Jim thought about it. “No, actually, that was pretty bad.”
You laughed so hard you had to lean into Quinn’s side.
By dinner, the initial shock had settled into something warmer.
People still stared sometimes, but not in a cruel way. More in the way people looked at someone they had only seen through screens and were now trying to reconcile with the person passing salad across the table and asking if anyone needed more bread.
You were funny. Not polished-interview funny, but real funny. You teased Quinn when everyone else did. You asked Jack about his summer training and Luke about New Jersey and Trevor about whatever story he had started telling with way too much confidence. You remembered everyone’s names, even the younger cousins. You helped Ellen clear plates despite Ellen telling you three times that you were a guest.
At one point, Quinn found you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, rinsing dishes beside his mom while Ellen told you a story about the boys growing up.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said softly.
You looked over your shoulder. “I know.”
Ellen smiled to herself but said nothing.
Later that night, after the house had quieted and most people had moved outside, Quinn took you down to the dock.
The lake was dark and calm, moonlight rippling across the surface. Music and laughter floated from the house behind you, softened by distance.
You sat beside him with your knees pulled to your chest.
“So,” Quinn said after a while.
You looked over. “So.”
“That was…”
“A lot?”
“I was going to say embarrassing.”
You smiled. “It was sweet.”
“Trevor said he had posters of you.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
“Luke forgot how to breathe.”
“That was also sweet.”
“Jack called me a loser in front of you.”
“You are a little bit of a loser.”
Quinn looked at you.
You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “My loser.”
His expression softened, the teasing draining out of him.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
You knew what he meant.
Not just with his family. Not just with the chaos.
With all of it.
You nodded slowly. “I think so. I was scared.”
“Of them?”
“Of them not liking me. Of them thinking I’m… too much.”
His brows pulled together. “You’re not too much.”
“You say that because you love me.”
“I say that because it’s true.”
You looked down at the water. “Sometimes people don’t know what to do with the fame part. They either treat me like I’m not real, or they get weird, or they assume everything around me is going to become a circus.”
Quinn’s jaw tightened slightly.
“But your family didn’t make me feel bad,” you added quickly. “They were excited, yeah. Very excited.”
He groaned.
“But they were kind. And normal. Mostly.”
“Mostly is generous.”
You laughed, then rested your head on his shoulder.
Quinn leaned his cheek against your hair.
“They already adore you,” he murmured.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You said that before.”
“And I was right.”
Behind you, from somewhere near the house, Jack yelled, “Quinn! Tell your girlfriend Luke wants to know if she’ll sing at breakfast!”
Luke yelled back, “I did not say breakfast!”
Trevor shouted, “He said brunch!”
Quinn closed his eyes.
You burst out laughing.
The next morning, Quinn decided to show you Michigan properly.
It started quietly.
He took you to the little ice cream place he had mentioned on the drive from the airport, the one he swore had the best mint chocolate chip in the state. You wore a sundress, sunglasses, and one of Quinn’s old Michigan caps pulled low over your face.
For exactly seven minutes, nobody noticed.
Then a teenage girl behind the counter stared at you for too long.
Her eyes widened.
You gave her a tiny, knowing smile.
She slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Quinn immediately went alert beside you.
The girl looked terrified of her own excitement. “I’m so sorry. Are you—”
You nodded gently. “Yeah.”
“I love you,” the girl blurted, then looked horrified. “I mean, not in a weird way. I mean, your music. And your movies. And you. Sorry.”
You smiled. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
“Can I get a picture? Only if that’s okay. I don’t want to be annoying.”
“It’s okay.”
Quinn stepped aside automatically, but his eyes scanned the small shop, already checking who was watching, who had a phone out, who was edging closer.
One photo became three. Then someone’s mom recognized you. Then a group of college students at a corner table realized what was happening.
Within five minutes, the tiny ice cream shop had turned into a crowd.
You handled it beautifully.
You always did.
You smiled, posed, signed receipts, complimented someone’s earrings, hugged the teenage girl who was crying a little, and kept saying, “Thank you, that’s so kind,” like every person mattered.
Quinn watched with a strange ache in his chest.
Because you were good at it.
Too good.
Good in a way that told him you had learned how to make yourself available even when you were tired. How to make strangers feel loved even when they were standing too close. How to stay gracious when everyone wanted a piece of you.
When one guy tried to lean in too close for a photo, Quinn moved before he could think.
He stepped beside you, hand firm at your back.
“Give her some space,” he said.
His voice was not loud.
It did not need to be.
The guy backed up immediately.
You glanced at Quinn, then reached down and squeezed his hand.
Once you were finally outside with melting ice cream, Quinn exhaled hard.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You frowned. “For what?”
“I brought you here.”
“Quinn.”
“I didn’t think it would get like that.”
“It always gets like that eventually.”
He hated that answer.
You could tell.
You stopped walking and turned toward him. “Hey.”
He looked down at you.
“I’m okay.”
“You shouldn’t have to be okay with that.”
“I’m not always,” you admitted. “But today was fine. They were mostly sweet.”
“Mostly.”
You smiled softly. “You were very scary.”
“I was not scary.”
“You used your captain voice.”
“I don’t have a captain voice.”
“You absolutely have a captain voice.”
Quinn’s mouth twitched. “Did it work?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m using it again.”
You laughed and leaned into his side as you walked back to the car.
After that, Quinn got more careful.
At the University of Michigan, he parked somewhere less obvious and tried to keep the tour low-key. He showed you Yost from the outside first, telling you stories about being a kid around the program, about visiting campus, about the strange pull the place had on his family.
You listened closely, fingers linked with his.
“You get different here,” you said.
He looked at you. “Different how?”
“Lighter.”
He shrugged, embarrassed.
“I like it,” you said.
That made him smile.
For a while, you managed to wander campus like any other couple. Quinn pointed out places connected to Jack and Luke, told you which streets got insane on game days, and admitted that yes, he still got chirped by his brothers about things that happened when they were children.
Then someone recognized you near the Diag.
This time it spread faster.
College students were quicker with phones. A few approached politely. Then more. Then someone posted online.
By the time you and Quinn were trying to leave, there were paparazzi waiting near the edge of campus.
Not many.
But enough.
Your hand tightened around his.
Quinn felt it.
“Y/N!” one photographer called. “Is this the boyfriend?”
“Quinn, over here!”
“How long have you two been dating?”
“Did you meet the family?”
“Are you going to the wedding together?”
Quinn’s face went hard in a way you rarely saw.
He moved slightly in front of you, keeping his body between you and the cameras as he guided you toward the car. His hand stayed on your waist, steady and protective.
You kept your head down.
Not because you were ashamed.
Because sometimes not giving them your face was the only control you had.
One photographer stepped closer.
Quinn stopped.
“Back up,” he said.
The photographer laughed. “Just a few shots, man.”
“Back up.”
There it was again.
The captain voice.
The man backed up.
Quinn opened your door, waited until you were in, then shut it carefully before going around to the driver’s side.
Inside the car, everything went quiet.
The cameras flashed through the windshield.
Quinn started the engine, jaw clenched.
You watched him for a second. “Baby.”
His grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You didn’t call them.”
“I know, but—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He shook his head. “I wanted to show you my life. Not make yours harder.”
Your chest squeezed.
You reached over and touched his arm. “You did show me your life.”
His eyes flicked to yours.
“The ice cream place. The campus. The lake. Your mom’s kitchen. Luke having a crisis because I did a horse stunt.”
That got the smallest laugh out of him.
You squeezed his arm. “That’s the part I care about.”
“I hate that they follow you.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”
“I know that too.”
Quinn looked at you then, really looked, and the anger in him softened into something sadder.
“I just want you to feel safe here,” he said.
You leaned across the console and kissed him softly.
“I do,” you whispered. “With you.”
By the time you got back to the house, the photos were already online.
Jack knew before you even walked in.
Because of course he did.
He was sitting at the kitchen island with Luke and Trevor, phones in hand, eyes wide.
Quinn stopped in the doorway. “Do not.”
Jack put his phone face down immediately. “Wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was, but now I’m not.”
Luke looked guilty. “There are pictures.”
“I know,” Quinn said shortly.
Trevor glanced at you. “Are you okay?”
The question was surprisingly gentle.
You softened. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
Jack studied Quinn’s face, then slid off the stool. “Want me to say something stupid to distract everyone?”
Quinn looked at him.
Jack shrugged. “It’s kind of my gift.”
You smiled.
Luke stood too. “Or we can make sure nobody posts anything from here. Like, family-wise. No one has to know where the house is or wedding stuff.”
That made you pause.
Trevor nodded quickly. “Yeah, I’ll tell the guys. No tagging locations. No stories with the house. No lake signs. Nothing.”
Cole, passing through with a bag of chips, said, “Already told everyone in the group chat.”
Quinn looked around at them, surprised.
Jack shrugged again, but his expression was serious now. “She’s family-adjacent. We protect family-adjacent.”
Luke frowned. “Why adjacent?”
“I didn’t want to scare Quinn by saying family.”
Quinn rolled his eyes, but his throat worked like he was touched.
You were touched enough for both of you.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
Trevor pointed at you. “Of course. Also, for the record, if anyone asks, I was very normal when I met you.”
Quinn snorted.
Luke said, “You told her you had posters.”
“That was honesty.”
“That was a cry for help.”
The wedding weekend turned into exactly the kind of chaos you should have expected from the Hughes family.
At the rehearsal dinner, you sat beside Quinn while relatives came up one by one under the very thin excuse of introducing themselves. Some were genuinely calm. Some were not. One aunt told you she loved your Christmas album so much she played it every year while baking cookies. A teenage cousin tried to pretend he did not care and then asked for a selfie twelve minutes later.
You said yes to everyone.
Quinn kept checking on you quietly.
A hand on your knee under the table.
A murmured, “Need a break?”
A glass of water appearing before you asked.
At one point, you leaned close and whispered, “You know, your family is really sweet.”
He glanced across the room, where Jack was attempting to teach two cousins how to do a ridiculous dance while Luke filmed and Trevor shouted corrections.
“That is not the word I’d use.”
“They love each other.”
“They’re loud.”
“They’re happy.”
“They’re embarrassing.”
You smiled. “You’re embarrassed because they love you loudly.”
Quinn looked at you.
You shrugged. “I think it’s nice.”
He was quiet for a moment before saying, “They love you loudly too.”
You looked down, suddenly shy. “They barely know me.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
At the wedding itself, Quinn looked beautiful.
There was really no other word for it.
He stood beside you in a suit, hair neat for once, tie slightly crooked until you fixed it for him. He looked down at you while your fingers adjusted the knot, eyes soft in a way that made your stomach flutter.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed.”
You smiled. “Oh, now you stare?”
“I’ve been staring since Minnesota.”
That made you freeze for half a second.
Then you laughed quietly. “Smooth.”
“I’m getting better.”
“Barely.”
During the reception, the Hughes family fully adopted you.
Ellen pulled you onto the dance floor.
Jim asked if you were having fun and looked genuinely relieved when you said yes.
Jack made it his mission to get one normal picture with you and Quinn, but every time someone ruined it. In the first photo, Luke blinked. In the second, Trevor popped up behind you. In the third, Quinn looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
“Can you smile like you’re dating the love of your life?” Jack complained.
Quinn deadpanned, “I am.”
“You look like you’re being held hostage.”
You leaned into Quinn’s side. “That’s just his face.”
Luke laughed so hard he nearly dropped the phone.
Later, one of the younger cousins asked if you would dance with her. You did. Then her brother wanted a dance too. Then somehow you ended up in the middle of a circle of Hughes cousins, laughing as they taught you a dance they had clearly made up five minutes before.
Quinn watched from the edge of the floor, arms crossed, trying and failing to hide his smile.
Jack came up beside him.
“You’re so gone,” Jack said.
Quinn did not look away from you. “Shut up.”
“No, like embarrassingly gone.”
“Jack.”
“She’s really nice.”
Quinn’s expression softened. “Yeah.”
“Not fake nice either.”
“No.”
Jack was quiet for a second. Then he said, “I’m happy for you.”
Quinn finally looked at him.
Jack shrugged, suddenly awkward. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird.”
“I was being emotionally mature.”
“You lasted four seconds.”
“That’s growth.”
Quinn huffed a laugh and looked back at you.
You caught his eye from across the dance floor and smiled.
His whole face changed.
Jack saw it.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.”
Quinn shoved him lightly. “Go away.”
By the end of the night, your feet hurt, your face ached from smiling, and your phone had hundreds of photos you knew you would treasure more than anything taken by professionals.
Not red carpets.
Not magazine covers.
Not award shows.
Blurry, warm, chaotic photos of Quinn’s family.
Luke giving you a thumbs-up while holding cake.
Trevor pretending to faint beside you.
Jack forcing Quinn into a selfie.
Ellen hugging you.
Jim laughing in the background.
Quinn kissing your temple when he thought no one was looking.
Someone caught that photo too.
You stared at it later in bed, tucked into Quinn’s side in the guest room, your makeup washed off and your dress hanging over a chair.
“Send me that one,” Quinn murmured sleepily.
You looked down at him. “This one?”
“Mhm.”
“You don’t even like photos.”
“I like that one.”
You smiled and sent it.
Then, after a second, you said, “Your family makes me feel normal.”
Quinn’s arm tightened around you.
“They make you feel normal?” he asked, amused. “After everything that happened in the kitchen?”
You laughed softly. “Okay. Not normal. But… wanted. For me. Not for the other stuff.”
He opened his eyes.
“You are wanted for you,” he said.
Your throat got tight.
“By them?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
His hand moved gently over your back.
“And by me,” he added, quieter.
You leaned down and kissed him.
It was soft at first, then sweeter, lingering in the quiet of the room while muffled laughter still drifted from downstairs.
When you pulled away, Quinn brushed his thumb along your cheek.
“I’m glad you came,” he whispered.
“Me too.”
The next morning, you walked into the kitchen wearing one of Quinn’s hoodies and found Luke already there eating cereal.
He froze again.
You stopped. “Are we doing this every time?”
Luke swallowed. “Sorry. It’s just weird seeing you in Quinn’s hoodie.”
You looked down at it. “Should I change?”
“No,” Luke said quickly. “No, it’s cute. I mean— not cute. I mean, it is cute. But not in a weird way. Quinn is my brother. This is uncomfortable.”
You stared at him.
Luke stared back.
Then you both burst out laughing.
Jack came in behind him, took one look at you, and grinned. “Morning, superstar.”
Quinn entered two seconds later. “Don’t call her that.”
“She is literally a superstar.”
“She has a name.”
“Fine.” Jack turned to you. “Morning, Quinn’s girlfriend who is also globally famous but apparently we’re pretending that’s casual.”
You smiled. “Morning, Jack.”
Trevor, appearing from nowhere, pointed a spoon at Quinn. “I just want to say, after spending more time with her, I get it.”
Quinn frowned. “Get what?”
“How you pulled her.”
Quinn blinked.
Trevor nodded solemnly. “She’s nice enough to overlook a lot.”
The kitchen exploded.
Quinn grabbed a dish towel and threw it at him.
You laughed until you had tears in your eyes.
And somewhere between the teasing, the pancakes Ellen made because she insisted no one was leaving hungry, the cousins asking when you would come back, and Quinn standing beside you with pink ears and a hand resting lightly on your back, you realized something.
You had spent years being loved by millions of people who did not really know you.
But this felt different.
This loud, messy, affectionate family had seen you startled in a kitchen, overwhelmed by strangers, nervous before a wedding, laughing barefoot on a dock, dancing badly with children, and wearing Quinn’s hoodie at breakfast.
And they liked you anyway.
Maybe even because of it.
When it was finally time to leave, Ellen hugged you tightly.
“You come back anytime,” she said.
Your eyes stung. “Thank you.”
Jim gave you a warm smile. “You’re good for him.”
You glanced at Quinn, who immediately looked down, embarrassed.
Jack hugged you and whispered, “For the record, if Quinn messes this up, we’re keeping you.”
Luke nodded seriously. “Yeah. You can have his room.”
Trevor added, “And I still want that poster signed next time.”
Quinn groaned. “There will not be a next time if you keep talking.”
You smiled up at him. “There’ll be a next time.”
His expression softened.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You slipped your hand into his.
“Yeah.”
Quinn squeezed your fingers, and when he looked back at his family, they were all watching with matching expressions of amusement and affection.
Jack made a gagging noise.
Luke looked genuinely happy.
Ellen was trying not to cry.
Trevor yelled, “America’s sweetheart and Canada’s grumpiest defenseman!”
Quinn pointed at him. “I’m going to throw you in the lake.”
“You can try!”
You leaned into Quinn’s side, laughing as the chaos started all over again.
And for once, the cameras were not there.
The world did not get this part.
This part belonged only to you, Quinn, and the loud, ridiculous, loving family who had somehow managed to make you feel, for a weekend, like you were not a headline at all.
Just a girl in love with their son.
And Quinn, red-faced and mortified and happier than anyone had seen him in a long time, would not have had it any other way.
Summary: you’re an ice dancer who’s spent your entire life focused on one thing: winning. Romance? Distractions? Hard pass. Then a hockey player sees you across the Olympic Village and completely malfunctions. Like, stops-walking-gets-shoved-by-teammates-becomes-a-viral-TikTok kind of malfunctions. Your well-meaning coach and his well-meaning captain decide the solution is obvious: lock you both in a room with false promises of puppies and Mario Kart. Turns out, sometimes the best things happen when you stop trying to control everything. Sometimes love is just as terrifying as a triple twizzle. And maybe worth the risk.
Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part II here ❤️
The Olympic Village in Milan smells like ambition and dry ice and somebody’s forgotten protein shake, and you have decided, firmly and finally, that you are going to ignore all of it.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of your room, legs stretched into a straddle so wide it would make a non-skater wince, rolling a tennis ball under your left hip flexor and staring at the footage on your laptop like it owes you something. The free dance. Third rotation of the midline step sequence. Your left edge keeps betraying you in the exact same spot, a tiny hesitation, barely visible unless you know what you’re looking for.
You know what you’re looking for.
Tristan Lamothe, your partner, your best friend, the person who has seen you cry over everything from a doubled twizzle to a broken nail to that one devastating episode of Heated Rivalry, is currently spread across your twin bed like he owns it. His skate bag is on the floor. His water bottle is on your nightstand. His phone is balanced on his chest, and he’s scrolling with the particular energy of someone who has absolutely nothing to do and plans to keep doing it indefinitely.
“You should download Hinge,” he says.
You don’t look up from your laptop.
“No.”
“I’m just saying-”
“Tristan.”
“It’s been redesigned. The interface is actually good now.”
“The answer was no in October, it was no in November, it was no when you made me sit through that entire TED Talk about modern dating, and it is no right now, in Milan, at the Olympics, where I am trying to work.”
He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on one hand, and gives you the look. You can feel it without seeing it. Ten years of partnership means you have memorized every single one of his expressions, including Look Number Seven, which is the one that says I love you but you are being genuinely unhinged about this.
“You’re watching practice footage,” he says.
“Yes.”
“We practiced four hours ago.”
“I’m aware.”
“Y/N.” He says your name like it has two extra syllables. A gift he has always had. “We are in Italy. We are at the Olympics. We are surrounded by, and I cannot stress this enough, some of the most genetically blessed athletes on the planet Earth, and you are watching your own twizzle on a laptop screen.”
“It’s not my twizzle, it’s my edge-”
“You are,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “determined to remain celibate for the rest of your natural life. Even my grandma is getting more action than you right now.”
You turn and look at him then. You can’t help it.
“Your grandma,” you say flatly, “is in a nursing home.”
He smirks. It is immediate and devastating and extremely annoying.
“She’s very popular with the male residents.”
You grab your pillow and scream into it.
The sound comes out muffled and long and deeply, genuinely cathartic, and when you lift your head, Tristan is grinning at the ceiling with the satisfaction of a man who has accomplished something meaningful.
“Feel better?”
“Marginally.”
“Good.” He sits up, crossing his legs, facing you properly now. This is his serious face, which means it’s even worse than the smirk. “Can I say the actual thing?”
“You’re going to regardless.”
“After the opening ceremony,” he begins.
“Tristan-”
“There was a Swedish snowboarder-”
“Tristan-”
“Making full bedroom eyes at you.” He holds up a hand to stop your protest. “Not ambiguous eyes. Not friendly eyes. Not ‘I appreciate you as a fellow Olympian’ eyes. Bedroom eyes. The man was basically building IKEA furniture with his stare.”
You close the laptop. Not because you’re giving in, but because this conversation has officially required your full attention and your edge correction can wait twenty minutes.
“I didn’t notice,” you say.
“That’s the problem.”
“That’s not a problem, that’s called being focused.”
“It’s called being willfully oblivious.” He tilts his head. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”
You open your mouth.
“And training dinners with me don’t count,” he adds.
You close your mouth.
He raises both eyebrows.
“Okay,” you say, pointing at him, “first of all, I’ve been busy-”
“You’ve been busy,” he repeats, in the voice he uses when he’s quoting you back to yourself in a way designed to make you feel foolish.
“We’ve been busy. The Grand Prix season, Nationals, Four Continents, and now this — Tristan, we’ve been on the ice six days a week since September, Scott has us on a training schedule that would make a Navy SEAL cry, and you want me to be downloading dating apps in the middle of all that?”
“I downloaded three dating apps during Grand Prix season.”
“And how did that go?”
“Incredibly well, actually, I’m still talking to the guy from Skate Canada-”
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“Because you’re-” you gesture vaguely, “-you. You’re good at that. You’re charming and you know what you want and you just talk to people like it’s easy.”
Something shifts in his expression. He gets quieter, which for Tristan is significant, because Tristan’s baseline volume is set somewhere around theatrical.
“It’s easy for you too,” he says. “When you let it be.”
You look at him for a moment. Then you look at the closed laptop.
The thing about Tristan — the thing that nobody in the skating world quite understands when they look at your partnership from the outside, when they write their little articles and post their little edits set to whatever song is trending with the caption sorry but they’re OBVIOUSLY in love — is that he has known you longer and better than almost anyone alive. You have been on the ice together since you were nine years old, since you were two kids at the Gadbois Centre in Montreal being shuffled into ice dance because you were too chaotic for singles and too small for pairs, and somewhere in that first year you looked at each other across a spin and decided, wordlessly and permanently, to become the most important person in each other’s lives.
He’s been there for every edge. Every fall. Every silver medal that should have been gold. Every competition where the nerves ate you alive from the inside and you threw up in the bathroom at 5 AM and he sat on the floor next to you and didn’t say anything, just handed you a paper towel and a Werther’s Original from his jacket pocket, which is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you and it came from your gay best friend.
That is the state of your romantic life.
“I just,” you start.
“You just what?”
You rub the back of your neck. “I want the gold medal, Trist. That’s the thing I want. Tessa and Scott won it in 2018 and now Scott coaches us, and I think about that all the time. I think about what it would mean to bring that home. For Canada. For him. For us.” You glance up. “I don’t want to be distracted.”
Tristan is quiet for a beat.
“When Tessa and Scott won the gold medal in 2018, she was fully living her best life-”
“You don’t know that-”
“I’m choosing to believe it.”
“Tristan!”
“I’m just saying!” He holds his hands up. “Love and sport don’t have to be enemies. That’s a false binary that you’ve constructed to protect yourself and I think your therapist would agree with me.”
“My therapist would tell me that’s a projection.”
“Your therapist says everything is a projection.”
“She’s usually right!”
You’re both laughing now, the way you always end up laughing, the laughter arriving before you even fully understand why and dissolving whatever tension had been building. It’s the best thing about him. The most unfair thing about him too — it’s very hard to maintain a righteous position when Tristan Lamothe is in the room.
He flops back against your pillow, dramatically, like he’s been shot.
“Okay,” he says, to the ceiling. “I won’t make you download Hinge.”
“Thank you.”
“I am, however, going to need you to acknowledge that the Swedish snowboarder was real and that he was looking at you.”
“I acknowledge nothing.”
“His name is Erik. I found his Instagram.”
“Tristan, oh my God-”
“Ninety thousand followers, very consistent aesthetic-”
“I don’t care about his Instagram!”
“You should-”
“I’m closing my eyes and counting to ten,” you announce, and you do, pressing your palms over your face, and Tristan, behind your eyelids, makes the specific sound he makes when he’s trying not to laugh and losing badly.
When you open your eyes, he’s sitting up again, and he’s got the softer look now. The real one. The one that doesn’t have a number because you’ve never needed to categorize it — you just know it means I see you and I’m on your side even when I’m annoying you.
“You know I just want you to be happy, right?” He says.
“I know.”
“And you know that being happy and winning are not mutually exclusive things.”
“I know.” You lean back against the wall. “I just think I want to win first. And then be happy.”
He considers this for a long moment.
“That’s extremely backwards,” he says finally.
“I know that too.”
He nods. Accepts it. Lets it be.
That’s the other thing about Tristan — he pushes, but he never forces. He’s been that way since you were nine, when you fell on your first outside edge and cried and he crouched down on the ice next to you and said, with great seriousness, do you wanna try again or do you want to sit here for a minute, and you said sit here, and he sat there with you on the cold ice without complaint until you were ready to stand.
He’s still doing that.
“Scott wants us in by nine tomorrow,” he says, shifting back to logistics the way you both always do, the skating filling back in like water. “He sent a voice memo. He sounded intense.”
“He always sounds intense.”
“He sounded specifically intense. He said something about the Italians fixing the ice and it being slower and he wants to adjust the timing on the step sequence entry.”
You straighten up. “Which step sequence?”
“The midline.”
Your eyes go immediately to the closed laptop.
Tristan gives you a look.
“I’m not going to say it,” he says.
“You were going to say ‘I told you so.’”
“I was absolutely going to say that, yes.” He stands, stretching, reaching his arms above his head until his spine cracks in three separate places, which is a sound you have made peace with after ten years. He grabs his water bottle off your nightstand. “Get some sleep. Ice time’s early.”
“I know.”
He pauses at the door, hand on the frame, glancing back at you with the kind of casual over-the-shoulder look that would send the ice dance fandom into complete cardiac arrest if they could see it.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think we’re going to win.”
Something in your chest goes quiet and warm.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He’s fully serious now, all the theatre dropped. Just Tristan. Your Tristan, who has been your partner through every fall and every spin for a decade, who knows your skating better than he knows his own because he’s that kind of person. “I think we’re the best team here. I think Scott knows it, I think the judges have known it all season, and I think you know it too even when you’re too scared to say it out loud.”
You don’t say anything.
“And,” he adds, the grin coming back as he knocks twice on the doorframe, “I think the Swedish snowboarder thinks so too, but that’s not relevant right now.”
“Tristan-”
“Goodnight!” He’s already gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and his laugh travels down the hallway and disappears.
The room is quiet.
You sit there on the floor for a moment, tennis ball in your hand, the laptop dark, the sounds of the Village muffled through the window — music from somewhere, voices in languages you can pick apart one by one, the particular busy hum of four thousand athletes living in compressed, temporary, electric proximity.
You think about 2018. Tessa and Scott, the ice in Pyeongchang, the gold they brought home. You think about Scott in the rink in Montreal, his voice carrying across the ice, the way he talks about that medal sometimes when he’s really trying to make a point — not like it was the end of something, but like it was the proof of something. That patience was possible. That the work paid off. That you could want a thing for a very long time and still have it arrive.
You think about the midline step sequence. Your left edge. Third rotation.
You open the laptop.
Just for five more minutes.
***
Macklin has been awake for approximately twenty-seven hours, and he is beginning to suspect that his eyeballs are going to fall out of his head.
San Jose to New York was seven hours. New York to Milan was another eight. Add in the time spent in JFK waiting for the rest of Team Canada to assemble — NHL players filtering in from their respective cities, the coaching staff doing headcounts like they’re on a middle school field trip, the equipment managers performing some kind of logistical miracle to get everyone’s gear onto the charter — and Macklin has officially crossed the threshold from “tired” into “possibly no longer a corporeal being.”
He’s wearing the Team Canada-issued Lululemon tracksuit, which is objectively very nice and also makes him feel like a walking advertisement. Red and white, the maple leaf embroidered over his heart, the fabric somehow both technical and cozy in a way that makes him want to sleep standing up. Which he might actually do. It’s hard to say at this point.
“You good, Celly?” Seth Jarvis asks, bumping Macklin’s shoulder as they file through the Olympic Village check-in process.
“Yeah,” Macklin says, which is a lie.
“You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“I’m not gonna pass out.”
“You look like a baby giraffe.”
“I don’t-” Macklin starts, and then he catches his reflection in one of the glass doors and realizes Seth is not entirely wrong. His legs feel vaguely theoretical. His spine is a suggestion.
Behind them, Brad Marchand is arguing with one of the volunteer organizers about room assignments, Tom Wilson is taking a selfie with the Olympic rings statue like it’s 2014, and Sidney Crosby is reading through some kind of informational packet with the focus of a man studying game film. The whole scene is deeply surreal, the kind of thing Macklin imagined a thousand times growing up and is now experiencing in real-time while his brain runs on fumes and airplane peanuts.
“They’re gonna put us in rooms soon,” Seth says, scrolling on his phone. “You gonna make it?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re swaying.”
“I’m not-”
“You are definitely swaying.”
Macklin plants his feet more firmly on the ground, which helps for approximately four seconds before his knees remember they’re tired too.
The check-in process is taking forever. There are clipboards. There are lanyards. There are about forty-seven different people in bright blue volunteer jackets saying things in Italian and English and occasionally French, all of which is blending together into a linguistic smoothie that Macklin’s brain is too exhausted to parse.
And then the doors open.
And you walk out.
The thing is, Macklin is genuinely not sure if you’re real.
You’re in a Team Canada jacket — the nice one, the puffer with the red and white colorblocking that all the athletes got — and black leggings and sneakers, your hair pulled back, a gym bag slung over your shoulder. You’re mid-conversation with the guy next to you, laughing at something he just said, your whole face bright with it, and Macklin’s brain, running on zero sleep and sheer force of will, does something it has never done before.
It just … stops.
Full system shutdown.
You’re the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his entire life, and he has been to galas and award shows and played hockey in front of sold-out arenas, and none of that prepared him for whatever is happening to his central nervous system right now.
You’re walking across the courtyard with the guy — tall, athletic, also in Team Canada gear, talking with his hands in that way people do when they’re telling a story they think is very funny. The two of you are completely at ease, the kind of comfortable body language that makes Macklin’s stomach do something complicated and unhappy, because of course you’re with someone, of course you are, why wouldn’t you be-
“Holy shit,” Seth says, very quietly, next to him.
Macklin doesn’t respond. He’s not sure he’s breathing.
Seth reaches over, puts one hand under Macklin’s jaw, and physically closes his mouth.
“You’re drooling,” Seth says.
“I’m not-”
“Definitely drooling.” Seth follows Macklin’s line of sight across the courtyard, to where you and the guy are now stopped near one of the bike racks, still talking. Seth lets out a low whistle. “Okay. I can’t even blame you for that one.”
“What’s happening?” Tom Wilson has appeared, because of course he has, because Macklin’s humiliation needs witnesses.
“Baby Celebrini’s having a moment,” Seth says.
“I’m not-”
“He’s very much having a moment.”
Tom looks. Tom grins. Tom has the specific energy of a man who has just discovered entertainment.
“Oh, this is good,” Tom says.
“It’s not-” Macklin tries.
“That’s a solid choice, kid,” Brad Marchand adds, materializing on Macklin’s other side like a chirping-based teleportation device. “Way out of your league, but solid.”
“I wasn’t-”
“You were absolutely-”
“Can everyone please-”
“Celly’s got a crush!” Tom announces, to approximately no one and everyone.
“I don’t-” Macklin’s face is on fire. His face is absolutely on fire, he can feel it, the red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, and he’s going to murder his teammates, he’s going to actually commit a crime. “I just—she’s—I’m jet-lagged.”
“Uh-huh,” Seth says.
“I am! I’m hallucinating.”
“You think you’re hallucinating a whole person?”
“It’s possible!”
“It’s not possible,” Brad says. “She’s very real. And very much with that guy, looks like.”
Macklin’s stomach does the complicated thing again.
Across the courtyard, you’ve said something that makes the guy double over laughing, and you shove his shoulder, grinning, and the two of you start walking again, toward one of the other Canadian buildings.
“Yeah,” Macklin says, trying to sound normal and casual and like his entire life hasn’t just been upended by a thirty-second glimpse of a stranger. “Yeah, no, I figured.”
“Macklin.”
It’s Sidney Crosby.
Everyone shuts up immediately, which is what happens when Sidney Crosby says your name, because Sidney Crosby is Sidney Crosby and also the team captain and also possibly the best hockey player alive, and Macklin has spent the last two days trying very hard not to weird him out by staring.
Sid steps into the little circle they’ve formed, hands in the pockets of his Team Canada jacket, expression calm.
“We’re here to win,” Sid says.
“Yes sir,” Macklin says immediately.
“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy the experience.”
Macklin blinks.
Sid nods toward you, across the courtyard, where you’re now stopped again, the guy gesturing animatedly about something.
“You should go introduce yourself,” Sid says.
Macklin’s brain short-circuits for the second time in three minutes.
“I—what?”
“Just go say hi.”
“I can’t-”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s-” Macklin gestures helplessly in your direction. “She’s clearly with that guy.”
There is a pause.
And then, very unfortunately, several of Macklin’s teammates start laughing.
Not all of them. Sid’s not laughing. But Seth is. Tom is. Mitch Marner is actively wheezing. Even some of the guys who’d been focused on check-in have tuned into the conversation and are now grinning in a way that makes Macklin want to sink directly into the Italian pavement.
“What?” Macklin says.
“Oh buddy,” Seth says, clapping him on the shoulder.
“What?”
Tom is actually wiping his eyes. “You’re serious right now.”
“About what?”
“Mack,” Mitch says, trying to pull himself together and failing. “That guy is very gay.”
Macklin looks back across the courtyard.
You and the guy are walking again, his arm looped through yours now in a way that Macklin had interpreted as romantic approximately ninety seconds ago and is now realizing might be something else entirely.
“How do you-” Macklin starts.
“The vibes, kid,” Tom says.
“The vibes?”
“Trust us on this one,” Seth says. “That is not her boyfriend.”
“You don’t know that-”
“I would bet actual money on it.”
“Me too,” Mitch says.
“Me three,” Tom adds.
Macklin looks at Sid, who shrugs.
“They’re probably right,” Sid says.
“You can’t just-” Macklin runs a hand through his hair, which is definitely doing something unhinged right now after twenty-seven hours of travel and zero showers. “You can’t just assume someone’s gay because of vibes.”
“You can when the vibes are that strong,” Tom says.
“Okay but even if-” Macklin takes a breath. Tries to locate a coherent thought. Fails. “Even if he’s not her boyfriend, I can’t just walk over there.”
“Why not?” Sid asks.
“Because I look like-” Macklin gestures at himself. “I’ve been awake for a full day, I’m wearing a tracksuit, I probably smell like airplane-”
“You definitely smell like airplane,” Seth confirms.
“Not helping.”
“Just being honest.”
“And also,” Macklin continues, “I don’t even know who she is. I can’t just walk up to a random person and—what, introduce myself? That’s insane.”
“That’s literally what people do,” Brad says.
“At normal places! Not at the Olympics!”
“Especially at the Olympics,” Tom says. “Do you know how many Olympic Village hookups happen?”
“I don’t want to-” Macklin stops. Regroups. “I’m not trying to hook up with anyone, I’m trying to win a gold medal.”
“You can do both,” Tom says cheerfully.
“I really don’t think-”
“Mack.” Sid again, cutting through the noise with the kind of calm authority that makes Macklin’s spine straighten automatically. “You’re overthinking it.”
“I’m really not-”
“You are.” Sid’s almost smiling now, which is deeply unfair. “It’s the Olympics. Everyone’s nervous. Everyone’s excited. Just go say hi. Worst case, she’s not interested. Best case …” He shrugs. “You make a friend.”
“A friend,” Macklin repeats.
“Or more than a friend,” Seth adds.
“Seth-”
“I’m just saying!”
Macklin looks back across the courtyard, but you’re gone. You and the guy — the maybe-gay guy, according to the vibes council — have disappeared into one of the buildings, and the moment has passed, and Macklin feels a strange combination of relief and disappointment that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
“She’s gone,” he says.
“She’s in the Village,” Brad points out. “You’ll see her again.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” Tom says. “It’s not that big. And you’re both Team Canada. You’ll run into each other.”
“And when you do,” Seth says, grinning, “you’re going to actually talk to her like a normal human person.”
“I talk like a normal human person.”
“You talk like a guy who’s had too much media training.”
“I’ve had no media training-”
“Explains a lot actually,” Brad mutters.
One of the organizers calls for the Canadian hockey team, and the group starts moving toward the check-in desks, the conversation dissolving into the general noise of athletes and luggage and people trying to figure out where they’re supposed to be.
Macklin follows, his brain still approximately three steps behind his body.
He’s not sure what just happened. He saw a girl. A beautiful girl. A girl who made his entire cardiovascular system forget how to function. And now he’s being actively encouraged by Sidney Crosby to introduce himself, which feels like some kind of alternate universe situation that he hasn’t fully processed.
“You good?” Sid asks, falling into step next to him.
“Yeah,” Macklin says. “Just tired.”
“Get some sleep,” Sid says. “We’ve got practice tomorrow morning. And try not to stress about the girl.”
“I’m not-”
Sid gives him a look.
“Okay,” Macklin admits. “Maybe a little.”
“It’s the Olympics,” Sid says. “Everyone’s a little stressed about something.” He pauses. “But for what it’s worth? You really should talk to her. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes Macklin think Sid is speaking from experience, but before he can ask, they’re at the check-in desk and someone’s handing Macklin a folder with his room assignment and a map of the Village and approximately twelve different informational packets about things he’s too tired to read.
***
His room is small and clean and has two twin beds, which means he has a roommate, which turns out to be Seth because the universe has a sense of humor.
“Don’t worry,” Seth says, dropping his bag on the bed by the window. “I won’t tell the whole team you’re in love.”
“I’m not in love-”
“You’re in something.”
“I saw her for thirty seconds.”
“Powerful thirty seconds.”
Macklin sits down on his bed and puts his head in his hands.
“I’m so tired,” he says.
“Then sleep.”
“I can’t. My brain won’t stop.”
“Thinking about the girl?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He looks up. “Do you actually think that guy was gay?”
Seth considers this. “Yeah, honestly. The arm-loop thing? The energy? I’d put money on it.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s single.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s not.”
Macklin flops backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The ceiling is white. The ceiling is boring. The ceiling is not a beautiful girl in a Team Canada jacket who smiled like sunlight.
“This is stupid,” he says.
“It’s not stupid.”
“I don’t even know her name.”
“So find out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, ask literally any other Canadian athlete? It’s not a covert operation, Mack. She’s on the team. Someone knows who she is.”
Macklin turns his head to look at Seth, who’s now unpacking his toiletries with the efficiency of someone who has traveled to approximately one million hockey tournaments.
“You think I should actually do this,” Macklin says.
“I think you’d be dumb not to.” Seth tosses a travel-sized shampoo bottle into his bag. “Look, I get it. You’re focused on hockey. That’s good. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But dude, you’re nineteen years old at the Olympics. You’re allowed to talk to a pretty girl.”
“What if she thinks I’m weird?”
“Then she thinks you’re weird. You survive. You move on.”
“What if I completely embarrass myself?”
“Then you completely embarrass yourself. Again — you survive, you move on.”
“You’re very calm about this.”
“I’m very realistic about this.” Seth sits down on his own bed, facing Macklin. “You know what you’re gonna regret? Not trying. You know what you’re not gonna regret? Introducing yourself to someone and it not working out. That’s just data. That’s just life.”
Macklin stares at him.
“When did you become wise?” He asks.
“I’ve always been wise. You’ve just been too busy being a first-overall pick to notice.”
“That’s fair.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Outside, the sounds of the Olympic Village filter through the window — voices in half a dozen languages, someone’s music playing, the particular buzz of a few thousand people living in temporary, concentrated proximity.
“Get some sleep,” Seth says finally. “Practice is early. And if we run into her tomorrow, you’re saying hi.”
“We’re not gonna run into her-”
“It’s the Olympic Village. It’s like a small town. We’re absolutely gonna run into her.”
Macklin closes his eyes.
He’s not sure if Seth is right. But he’s also not sure if Seth is wrong.
And somewhere in the space between those two uncertainties, with the weight of twenty-seven hours of travel pressing down on him and the strange electric possibility of the Olympics humming just outside his window, Macklin falls asleep still wearing his Team Canada tracksuit, and dreams of a girl whose name he doesn’t know.
***
Your favorite program ever was Tessa and Scott’s Moulin Rouge free dance from the 2018 Olympics.
You were eleven years old, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in your parents’ living room in Montreal at some ungodly hour of the morning because of the time difference, and you watched them skate and you cried. Just openly cried, tears running down your face, because it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. The passion, the storytelling, the way they moved like one person split into two bodies. Your mom came downstairs and found you still sitting there after it was over, the TV on the post-skate commentary, your face wet.
“That,” you said, pointing at the screen, “is what I want to do.”
Your mom smiled. “Then you’ll do it.”
Eight years later, you’re standing at the boards of the Milano Ice Skating Arena, thirty minutes before the free dance event begins, and you think you might throw up.
“You’re not going to throw up,” Tristan says, reading your mind with the precision of someone who has known you for a decade.
“I might.”
“You’re not.”
“I really, genuinely might.”
He reaches over and squeezes your hand. His fingers are cold. Yours are colder.
“We’ve done this a thousand times,” he says quietly.
“Not at the Olympics.”
“Same ice. Same program. Same us.”
You look at him. He’s in his costume already — black pants, a white shirt that will get progressively more torn-looking as the program goes on, the design deliberately distressed. Orpheus, climbing out of the underworld. The poet who looked back.
You’re in black too. A dress that looks simple until you move, and then it catches the light in fragments. Eurydice. The girl who loved him. The girl who died.
The program is Wait for Me from Hadestown, the musical, a cover version that your choreographer found on someone’s YouTube channel and that you immediately knew was perfect. It’s heartbreaking. It doesn’t have a happy ending. Orpheus looks back and Eurydice is lost and the whole thing is devastating and beautiful and when you and Tristan skated it for Scott for the first time, full-out, at the Ice Academy back in September, he cried.
Actually cried.
You’d never seen Scott Moir cry before.
“That’s the one,” he said, wiping his eyes, not embarrassed at all. “That’s your Olympic program.”
And now it’s time to skate it.
“Fournier Beaudry and Cizeron skated clean,” you say, because your brain is spiraling and it needs something to hold onto, even if that something is anxiety. The French team went right before you, and they were good. They’re always good. They also happen to be sexual assault apologists, so fuck them, but they were technically very good.
“We’re better,” Tristan says.
“Are we?”
“Yes.” He turns you to face him, both hands on your shoulders, his expression serious in the way it only gets when he’s about to say something true. “We are better. We’ve been better all season. You know it. I know it. Scott knows it.” He pauses. “And more importantly, this program is ours. It’s not theirs. They can’t skate this story. Only we can.”
You take a breath.
The arena is packed. You can hear the crowd, the particular sound of thousands of people in an enclosed space, the hum of anticipation. There are Canadian flags everywhere. You saw your parents in the stands during warmup, your dad with the flag painted on his face, your mom crying already and you haven’t even skated yet.
Scott is at the boards, headset on, talking to the tech team. He catches your eye and nods once. It’s enough.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Tristan grins. “Let’s go break some hearts.”
***
The thing about ice dance is that it’s not just skating.
It’s storytelling. It’s acting. It’s taking four minutes of music and turning it into something that makes people feel things, something that stays with them long after you’ve left the ice.
And this program is everything.
The opening notes are quiet. Almost hesitant. You’re standing at center ice, Tristan behind you, his hand on your shoulder. Eurydice and Orpheus, before everything went wrong.
The music builds.
You move.
The first lift is a rotational, Tristan holding you as you spiral above him, and you can feel the ice underneath, the edges sharp and certain, the muscle memory of a thousand practice runs taking over. You land and the twizzles start — synchronized, fast, the kind of technical element that the judges love and that looks effortless but requires every ounce of focus you have.
The step sequence comes at the two-minute mark. The midline sequence, the one you’ve been obsessing over, the one where your left edge kept betraying you in practice. But not now. Now it’s perfect. Now you and Tristan are moving as one, the music swelling, the story unfolding.
Orpheus is leading Eurydice out of the underworld.
He’s not supposed to look back.
The second lift is a straight-line, Tristan carrying you across the ice, and you can see the judges in your peripheral vision, their faces focused, their pens moving. You land and immediately go into the circular step sequence, the hardest one, the one where you’re moving in opposite directions and have to maintain exact spacing and timing and twizzles.
You hit every beat.
The music shifts.
This is the part where it breaks.
Orpheus looks back.
The choreography here is devastating. Tristan reaches for you and you’re just out of reach. You reach back and he’s moving away. It’s a chase that can’t be won, a love that can’t be saved, and you’re skating it like your life depends on it because in this moment, it does.
The final lift is a reverse rotational. You’re above Tristan, spinning, and then you’re sliding down, your hand reaching for his face, and the music is fading and you’re on your knees on the ice and he’s standing above you and the last note ends and-
Silence.
For one heartbeat, the arena is completely silent.
And then it erupts.
You’re crying before you even stand up.
Tristan pulls you to your feet and you’re both shaking, holding onto each other, and the crowd is on their feet and the noise is deafening and you can see Scott at the boards and he’s crying again, openly, his hands pressed to his face.
“Holy shit,” Tristan says into your ear.
“Did we-”
“We just won the Olympics.”
“We don’t know that-”
“We just won the fucking Olympics.”
You’re still crying. The crowd is still screaming. Someone throws a stuffed animal onto the ice — a beaver wearing a tiny Canadian flag — and Tristan skates over to pick it up, holding it above his head like a trophy.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“I told you,” Tristan says, and he’s crying now too, both of you just standing there sobbing in your costumes while the arena loses its mind around you.
Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.
***
The actual medal ceremony happens later, but the aftermath is immediate and overwhelming.
The mixed zone is chaos. Every Canadian reporter wants a comment. Someone from CBC is crying. The Olympic Broadcasting Service wants you to describe the program and you can barely speak. Tristan does most of the talking, which is good, because Tristan is good at talking and you are currently a non-verbal puddle of emotions.
“It’s a story about love and loss,” Tristan is saying into a microphone, your hand still gripped in his. “About how sometimes loving someone isn’t enough. And I think that’s something everyone can relate to, whether you’ve been in that situation or not. We wanted to tell that story honestly.”
“And skating it at the Olympics?” The reporter asks.
“It’s unreal,” you manage, finding your voice. “This is everything we’ve worked for. Everything we’ve dreamed about since we were nine years old. To do it here, with this program, with my best friend-” Your voice breaks. “Sorry. I’m going to cry again.”
“Don’t apologize,” the reporter says, and she’s smiling. “Congratulations. Canada is so proud of you both.”
***
By the time you get back to the Village, it’s late afternoon and your phone has approximately six thousand notifications.
You’re still in your Team Canada tracksuit, medal around your neck because you haven’t taken it off, and you’re walking through the Village with Tristan and Scott, who insisted on escorting you back like you might evaporate if he lets you out of his sight.
“I need you both to eat something,” Scott says. It’s possibly the fifteenth time he’s said this in the last hour.
“We will,” Tristan promises.
“Actual food. With protein and vegetables. Not just whatever pizza they’re giving out at the dining hall.”
“The dining hall has actual food-”
“Tristan.”
“Okay, yes, we will eat real food.”
Your phone buzzes. Again. You glance at it.
The program has gone viral.
Not just viral in a skating-fan way. Viral in a everyone on the internet is losing their minds way.
There are clips everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. People are editing it to different angles. People are crying in quote tweets. Someone made a version with the original Hadestown cast recording overlaid and it has four million views.
“This is insane,” you say, scrolling.
“Don’t read the comments,” Scott warns.
“I’m reading the comments.”
“Don’t-”
“Someone said they’ve watched it twenty times and they’re still crying.”
“Okay, that one you can read.”
Tristan leans over your shoulder, reading. “Oh my god, someone made a comparison video with the Moulin Rouge program.”
You stop walking.
“What?”
“Look.” He takes your phone, taps on the link.
It’s a split-screen video. Tessa and Scott on one side, you and Tristan on the other. The caption reads the evolution of Canadian ice dance excellence.
You watch for thirty seconds before you have to stop because you’re crying again.
“They’re comparing us to you,” you say.
“There’s no need to compare,” Scott says quietly. “You’re the next generation. And we’re so proud.”
He’s probably right. Tessa sent you a voice note earlier that you haven’t been able to listen to yet because you know you’ll completely fall apart.
“Come on,” Scott says, steering you both toward your building. “Food. Rest. The media tour continues and I need you both functional.”
***
Three buildings away, Macklin is lying on his bed in his Olympic Village room, scrolling through his phone, when the video appears on his timeline.
He’s supposed to be resting. Canada plays their first preliminary game tomorrow, and Coach wants everyone at 100%, which means naps and hydration and definitely not doom-scrolling social media. But Macklin is nineteen and his brain doesn’t turn off just because someone tells it to, so here he is.
The video autoplays.
Canadian ice dancers win GOLD with heartbreaking Hadestown program.
Macklin almost scrolls past it. He’s never been particularly into figure skating — he respects it, obviously, it’s incredibly athletic, but it’s not something he actively follows.
But then he sees the thumbnail.
It’s you.
Mid-performance, mid-lift, your head thrown back, your partner holding you above him, and even in a frozen frame you look devastating.
Macklin taps on the video.
The program starts.
For four minutes and three seconds, Macklin forgets to breathe.
It’s not just that you’re beautiful, although you are, even more so than you were in the courtyard yesterday. It’s not just that you’re an incredible skater, although that’s obvious within the first ten seconds.
It’s the story.
He’s never seen someone act on ice like that. He’s never seen two people move together with that kind of precision and emotion and trust. The lifts are insane — the technical difficulty is something even he, a non-figure-skater, can recognize — but it’s the way you and your partner tell the story that completely destroys him.
The reaching. The almost-touching. The moment at the end where you’re on your knees and your partner is standing above you and you reach up for his face and the music ends and-
“Fuck,” Macklin says, out loud, to his empty room.
He watches it again.
And then again.
By the fourth watch-through, Seth walks in.
“You good?” Seth asks, dropping his gym bag on the floor.
“Yeah,” Macklin says, not looking up.
“You’ve been watching that video for fifteen minutes.”
“No I haven’t.”
“Sure, and I’m Wayne Gretzky.”
Macklin finally looks up. Seth is grinning.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Seth says. “The girl from yesterday.”
“I don’t-”
“That’s definitely her.”
Macklin closes his phone. Opens it. Looks at the screen again. Your face, frozen mid-performance, is devastating even in stillness.
“She just won a gold medal,” Macklin says.
“I’m aware.”
“In ice dance.”
“Also aware.”
“She’s-” Macklin struggles for words. “Did you watch it?”
“Not yet.”
“Watch it.”
Seth raises an eyebrow but takes his phone out, pulling up the video. Macklin watches Seth’s face as he watches the program. Watches him go from casually interested to genuinely absorbed.
When it’s over, Seth looks up.
“Okay,” Seth says. “That was fucking incredible.”
“Right?”
“Like, genuinely one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.”
“Not really.” Seth sits on his bed, facing Macklin. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Wrong answer.”
“She just won an Olympic gold medal. I can’t just—what, walk up to her and introduce myself? That’s insane.”
“Why is that insane?”
“Because she’s-” Macklin gestures at his phone, where the video is still paused. “She’s that. And I’m just some hockey player.”
“You’re literally on Team Canada at the Olympics.”
“So are twenty-two other guys.”
“Yeah, but you’re also nineteen, single, and actively losing your mind over her, so I feel like that gives you a unique position.”
Macklin flops backward on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“I don’t even know her name,” he says.
“So find out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Google? Instagram? Ask literally any other Canadian athlete?” Seth pauses. “Or you could just, I don’t know, talk to her when you see her.”
“I’m not gonna see her.”
“You saw her yesterday.”
“That was a coincidence.”
“And coincidences can happen twice.”
Seth disappears into the bathroom, and Macklin is left alone with his phone and the video and the steadily growing certainty that his life is about to get very complicated in a way he’s not remotely prepared for.
He watches the program one more time.
At the end, when you’re on your knees and the music fades and the crowd erupts, the camera catches your face for just a second. You’re crying. You’re devastated. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“I’m so fucked,” Macklin says, to no one.
His phone doesn’t respond, but the video autoplays again, and he lets it.
***
The thing about winning an Olympic gold medal is that no one tells you about the media obligations.
You’d think someone would mention it. You’d think, at some point during the ten years of training and competing and slowly climbing the international ranks, someone would sit you down and say, “Hey, if you win, you’re going to spend the next eighteen hours talking to every single media outlet in Canada and also several from countries you’ve never even been to.”
But no one does.
So you spend the entire day after your free dance doing interviews.
CBC wants you for an hour. TSN wants you for forty-five minutes. The Olympic Broadcasting Service wants a sit-down with both you and Tristan. Someone from Radio-Canada needs a quote. The Toronto Star wants a phone interview. Instagram wants you to film a Reel. TikTok wants you to do a trend. Your agent calls and says that three separate brands want to talk about endorsement deals and can you please just send her a list of times you’re available in the next week, and you very politely tell her that you’re at the Olympics and you’ll get back to her when you’re not actively living in a temporary village in Italy.
By Friday afternoon, you’re exhausted.
You’re also still wearing your gold medal.
You’ve basically only taken it off to shower, and even then you hung it on the bathroom door hook so you could see it the entire time. Tristan has been doing the same thing. You ran into him in the hallway this morning and he was in a bathrobe and slides and his medal, and neither of you acknowledged how insane that was because it didn’t feel insane. It felt correct.
“Okay,” Tristan says, appearing in your doorway at 4 PM with the specific energy of someone who has A Plan. “We’re going to the hockey game.”
You look up from your laptop, where you’ve been attempting to answer emails and mostly just staring at photos of yourself on the podium.
“What hockey game?”
“Canada versus Switzerland. Men’s prelims. Starts at three.”
You blink. “We have tickets?”
“We have credentials. We’re Olympic athletes.” He says this like it’s obvious, which, fair. “We’re Canadians. With a gold medal. We can go wherever we want.”
“That’s not how it works-”
“That’s totally how it works.” He grins. “Come on. When’s the next time we’re going to get to watch Crosby and McDavid and MacKinnon all play together? On the same team? For Canada?”
He has a point.
You’re from London, Ontario, which means you’re a Maple Leafs fan by birth and by curse, which means that most of the players on Team Canada are people you spend the regular season actively rooting against. McDavid’s an Oiler. MacKinnon’s an Av. Crosby’s a Penguin. You love them as Canadian hockey players, but during the season they’re the enemy.
But right now?
Right now they’re all wearing the same maple leaf you are.
“Okay,” you say, closing your laptop. “Let’s go watch some hockey.”
***
The arena is smaller than you expected, which somehow makes it better.
You and Tristan get there early, credentials around your necks, and find seats in the Canadian section about fifteen rows up from the ice. The place is already filling in — a mix of Canadian fans in red and white, Swiss fans in their jerseys, and a general population of Olympics attendees who just want to watch good hockey.
Someone three rows behind you screams when they see you.
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE THE ICE DANCERS!”
You turn around. It’s a woman, maybe mid-thirties, in a Canada jersey and a toque that says EH in large letters.
“Hi,” you say, smiling.
“Can I get a photo?” She’s already pulling out her phone. “My daughter is eight and she wants to be an ice dancer because of you two. She’s been watching your program on repeat for two days.”
Your chest does something warm and complicated.
“Of course,” Tristan says, and you both lean back so she can get the angle, and she takes about fifteen photos and thanks you profusely and tells you you’re an inspiration and you’re going to cry again, you can feel it building.
“Don’t cry at the hockey game,” Tristan mutters as you sit back down.
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re about to cry.”
“I’m not-”
The woman’s daughter is going to be an ice dancer because of you.
Okay, you’re crying a little.
Tristan hands you a tissue from his jacket pocket without comment, and you love him for approximately the nine-thousandth time.
The teams come out for warmups.
The crowd gets loud.
You watch as Team Canada files onto the ice — Crosby, McDavid, MacKinnon, Makar, all of them, the entire ridiculous collection of generational talent that somehow ended up on one roster. It’s absurd. It’s beautiful. It’s the kind of thing that hasn’t happened since 2014 and feels like a miracle.
“This is so cool,” you say.
“Right?” Tristan is grinning, his phone out, taking a video. “I’m sending this to my dad. He’s gonna lose his mind.”
You watch the players warm up. Watch them take shots on the goalie, skate lazy circles, the ease of professional athletes who have done this ten thousand times and somehow make it look effortless.
And then you see him.
Number 17.
Macklin Celebrini.
You know who he is, obviously. You’re a hockey fan. You watched him get drafted first overall to the Sharks. You’ve seen his highlights. You know he’s supposed to be the Next Big Thing, the future of the franchise, all of that.
But knowing who someone is and seeing them in person are two very different things.
He’s young. That’s the first thing you notice. He’s your age, or close to it, and he moves on the ice with the kind of confidence that comes from being very, very good at something from a very young age. He takes a shot. It goes bar-down. He grins at whoever’s in net — you can’t see the number from here — and skates back to the line.
“He’s good,” Tristan says, following your gaze.
“He’s nineteen.”
“So are you.”
“I’m not playing Olympic hockey at nineteen.”
“You just won an Olympic gold medal in ice dance at nineteen, so I’d say it’s a fair trade.”
***
Canada dominates.
It’s not even close.
By the end of the first period it’s 2-1 thanks to McDavid and Harley, who are playing like men possessed. The Swiss are good — they’re Olympic-level athletes, they’re all good — but they’re not this.
You’re on your feet more than you’re sitting.
Tristan keeps elbowing you every time you scream, which is often, because you’ve discovered that watching hockey when you’re allowed to cheer for all the players instead of agonizing over your Leafs’ defensive breakdowns is significantly more fun.
“This is amazing!” You yell over the crowd noise after Canada gets a powerplay a minute into the second period.
“You’re insane!” Tristan yells back, but he’s grinning.
“I’M PATRIOTIC!”
“YOU’RE UNHINGED!”
Less than three minutes later, just after the powerplay ends, MacKinnon sets up the most beautiful breakout pass you’ve ever seen, and it ends up on Celebrini’s stick at the blue line. He cuts inside, dekes around a Swiss defender like the guy isn’t even there, and slides it five-hole on the goalie.
The goal horn sounds.
The crowd erupts.
You scream so loud your throat hurts.
“THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE!” You’re yelling, to no one and everyone. “THAT’S A GOAL! THAT’S A FUCKING GOAL!”
Tristan is laughing so hard he’s doubled over.
“You need to calm down,” he wheezes.
“I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! DID YOU SEE THAT DEKE?”
“Everyone in Milan saw that deke-”
“THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE FIRST OVERALL!”
On the ice, Celebrini is being mobbed by his teammates. He’s grinning, the kind of pure joy that comes from scoring at the Olympics, and even from fifteen rows up you can see how young he looks. How genuinely thrilled.
It’s a good goal.
It’s a great goal.
Canada goes into the third period up 3-1, and you’re hoarse from screaming.
The final score is 5-1.
Canada was never in danger. Switzerland played hard, but this Canadian team is something else — the kind of collection of talent that makes you remember why you love hockey, why you grew up watching it, why you spent your childhood skating on frozen ponds in Ontario and dreaming about moments exactly like this.
The final horn sounds.
The Canadian players celebrate on the ice, the easy confidence of a team that knows they’re going through to the next round and isn’t worried about it.
You’re still standing, cheering, your voice basically gone.
“That was so fun,” you say, or try to say. It comes out as a croak.
“You’ve lost your voice,” Tristan observes.
“Worth it.”
“You screamed for two and a half hours straight.”
“WORTH IT.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you lose your vocal cords entirely.”
But the crowd is slow-moving, everyone standing and talking and taking photos, and you’re in no rush. You’ve got nowhere to be. Your part of the Olympics is done. You won. You can stand in an arena in Milan and bask in the fact that you’re an Olympic gold medalist watching your country play hockey.
On the ice, the players are starting to leave, skating toward the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.
The tunnel isn’t directly connected to the rink, which means they have to skate along the boards and then walk up a slight incline, past the first few rows of seats. A bunch of young fans — kids, mostly, in Canadian jerseys — have pressed up against the railing, and the players are slowing down to high-five them as they pass.
It’s sweet.
Crosby stops to sign something. McDavid ruffles a kid’s hair through the glass. Makar tosses a puck, and a girl who can’t be older than seven catches it and immediately bursts into tears.
You’re watching all of this with the specific warmth of someone who loves sports and loves watching athletes be good to fans, when you notice that one of the players has stopped moving entirely.
Number 17.
Celebrini.
He’s just … standing there.
Staring directly at you.
It takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you specifically.
At first you think maybe he’s looking past you, at someone in the rows behind, but no. His eyes are locked on yours, and he’s not moving, and it’s honestly kind of creepy? But also kind of flattering? But mostly creepy?
You do the only thing you can think to do.
You wave.
Slowly.
Awkwardly.
A little half-wave that you immediately regret because what are you, twelve?
Macklin blinks.
It’s the first time he’s blinked in what feels like a full minute, and the movement seems to reset something in his brain, because his mouth opens like he’s about to say something-
And then one of his teammates — you think it’s Seth Jarvis, based on the number — physically pushes him from behind.
“MOVE, CELLY!” Jarvis yells, loud enough that you can hear it from fifteen rows up.
Macklin stumbles forward, still looking back at you, and nearly trips over his own skates. Another teammate — definitely Crosby, you’d recognize that stride anywhere — grabs his shoulder and steers him toward the tunnel, and the entire group disappears into the corridor.
You’re left standing there, hand still half-raised in a wave, your brain trying to process what just happened.
“What,” Tristan says slowly, “was that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did he just … stare at you?”
“I think so?”
“For like a full minute?”
“At least.”
“That was-”
“Creepy?”
“I was going to say intense, but sure, creepy works.”
You lower your hand, which is still frozen in mid-wave like you’re a malfunctioning robot.
In front of you, an elderly woman in a Swiss jersey who you hadn’t particularly noticed before turns around in her seat.
She’s got white hair and glasses and the kind of face that makes you think of grandmothers and warm cookies, and she’s smiling at you with an expression you can’t quite read.
“Excuse me, dear,” she says. Her accent is Swiss-German, her English careful and precise.
“Yes?” You manage.
“That boy,” she says, nodding toward the tunnel where the Canadian team disappeared. “The one who was staring at you.”
“Um. Yes?”
“That’s how my husband looked at me the first time he saw me.” She’s still smiling, and there’s something deeply knowing in her expression. “We’ve been married for sixty-two years.”
You stare at her.
Your brain has officially short-circuited.
“I—what—I don’t-” you stammer.
“Just thought you should know,” the woman says pleasantly, and then she turns back around like she hasn’t just dropped a conversational bomb directly into your lap.
You look at Tristan.
Tristan looks at you.
“Did that just happen?” You ask.
“That absolutely just happened.”
“A Swiss grandmother just told me that a hockey player I’ve never spoken to looked at me the way her husband looked at her.”
“Yep.”
“And they’ve been married for sixty-two years.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What do I do with that information?”
“I genuinely have no idea.”
You sit down.
Stand up.
Sit down again.
“Okay,” you say. “Okay. That was—he was probably just—maybe he recognized us? From the ice dance? Maybe he was just, I don’t know, trying to place where he knew us from?”
“Y/N.”
“And the staring was just him thinking, like, ‘oh, those are the ice dancers,’ and he got distracted-”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
Tristan gives you a look. “That man was not thinking about ice dance.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that. That was not a ‘oh, I recognize you from the skating’ stare. That was a ‘I have lost all higher brain function’ stare.”
“That’s-” you start, and then you stop, because you don’t actually have a counterargument.
Because Tristan’s right.
That wasn’t a casual recognition stare.
That was something else entirely.
“This is insane,” you say.
“This is amazing,” Tristan corrects. “This is a romantic comedy happening in real time.”
“This is me having a panic attack in an Olympic hockey arena.”
“Why not both?”
“Tristan!”
He’s grinning now, full-force, the kind of grin that means he’s about to say something that will make your life significantly more complicated.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“I’m just saying-”
“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t say it.”
“He’s very cute.”
“TRISTAN.”
“He is! Objectively! And he just stared at you like you hung the moon!”
“He stared at me like a creep!”
“Potato, potahto.”
You put your face in your hands.
The crowd around you is thinning out, people filing toward the exits, but you’re still sitting there having a crisis while Tristan enjoys himself immensely.
“Okay,” you say finally, looking up. “Okay. Nothing happened. A hockey player looked at me weird. That’s it. That’s the whole story. We’re going to go back to the Village, eat some pasta, sleep for twelve hours, and forget this ever happened.”
“Sure,” Tristan says, in the tone of voice that means he absolutely does not believe you.
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. That’s what makes it so funny.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” He stands, stretching. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you spiral any harder.”
You follow him out of the arena, past the crowds and the vendors and the general chaos of a post-game Olympic venue, and the entire time you’re trying very hard not to think about the way Macklin Celebrini looked at you.
Like you were the only person in the arena.
Like he’d forgotten how to blink.
Like — and this is the part that’s really messing with you — like the Swiss grandmother was right.
“This is fine,” you mutter as you walk.
“Totally fine,” Tristan agrees, not even trying to hide his smile.
“Nothing is going to come of this.”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“I’m an Olympic gold medalist. I’m focused. I’m professional.”
“You’re in denial.”
“I’m realistic.”
Tristan doesn’t respond, just links his arm through yours as you walk back toward the Village, and you let him, because he’s your best friend and he’s put up with ten years of your nonsense and if he wants to think a random hockey player’s weird staring means something, you can let him have that.
Even if you’re absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not thinking about it.
At all.
Not even a little bit.
Your phone buzzes.
It’s a text from your mom. Watched the hockey game! Canada looked great! Also someone filmed you in the stands and it’s going viral. You’re very enthusiastic. Love you!
Below it is a link to a TikTok.
You click on it.
It’s you. Screaming at the top of your lungs when Celebrini scored, your gold medal swinging around your neck, your face pure joy.
The caption reads Ice dance gold medalist Y/N Y/L/N is all of us watching Team Canada.
It has 250,000 likes.
“Oh no,” you say.
“What?” Tristan leans over to look.
He sees the video.
He starts laughing so hard he has to stop walking.
“I’m going to kill you,” you tell him.
“Worth it,” he wheezes.
Your phone buzzes again.
Another notification.
This one from Instagram.
You don’t want to look.
You look anyway.
It’s a video from someone in the arena. A different angle.
This one shows Macklin Celebrini stopping in his tracks and staring directly at where you’re sitting in the stands. Why did Celebrini just FREEZE???
The comments are already speculating.
“I’m deleting my social media,” you announce.
“You’re absolutely not,” Tristan says, still laughing.
“I’m moving to a remote cabin in the woods.”
“You hate bugs.”
“I’ll learn to love them.”
Your phone buzzes a third time.
You ignore it.
You’re going to ignore everything for the next twelve hours.
You’re going to go back to the Village, eat pasta, sleep, and when you wake up, this will all have blown over and you’ll be back to being a normal Olympic gold medalist whose biggest concern is whether or not to do a post-Olympic tour.
That’s the plan.
It’s a good plan.
It’s definitely going to work.
Right?
***
Sidney Crosby has won three Stanley Cups, two Olympic gold medals, and approximately every individual hockey award that exists.
He is widely considered one of the greatest players of all time.
He is a leader, a professional, a person who takes his responsibilities seriously and conducts himself with dignity both on and off the ice.
Which is why, when he physically pulls Mitch Marner into a storage closet in the Olympic Village at 9 PM on a Friday night, Mitch is understandably confused.
“Uh,” Mitch says, as Sid closes the door behind them. “Sid? What’s-”
“I need you to do something for me,” Sid says.
The closet is small. There are mops. There’s a bucket. There’s a very strong smell of industrial cleaner. Mitch is pressed up against a shelf of paper towels, and Sid is blocking the door, and this is, objectively, insane.
“Okay,” Mitch says slowly. “Could we do this thing not in a closet?”
“No.”
“No?”
“It’s sensitive.”
“What’s sensitive?”
“Celebrini.”
Mitch blinks. “What about Celebrini?”
“He saw a girl.”
There is a long pause.
“I’m sorry,” Mitch says. “You pulled me into a closet to tell me that a nineteen-year-old saw a girl?”
“Not just any girl.” Sid is very serious. Too serious. The kind of serious that Mitch usually associates with game seven overtime situations, not whatever this is. “The ice dancer. The one who won gold. Y/N Y/L/N.”
“Okay?”
“He’s in love with her.”
“He doesn’t know her.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Sid-”
“Mitch.” Sid puts both hands on Mitch’s shoulders, which is somehow more alarming than the closet situation. “I watched this kid see her at the hockey game tonight, and he stopped walking. Just completely shut down. Jarvis had to physically push him to get him moving again.”
“So he thinks she’s pretty-”
“It was more than that.” Sid’s eyes are intense. “I’ve been in this sport for twenty years. I know what it looks like when someone gets hit by something they’re not ready for. And that kid got hit.”
Mitch stares at him.
“Are you,” Mitch says carefully, “having a midlife crisis?”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“That’s literally midlife-”
“I’m trying to help a teammate.”
“By pulling me into a closet.”
“Yes.”
“To talk about his crush.”
“Yes.”
Mitch takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say Mack is, I don’t know, experiencing some kind of Olympic Village rom-com situation. What does that have to do with me?”
“You played for the Leafs.”
“I’m aware.”
“Morgan Rielly is still on the Leafs.”
“Also aware.”
“Morgan Rielly is married to Tessa Virtue.”
“Yes, and-” Mitch stops. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Sid, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“You want me to call Morgan so that Morgan can get Tessa to—what, play matchmaker?”
“Not Tessa. Scott.”
“Scott?”
“Scott Moir. He coaches Y/N and her partner. If anyone can get her in a room with Mack, it’s him.”
Mitch stares at Sid for a long moment.
“This is the most insane thing you’ve ever asked me to do,” Mitch says.
“Is it?”
“Yes! We’re Olympic athletes! We’re supposed to be focused on hockey!”
“We won 5-1. We have a day before our next game. We can multitask.”
“This isn’t multitasking, this is-” Mitch stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “Does Mack even know you’re doing this?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Does he want help?”
“He’s nineteen and terrified. Of course he wants help. He just doesn’t know he wants help.”
“That’s not how consent works-”
“Mitch.” Sid’s voice goes softer. “I’m not asking you to force anything. I’m asking you to create an opportunity. That’s it. If they meet and nothing happens, fine. But if they meet and something does happen …” He shrugs. “Don’t you think they deserve that chance?”
Mitch looks at Sid.
Sid looks back, completely earnest.
“You’re genuinely invested in this,” Mitch says.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because-” Sid pauses, and for a second he looks almost vulnerable, which is deeply weird on Sidney Crosby. “Because we spend our whole lives focused on hockey. On winning. On being the best. And that’s important. That’s what we’re here for. But sometimes-” He stops. Starts again. “Sometimes you meet someone and it matters. And you should at least get the chance to see if it could be something.”
There’s a weight to the way he says it that makes Mitch think Sid is talking about more than just Macklin.
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