so-writing

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One Shots; Maybe Love, Mostly Soup (Quinn Hughes) Seven Four (Quinn Hughes) Many Months (Quinn Hughes) ..Not meant for each other? (Quinn Hughes) Go! See if I care! (Quinn Hughes) At least it's all about you (Quinn Hughes)

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Active/Complete;

Don't forget to water the plants (Quinn Hughes); One | Two | Three | Four

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Inactive;

Peace v. Panic (Quinn Hughes); One

Off Season (Quinn Hughes); One | Two | Three

Choke on this (Quinn Hughes); Preview | One | Two

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Quinn’s sweet and kind and giving and blah blah blah until he isn’t any of those things anymore. 

But that doesn’t matter now. It’s still early June and you’re the most naive you’ve ever been and Quinn’s bed is warm and when you’re both ready his cock is hard and you’ve never had a better night followed by an even better morning.

You’ve never felt this good. You’ve never realized how lucky you are at this moment. 

Don’t worry, it isn’t going to last.

*

Late July is deep summer. 

It’s so annoyingly summer that you’re almost sick of the heat and humidity. It’s still summer though, and you’re going to force yourself to fucking enjoy it. 

Not because you want to, but because you have to. 

You want nothing more than to get away from Quinn and his bad behavior. 

It’s not bad behavior. He’s famous, he’s in demand, it’s just what they do. 

Yeah, yeah fucking yeah. His notoriety doesn’t give him a free pass to do whatever and whoever he wants. The last time you checked, he was yours and you were his. If only that mattered. 

It doesn’t though, but you stay anyway because you’re not trying to put a stain on him. You can’t do that, you’ve been told you have to play the part of the loving partner because there is no other option. 

He doesn’t love you and he’s made that very clear over and over again, but you still have to love him, you don’t have another choice. Not yet, anyway. 

You sleep next to him in the cozy bedroom in his lakehouse, snuggling under the warm sheets you can pretend you’re somewhere else. It works most of the time. You sleep next to him in silence, hoping to fall asleep before he sneaks out of the room to do whatever it is he doesn’t want you to know about. 

You know though, and you sleep soundly because at least he isn’t fucking there.

*

Mid August is crucial for him.

The season is about to start and he’s looking to impress everyone that has an eye on him. Nothing matters except what he’s got going on this week. He’s stressed and irritated and taking his anger out on the people that don’t deserve it but he just can’t fucking help himself. 

You stay out of his way as much as you can. You know how Quinn can be, you’re not interested in any of that. 

You just want out. 

*

The end of September is the start of the preseason.

Normally, this is the part where the partners dutifully stand on the sidelines and cheer their men on, doing whatever they can to inspire. 

Quinn has never needed inspiration, it’s always somehow fallen directly in his lap. He just always gets what he wants. 

Except one thing: you. 

You left weeks ago, no longer willing to put up with anything and everything Quinn Hughes hockey related. 

He hasn’t told anyone yet, probably out of embarrassment. Not your problem though. 

*

Early October, the start of the season, game 1.

He doesn’t know it but you’re there. How could he? He hasn’t bothered to call or text, but you expected that. Quinn was never the type to give a shit. 

Except this time, he sees you. He sees you so clearly he nearly trips over his stick but recovers smoothly, he’s a professional, after all.

It’s the first time in a long time and he can’t believe you’re actually here. You’re not here for him, though. 

You can’t make yourself care anymore about Quinn Hughes, he had his chance. 

You’re here for you, because it’s finally fucking time for you to start giving a shit about yourself and not putting some mediocre man first. 

Most people won’t agree, but that’s what he is. Fucking mediocre. Quinn’s never been worthy of you, you just didn’t know it yet. 

Good fucking riddance. Good-fucking-bye Quinn Hughes. 

*

Mid December, near Christmas, game 36.

It shocks him, damn near literally, that you’ve showed up, but it doesn’t matter. You’re fucking there. He knew you would be, he missed you so much and you’ve been playing strong for too damn long. Time to come home. 

He plays the best he’s played in months and they win with ease. He’s tired and sweaty and desperately needs a shower but all he can think about is you. You’re outside the locker room, waiting, leaning easily against the hallway while you play on your phone and occasionally mess with your hair, pretending you’re not on edge. 

You were always on edge waiting for him. It was endearing. Every time he emerged from the locker room, a soft sigh enveloped your features for a moment but then you were nothing but wide smiles for him. 

He’s so looking forward to seeing that again. 

Quinn leaves the locker room, a smile just barely hiding behind his teeth and sees nothing but an empty hallway and a pathetic christmas tree the staff thought would be a good idea. He searches the room like it’s a fucking jigsaw puzzle but still manages to come up empty. 

“What the fuck?” he says aloud, not caring that a family walking past hears them and covers their children’s ears. 

You’re not there, you were never going to be. 

Christmas eve, game 40. 

It’s incredibly different walking into this arena. You’re not looking for who you’re used to, you’re not wearing his jersey, you’re not worried about what he’s thinking. 

Instead, this is brand fucking new. 

You’re in a new jersey, with your same old friends but you’ve got a whole new attitude. You feel strange when the announcers bring your presence to the attention of the fans but instead of boos, you’re met with excited cheers and you can’t help but smile.

This is definitely different.

It’s weird to shout his name, because it’s not Quinn, but you’re getting used to it. He glides across the ice easily and, for once, you don’t feel shame when he gives you an easy wave. It’s not his style to be shy, so he doesn’t bother with that, and you find yourself smiling back at him and barely being embarrassed when the jumbo screen catches you smiling and jumping around after his goal. 

The game ends and you head toward the locker room. It feels so familiar but the colors that line the walls are different and when the team explodes out of the room filled with winning energy, you’re easily swept up into his arms and you realize just how different it actually is. 

You’re pretty sure you like it. 

Early February, game 61.

You have to cover your ears when you enter the stadium because the screams nearly deafen you. Almost two months have passed and a lot has changed. 

“PENGUINS FANS! WE’VE GOT A HOUSEHOLD NAME IN THE BUILDING! SHE’S A GOOD LUCK CHARM YOU KNOW! 

You smile at the arena and give a quick wave not wanting to draw too much energy in your direction. It doesn’t matter much, the crowd goes crazy and you can’t help but catch their energy.

He glides easily around the ice below you, focused on what’s in front of him but he takes a small moment every once in a while to let you know he’s there. He’s there. If you’re being honest with yourself, it’s the happiest you’ve ever fucking been. 

Early March, no games, break.

It’s a quiet evening when he takes you home and introduces you to his family. The weather smells like spring and you can’t believe that it’s this gorgeous, this early in the year. The NHL is taking a break and you’re grateful for it because goddamn you are tired. You haven’t really slept in, you don’t know how long. 

“Baby, it’s fine, sleep.”

You give him little fight before passing the fuck out. You sleep for almost a full day and when you wake you’re incredibly apologetic but none of them are bothered. His family cooks hot dogs on the grill and laughs together while music plays from the stereo on the dock. You’ve never seen anyone so happy to be around their people.

When the fire dies down and you finally pass out, you sleep until the sun shining through the bi bay window wakes you up. You open your eyes to blinding white light and roll over to protect them. Your head hits a hard, built chest and he wraps his arms around you. It’s the first time in a long time you truly feel at peace. You sleep the best you fucking have in years. 

April 20, game 1 vs. Colorado.

The game is tense, you’re biting your fucking nails off with the other wives as you watch from the family box. They’re good, have been good all season, but every team has a weakness and when they score their first goal, he sees an opening.

You see it too, because at this point, it kind of feels like you’re the same damn person. 

“Come on, baby,” you cheer while gritting your teeth, “come on.” 

He does, and you scream as they beat the avalanche, officially advancing one step closer to the stanley cup. They have a long way yet to go but you’re still proud as hell of him and you can’t help but show it.

Late June, game 7 vs. Dallas.

You’re screaming, you’ve been screaming this whole damn time and it’s been a fucking nailbiter all the same. The players are streaky and a little bit dirty and if it wasn’t for your man playing this game, you’d be all for it. 

The game is incredibly close and you’re not sure your boys can take it but you’re going to pretend they can and scream like hell because that’s what you do. 

Penguins win! 

It ends in a blur and you’re not even sure if your team has actually won but you begin losing your shit anyway. It’s familiar now, you run down the back tunnel reserved for families and run straight at him, jumping easily into his arms. The two of you laugh together and hug and maybe cry a tiny bit before you both put your game faces on. 

He’s got an interview to do and you’ve got to get your shit together and start planning the winner’s party. 

“Give me a quick kiss babe, i’ve gotta go,” you peck him hard on the lips before you both turn away from each other, smiles on both your faces.

Quinn’s lonely, and goddamnit he hates to admit it because he’s the one that ended things. That would be fine if he were just regular lonely, willing to bring whoever is willing and attractive into his bed, but this is different. 

This is the kind of lonely that comes with regrets. This is the lonely that isn’t right because he was wrong and it’s all his fucking fault. Worse, this is the lonely that has him staring at his phone constantly because you’ve gone completely silent on him.

It’s what he wanted, so why is he still so fucking bothered about it?

**

He sits in his car for nearly half an hour, absolutely dreading entering his apartment and being greeted by your smiling face. It’s awful, he knows that, but he’s so fucking sick of your constant positive bullshit. The Canucks lost to the Avalanche 6-1, and Quinn has zero fucking interest in your ‘you’ll get em next time’ speech. He wants to wallow and he knows damn well you won’t let him. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the main door isn’t even closed behind him before he spits out his nongreeting. 

“Okay, I get it, you want me to run you a bath or something?”

“No,” he grunts, he still hasn’t made eye contact and he doesn’t plan to, “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” you say, “sleep well.”

He doesn’t hear it, and when you come to bed a little while later, he pretends to be asleep so he doesn’t have to roll over and kiss you goodnight. 

—

“Good morning baby!”

He fucking hates your enthusiasm. The faint scent of his favorite breakfast, four pieces of turkey sausage and three scrambled eggs, wafts into the bedroom but he can’t even enjoy it. He slept like absolute shit and he knows it isn’t your fault but he’s going to blame you anyway. 

“There’s no reason to open every fucking blind in this place, why do you need it to be so goddamn bright in here?”

You start to respond but he ignores it and talks over you, “I’m not even going to be able to enjoy my breakfast with all this fucking sunlight streaming in.”

Even Quinn knows that his anger this morning is overkill and he tries his hardest to pull back and give you a smile. 

It’s too late though. 

“What is your problem lately?”

“Nothing,” he tries to shrug you off, he doesn’t have the energy for this.

“Nothing? Bullshit. You’ve been a complete asshole to me for weeks now, what have I done to make you so mad?”

He doesn’t want to do this today but heat floods his cheeks anyway. You’re standing at the foot of the bed with your arms crossed, expecting an answer. A bead of sweat slides down his forehead and he quickly wipes it away before unleashing exactly what he’s been thinking on you. 

When it’s over, you’re crying as quietly as you can while you pack a bag and Quinn is sitting at the kitchen counter aggressively eating his breakfast. It’s the worst fight the two of you have ever had and, thank the fucking heavens, it’s over now. 

It’s over now. 

You move around the apartment without a word, gathering your things and not daring to look at him. 

When the front door closes behind you, a final, quiet whisper of goodbye, Quinn releases the breath he’s been holding. 

It’s over now. You’re finally gone.

**

“The grass isn’t always greener on the other side, Quinn. I know you don’t want to hear it, but-”

Annoyed, Quinn cuts Jack off, “then why are you saying it?” 

Jack sighs loudly and Quinn can feel his irritation from over three thousand miles away. He knows he’s on Jack’s last nerve but he just can’t help himself when it comes to you. He doesn’t want to be scolded but he knows damn well Jack isn’t going to coddle him and tell him he was right and that everything is going to be just fine. 

It isn’t, he knows that. 

“Quinn, I don’t get why you’re still hung up on this. It’s been months, and from my end, it seemed like you really didn’t give that much of a damn about her anyway.”

“How can you say that?” 

Quinn’s honestly surprised at Jack’s statement, because yeah, things were pretty fucking bad at the end of the relationship but when things were good, they were really fucking good. 

**

“Quinn, where are we headed? We’ve been in the car for almost an hour now.”

He can tell you’re starting to get antsy, and he doesn’t blame you because he is too. The ride, due to pouring rain, is taking longer than he expected and the visibility is dismal.

“We’re almost there,” he’s pretty sure, “it’s just a bit longer but I promise it’ll be worth it.”

It isn’t. 

The parking lot is completely empty when Quinn pulls into a spot close to the trail. It’s still spitting rain and he’s kicking himself for not checking the fucking weather because neither of you are dressed appropriately. 

“Don’t tell me we have to get out.”

“We do,” Quinn musters a smile and turns the key, removing it from the ignition. 

The ring has been burning a fucking hole in his pocket the entire drive, slightly singing his locker at the arena for two months now because he didn’t trust himself to hide it good enough when he first bought it. 

“Quinn,” you give him a big smile and reach across the center console to grab his hand, “we don’t have to do this.”

You know what’s going to happen. The megawatt smile on your face gives it away. The rain begins to fall even harder. 

“Yes we do, come with me?”

You don’t hesitate for a second, flinging open the car door and sprinting around to Quinn’s side. He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the trail. It’s a short walk, or run in your case, only about a quarter mile, and the dock is definitely slippery when wet but neither of you are bothered. 

The long dock sits on a cerulean blue lake surrounded by thick pine trees. It’s your favorite place in the world, a hike you’ve been on so many times you could walk it in your dreams. 

The rain hasn’t let up, but Quinn drops to one knee anyway, “baby,” he pushes his soaking hair from his forehead, “this isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

You say yes in a heartbeat. The two of you are soaked to the skin but you embrace anyway and when Quinn pulls your hand up to admire the beautiful emerald cut diamond, you can’t help but laugh.

“This is perfect, Q. I know it’s not what you wanted, but it’s completely fucking perfect.”

Quinn turned the heat on full blast in the car on the drive home and you fell asleep within the first fifteen minutes. He spent the remainder of the drive moving his eyes back and forth from the road to the ring on your finger. 

**

The first time he called, he was drunk. 

The next time, the same thing, and the same a few times after that. 

You didn’t answer any of those calls. You don’t intend to answer any of his calls ever again. 

Texts too, because he sends plenty of those. 

Hey.

Hi.

Hey.

Helloo.

They’re simple at first, easy to ignore.

How are you?

I got a bagel today, chive cream cheese on an everything. 

It’s snowing so hard tonight.

Have you tried the new taco place on 9th?

You stay silent. Quinn gets anxious, and desperate.

I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry. 

Please talk to me.

You don’t. You go about your life like he was never in it. 

As far as Quinn is concerned, you’re completely gone. No contact of any kind. It’s necessary. 

**

“It’s been months,” Jack’s voice breaks up a bit, shitty cell service to blame, “she hasn’t even tried to reach out. You gotta let it go.”

“What if she’s scared to contact me.”

He knows how stupid it sounds.

“Scared of what? You? No offense dude, but that’s not the issue here.”

“I mean,” Quinn runs a hand through his hair while he tries to collect his thoughts, “it could be. I was pretty mean to her at the end.”

“So i’ve heard.” 

Sorry, what? 

Quinn doesn’t actually say anything. His heart is racing, his head is spinning, he’s really fucking confused about how Jack could know anything about his ex fiance that he’s been trying to contact for almost a year.

“Sorry, fucking what?!”

He gets the words out this time. Jack’s tone is clipped though, he shuts down immediately. 

“Nothing, i’ve gotta go, sorry.” 

The call ends abruptly. Quinn fights the urge to break everything in his apartment. He breaks a few mugs anyway.

It doesn’t help. He calls you, it goes straight to voicemail.

He’s called an embarrassing amount of times and you’ve never once answered. 

Quinn misses you, he misses you so much it ruins his fucking day. He knows he was wrong and that he treated you poorly but he can’t do anything about that now. 

All he can do is better. 

The absence of your presence darkens every doorway he enters.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling extra shitty and wants to double down, he opens his top bathroom drawer and looks at the ring you left on the kitchen counter. It’s beautiful and it shines bright, just like you. He gets upset all over again and tosses it across the room.

He never leaves it though, Quinn always searches for the ring and panics on the occasions he takes longer than a few minutes to find it. Once it’s recovered, he puts it back in his bathroom drawer, in a little drawstring bag and hopes hard that one day it will grace your finger again. 

It won’t though, because you’re not fucking interested. He’s done enough fucking damage, and no shiny diamond or beautiful lake view will change that. 

We’ve never discussed relationships. 

We shouldn’t, Quinn’s hesitant to start this conversation, I don’t really want to get into it.

Come on Hughes, you’re a hot commodity, there’s got to be a reason you haven’t already put a rock on some pretty model’s finger. 

I tried. I bought a ring. She fucked everybody she could before I got the chance to do anything more with it. 

If you want to go there, Quinn’s ready to fucking go there. He gets up from the couch and heads into the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass from the cupboard and a bottle he hasn’t touched in over six months. He shouldn’t be drinking now, not during the season, but he needs a little bit of liquid courage for this. Truth be told, he really hasn’t discussed his breakup with anyone, not even his brothers. It’s embarrassing enough even thinking about how it all went down.

Damn, maybe we shouldn’t get into it. I’m sorry.

No, it’s fine. I’ve poured myself a glass of wine and I'm ready to trauma dump all over you now. 

That’s a joke, he follows up with, hoping not to have scared you off with something too heavy.

Alright, I’m going to get myself a glass of wine too. Lay it all on me, I won’t respond until you tell me you’ve finished. 

Quinn does exactly what you asked. He tells you all about how he and Aurora Rose met in college before he left to join the NHL and how the relationship used to be good but began to sour the more his star rose. 

Eventually, they were barely speaking, Quinn was always busy and the ‘two ships passing in the night’ thing became their new normal. They played their parts until that summer when she just claimed she ‘just couldn’t keep pretending with him.’ 

Aurora Rose blew up the relationship, admitting that she’d been meeting and hooking up with random guys on dating apps for the past few months. She told Quinn they’d ‘teased’ things out of her she didn’t know she was capable of and gave her things Quinn had never even come close to giving her. She didn’t say directly what, but Quinn knew, and it was complete bullshit because when they were actually happy, he fulfilled her needs on a regular basis. 

She broke up with him after that, confessing she’d fallen out of love a long time ago and that he was boring, their relationship was stagnant and she’d only been staying because of who he was.

There was more to it, but Quinn figured that was enough for one impromptu text therapy session.

So, now you know. 

You didn’t respond for about ten minutes, and Quinn began to worry that he’d said too much. 

You said her name is Aurora Rose?

After all that, that’s what you have to say? Quinn’s a little miffed but before he can confirm, you text again.

Aurora Rose Ashby is your ex? 

What the fuck?

Yes. How did you know that? Do you know her?

She just moved into my duplex like a month ago. We’ve run into each other a few times. Your ex is my fucking neighbor.

Quinn can’t believe his.. luck? Misfortune? Timing? Divine intervention? He isn’t sure what it is but his hands are shaking as he finishes off his glass of wine and goes to pour another. He hasn’t heard from or seen Aurora Rose since the day she left, and knowing she’s still orbiting near his circle is suddenly incredibly unsettling. 

That’s crazy, is all he can type. 

You don’t respond to his text, instead you call.

“Let’s get an evening snack at the diner down the street from your building. I’m ubering over, be there in about twenty-five minutes.” 

He doesn’t have a chance to respond before you end the call but he’s grateful for it. You’re the only person who knows the majority of what went down with Aurora Rose and now that he’s opened the floodgates, he needs to let the river run. 

###

You.

It’s raining hard when you step outside. Aurora Rose is home, you can see her TV playing the ‘Love Island USA’ reunion through the open curtains. Hopefully she’s sitting on the couch watching instead of out on the side porch smoking like she often is. 

Unlucky you. 

“Headed out on a hot date?”

She’s perched on the wide railing wearing a pair of loose pajama pants and a tank top, tapping her elbow against her knee, she sends cigarette ashes falling into the rain. There’s no denying that she’s absolutely beautiful, Quinn has good taste. 

“Not so much, just meeting my sister for a late dinner. Marital spat, I’m playing therapist.”

She chuckles and crushes her cigarette on the side of the rail before tossing the butt into the garden, “I get it, men are the worst, it’s late, be safe.”

The most annoying thing about this whole situation is how cool Aurora Rose actually is. She’s been nothing but kind and a good neighbor since she moved in. 

Maybe Quinn isn’t the victim here.

“He’s the captain of the ‘nucks, and one of the best defensemen in the current era, the best in my opinion but that’s controversial. Dude’s a generational talent,” your brother in law, David, rambles about his love for the parking garage poster while you and your sister, Ash, roll your eyes at each other and stifle your laughter. 

“I know it’s not the most exciting thing you could be doing tonight, but I'm glad you came,” Ash grabs your hand and pulls you into her side, "I've missed our sister bonding.” 

“Well, we’d have plenty more time for it if you hadn’t married a fucking man,” you both laugh at that and follow David as he damn near skips into the arena.

“He loves Canucks.”

“I couldn’t tell.” 

David does indeed love the Canucks, so much so that he has seats right against the glass behind the team’s bench. The view isn’t phenomenal, he says, but you’re so close to the team you can hear them and he loves getting ‘inside information.’ It’s endearing almost, and you tell Ash so. 

“I’m liking him more and more.” 

“I’d hope so, I'd hate to get divorced so soon after the wedding.”

“You’d do that for me?” 

“Maybe,” she gives you a wink as you settle into your seats. 

It’s going to be a long few hours, but you’re with your family and you’ve never been to a hockey game so you’re going to make the best of it. 

The Canucks, your team for the night, barrel down the tunnel and explode on the ice for warmups. It’s only a preseason game but the crowd is electric and the energy in the arena pulls your attention to the ice. It’s exciting and you find yourself cheering along with the crowd, surprising both Ash and yourself. 

Quinn Hughes is one of the last to leave the tunnel. He glides effortlessly onto the ice with speed and a kind of grace you didn’t think possible of someone lugging around twenty pounds of gear. 

Being a Vancouver native, you’ve known of the Canucks your life but no one in your family followed hockey growing up. The sport was never on your radar and until Ash and David invited you tonight, you didn’t know who he was or care at all about the man your eyes can’t seem to stop following around the ice. 

Several hours pass, the Canucks win the game, and you find yourself constantly searching for one of the players in particular. The first time Quinn removed his helmet and shook his head, little beads of sweat dotting the glass in front of you, you felt a little bit feral. You have to give him credit, he’s hotter than the parking garage likeness portrays, maybe an eight out of ten instead of a six.

Athletes aren’t generally your type, but this one has you feeling different.

“I think you enjoyed yourself tonight,” Ash winks as David remains oblivious and keeps excitedly chattering about the game while you file out of the arena with the rest of the crowd.

“More than I expected.”

“I noticed. Does that mean we’ll be doing this again?” 

“Yeah we will,” David butts in, “I love converting haters into lovers.” 

“Oh, babe,” Ash plants a kiss on his cheek, “you definitely converted someone tonight.

### Quinn.

Quinn hates doing these things. He doesn’t hate the fans, he loves them and their dedication to the Canucks, plus they help keep him employed in a major way, but these events quickly drain his social battery and leave him exhausted after only an hour or two. 

“Quinn! Quinn! Quinn!”

Normally, everyone wants his attention, people are constantly pulling him in different directions. He doesn’t want to ignore the fans but they can be demanding and all the controversy around his contract doesn’t help.

This one is casual and on the smaller side, a meet up in the team store at the arena for a group of season ticket holders that were chosen at random. It’s mostly adults and everyone is respectful and polite, not asking him shit he doesn’t want to speak on, mostly just discussing and hyping up the upcoming season. 

If all fan events were this size and carried this vibe, there would be no reluctance to do them on Quinn’s part. They aren’t though, so he embraces the moment and actually finds himself enjoying this. 

“Hey man,” a man a little taller than him and vaguely familiar looking approaches and they shake hands, “great game the other night.”

They chat for about ten minutes, the man introducing himself as David before Quinn realizes why he looks so familiar. 

“This might be weird, I hope it’s not, but I think you live in my building.”

Not only do David and his wife live in Quinn’s building, they’re his neighbors. Quinn has even met and petted his dog a few times in passing while David’s wife was heading out for a walk around the neighborhood. They speak a little longer, commiserating about the guy across the hall and his loud, messy breakup before Quinn has to continue on with other fans. 

“See you around,” he says as they bump fists and exchange goodbyes. *

It’s been a long day. Team practice was directly after the fan event and Quinn had to jump into meetings for several hours after that. Now, it’s shortly after 6PM and all he wants to do is make dinner and collapse on the couch. He stops at the grocery store around the corner from his place to pick up a few things before heading home. 

Lost in thought, Quinn doesn’t realize a woman enters the elevator with him. 

“What floor?” She asks and he responds without thinking or really bothering to look at her and she hits the button, only that button though.

“You going to the same floor?” 

He looks up now, and nearly drops his bag of groceries at the sight of her. This attractive woman is going to his floor, not with him unfortunately, and he has never seen her before. How the fuck has he never seen her before? 

“I am.” 

They’re silent for a beat before she laughs but tries to hide it. 

“What?” 

“You’re the fucking parking garage poster. My brother is probably going to be so excited when he finds out you live here. I assume you live here, anyway.” 

What? Parking garage poster? What is she talking about?

“Sorry? Parking garage poster?”

“I went to a game the other day with my sister and brother-in-law and noticed that your likeness is plastered all over the walls of that place. Barely recognized you without the helmet and gear though.” 

The elevator doors open and Quinn notices that the two of you are heading the same direction, it’s only when you stop and knock at the door just before his own that he makes the connection. 

“You know David?” 

“Yes,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and introduce yourself to Quinn, making small talk for a minute before David’s wife opens the door, looking confused by what’s taking place in front of her.

“Bye parking garage poster, enjoy your evening.” 

“Your job is to stay in the restaurant and serve the rich men who sit at your tables, not go out with them after work. You’re a waitress, not a fucking escort!”

He knows he shouldn’t have raised his voice at her, he knows where not just the yelling but speaking about her new job at all is going to lead.

“So that’s what it comes down to, we’re having this conversation again. You look down on me because I serve tables instead of something high dollar and worthy of someone like you.” 

He’s right. It always comes to this. Her job, a server at an expensive little bistro in Gastown, doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t care what she does, just as long she’s happy doing it. When she first started, she was making good money and friends with the rest of the staff. It was a welcome change from the stuffy office she absolutely hated. 

Things have changed though. 

Recently, a group of businessmen have been coming in and having late lunches that extend into dinner that extend into drinks. They’ve been inviting her and some of the other servers Quinn assumes are just as beautiful as she is to bars that remain open after the bistro closes.

Which is whatever, attractive people in the hospitality industry probably get hit on all the time, it should be nothing at all. It isn’t though, because she’s started accepting the invitations.

“I don’t care that you serve tables, you can do whatever job you want, I don’t care about that. I care that random men that come into your place of work are asking you out and you’re going.”

“You think I'm cheating on you?”

“No, but the temptation is there.”

There it is. Quinn’s never been insecure when it comes to his relationship but the men entertaining his girlfriend are richer, older and likely more charismatic than he is. They’re bankers or something, he can’t remember what she said they did just that they ‘exude expensive.’ It shouldn’t bother him, but for his girlfriend to tell him other men are expensive is kind of fucking crazy. 

The last time he checked, he was a millionaire too, and not to get cocky, but if they’re talking money, what exactly does she think expensive is? She’s never wanted for anything, is well traveled, wears designer regularly, has complete access to one of his credit cards and can do with it what she pleases. She attends high profile events with Quinn and is friends with other players and their partners, they rub elbows with rich people all the fucking time. Hell, they are rich people. What is it about these guys that’s so fucking intriguing? 

“You’re so insecure it’s disgusting. I don’t mind the throngs of women that throw themselves at you any chance they get.” 

That one hurts more than he cares to admit, because it’s true. 

“They don’t know me, Quinn. They don’t know who I'm in a relationship with, that I only work because I want to. In their eyes, I’m a random poor waitress gawking over limitless credit cards and expensive watches.”

“Then why do you go? If you know they look at you as less than, why do you bother to entertain their bullshit?”

“Honestly,” she grabs her coat and bag, a bag he’s never seen before, “I like the attention.” 

That one hurts even more than he cares to admit, because she didn’t even bother to lie. 

“No fucking way, absolutely no fucking way. If you want attention from other men, why are we even together? Am I not enough for you that you need validation from random fucking guys?” 

“I don’t know, Quinn. I like getting away from the hockey of it all. It’s nice to be someone other than captain canuck’s girlfriend.” 

That one? That one hurts the most.

“Fine, fucking fine! Go! See if I care! Go be anonymous and suck up attention from random fucking men, wouldn’t want ‘captain canuck’ to cramp your style, have a great fucking time!”

“Is 74 degrees good?” 

“Quinn? 74? It’s so hot, bump it down to 69 or 70.”

He does all he can to keep his eyes from popping out of his head but he loves you, so he reluctantly sets the air to 70 degrees. It destroys his routine, but it’s fine. 

The two of you moved in together at the end of last season, so this is the first time you’re officially coming home to a shared apartment with Quinn. You’re not too familiar with the way he does things at the beginning of the season, because you weren’t living with him the last two years, but you figure he probably doesn’t mind cooling the place down. 

He does though, Quinn cares very much that you’ve interrupted something so important to him. He needs it be at least 76 degrees in his apartment for the first week he’s back in Vancouver, which he knows is fucking ridiculous, because it’s the end of his break and he wants to enjoy the summer heat as much as he can, even if it’s manufactured. 

Quinn’s not a crazy person though, he cools it down after that first week, but it’s important to him, as silly as it is. He told you last year when you stayed over a few nights but you must have forgotten. 

It’s fine, he supposes, he’ll just deal with it.

The small stuff eventually gives way to bigger things, like communication issues and insecurity, but you both deal with them as best as you can, you love each other after all. 

“You’re late.” 

It’s been three hours since Quinn texted saying he was headed home from the arena and he’s just now walking in the door. 

“I’m sorry, some of the guys wanted to grab a drink after the loss and I felt like I needed to go.”

“A drink? Where did you go?”

Quinn names the bar as he heads to the bedroom to change and get into bed. The Canucks have an afternoon game tomorrow, which means an early flight that he isn’t excited about. 

“Shooters, you know the place, a block away from the arena. Nothing happened, come on, let’s get in bed.” 

You don’t want to go to bed though, because you’re pissed. Shooters is a notable Canuck fan bar that’s always crawling with women that want to sleep with the players, your player especially. 

“How many numbers did you get tonight?”

“None, please don’t do this, i’m so fucking tired and i’ve got to get up early as fuck.”

“How many numbers, Quinn?”

He reiterates that he got none but you can’t be convinced. After an unnecessary fight, Quinn goes to bed and you go cry it out on the couch until you pass out.

It’s fine, probably.

Bigger things keep piling up until you’re not sure who it is that you’re sharing a bed with, because it definitely isn’t the Quinn you met several years ago and fell in love with. This Quinn is a stranger, and this Quinn thinks you’re a stranger too. 

“I’ll move out, I’ll leave tonight, it’s fine.”

“You know I don’t want that, I don’t know why we’re fighting over this. It’s fucking stupid.”

Quinn was late again, claiming to be out with the guys. 

“Because you’re never home on time, you always lie to me!”

“I’m the captain of this team and I have responsibilities to them, why don’t you understand that? This is my career, my life, I have obligations.”

“I thought I was your life.” 

It’s stupid, you know it the second it leaves your lips but you can’t take it back now.

Quinn knows it too, and the two of you share a look of longing for something you officially lost yet.

“Fuck,” Quinn drops into the chair in the corner of the living room, “you are, you used to be, but I don’t think this is working anymore.”

You feel the weight of his words in every fiber of your being. This can’t be fucking happening. 

It is though.

You humor him, because the one time you insisted he choose, Quinn picked the most difficult one, almost twelve miles long and littered with enough terrain change to send you both into an unexpected panic. It was fucking awful, and you both nearly dropped to your knees and kissed the ground as soon as you finished.

It’s easy spending time with Quinn. Sometimes you chat the entire run, other times no one speaks and you both move in sync in your own worlds, music blasting through your earbuds. Your conversations range from surface level (gossip around town, incoming weather, Quinn’s brothers shenanigans) to surprisingly deep (Quinn’s career, your lack of one, the future, politics) but it’s never difficult. The two of you always fall in step with each other regardless of the topic of conversation, if there even is one. 

That’s why it’s weird when you jog to the end of your driveway this morning, Quinn is nowhere to be found.

It’s the first day of August and you’re ready to start the distance challenge Quinn had proposed for the month. This month is likely the last time you’ll see each other until next summer and you’ve both decided you want to push your running to the next level. 

You’re ready to dust him in the challenge for today but the minutes pass while you wait and he doesn’t show. 

Don’t tell me you’re giving up already, you shoot him a quick text thinking maybe he overslept. 

Ten minutes pass and you don’t want to double text him but this is annoying and it’s definitely out of character for Quinn. Not willing to wait any longer, you head out. It’s the first time since the beginning of summer you’ve gone without him and it feels a bit like a betrayal. 

You try not to let it bother you, he’s ramped up his workouts because the season is starting soon and he’s started doing media appearances as well, he’s probably just worn out because he’s so busy. It’s fine. Quinn’s a professional athlete and the captain of a major hockey franchise, he can’t always be available.

*

You run a total of eight miles and are drenched in sweat and satisfaction by the time you reach your street. It’s the longest you’ve run, other than Quinn’s nightmare trail, and you’re pretty fucking proud of yourself for getting through it with relative ease. 

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you let the current song play as you walk toward your driveway and check your messages.

I’m so sorry, oh my god, the fucking distance challenge! I totally forgot, i’m so sorry

Not to be weird but i’m watching your location and you’re killing this run, i’m so sorry i fucked up and forgot

Holy shit, your pace is crazy, I'm almost glad I'm not there. Couldn’t fucking keep up lol 

Proud of you, see you soon

And see you soon, he did. 

Quinn’s sitting on your porch with his head in his phone when you approach. He doesn’t seem to hear or see you come up the steps. 

“Get off my porch, stranger,” you joke as you come up the steps.

As irritated as you are that he didn’t show this morning, you can’t be too mad at him. He seemed apologetic in his texts and, in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that serious.

“Stranger? I was under the impression you told her about us, Quinn.” 

That’s not a voice you recognize and when she introduces herself, not bothering to make actual eye contact with you even though she’s draped over your porch swing like it’s her own, you don’t recognize the name. 

You’re not about to rat Quinn out though, his business is exactly that and you don’t intend to do anything to intrude.

“Right,” you smile at her and extend your hand, “it’s good to meet you, Cade.” 

“You too,” she stands to shake your hand half-heartedly and drops it like you’ve got an infectious disease, “what a pleasure.” 

It’s pure sarcasm and it’s fucking irritating. You don’t know this woman and this is your fucking house, she can actually fuck off. 

“I don’t believe I invited either of you for breakfast, so you both can go now.” 

Quinn hasn’t said a word, he’s glued to an oversized wooden rocking chair watching the scene play out in front of him like he’s not the star of the fucking show. He’s probably embarrassed, which he should be, because his ‘girlfriend’ has no idea how to make a good impression or entrance. 

You don’t bother waiting for them to go before entering your home and shutting the door behind you. Quinn’s girlfriends, partners, flavors are not your business until they step foot on your property and start trying to assume dominance. 

No fucking thanks. You’re cool running by yourself if you don’t have to deal with this bullshit. You’re kicking yourself for even thinking you ever had a shot at anything pertaining to Quinn Hughes. You’re a regular person living a regular life and he is not, the two of you aren’t ever going to be running in similar circles, you might as well let it go now.

So you do. 

I’ve had fun getting to know you and running together but I'm not going to deal with whatever you’ve got going on with your girlfriend and I'm definitely not cool with her sitting all over my porch and talking to me like I'm beneath her. I don’t want any problems or to deal with any bullshit so I think we’re done here. Good luck with your season.