#emblurbs

Not because you thought he wouldn’t care—but because you knew he would. Because you’d watched him on FaceTime from hotel rooms that all looked the same, eyes tired, body sore, voice bright with effort. Because what could he do from three time zones away?

So you learned to compensate.

You reach with your other arm. You hold mugs closer to your body. You tell yourself it’s healing, that it’s already better than it was yesterday. Which is true. Mostly.

When the door finally opens and Jack steps inside, dragging his bag behind him, the relief hits you harder than you expect.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough, a tired smile pulling at his mouth.

“Hey,” you reply, already moving toward him.

He drops the bag and wraps his arms around you without thinking—muscle memory, instinct.

You hiss before you can stop yourself.

It’s quiet, barely a sound, but he feels it.

Jack freezes.

“—what was that?”

You pull back too quickly, already shaking your head. “Nothing. You just surprised me.”

His eyes narrow slightly—not suspicious, just attentive.

“Since when do hugs hurt?” he asks.

You shrug, deliberately casual. “You’re bony.”

That gets a tired huff of laughter out of him, and for a moment you think you’ve gotten away with it.

But Jack Hughes does not forget things like that.

He showers. Changes. Wanders the apartment like he’s reacquainting himself with the space—and with you. You follow him into the kitchen, start making tea out of habit.

When you reach for a mug with your left hand and switch halfway through to your right, his gaze sharpens.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

It’s later, when you’re standing on your toes to open an overhead cabinet, that your shoulder finally protests—sharp and unmistakable.

You wince.

Jack’s voice cuts through the room immediately.

“Don’t.”

You pause, fingers still curled around the cabinet handle. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend that didn’t hurt.”

You close the cabinet slowly and turn around.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I’ve got it.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you, jaw set, eyes scanning you in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“How long?” he asks.

You hesitate.

That’s all it takes.

“How long,” he repeats, quieter now, more dangerous in its calm.

You sigh. “A little over a week.”

Jack exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair.

“A week,” he echoes. “I’ve been gone two.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you say quickly. “It’s not bad. I just tweaked it.”

“You didn’t want to tell me,” he corrects.

“That’s not the same thing.”

He looks away for a moment, pressing his lips together. When he looks back, his eyes are bright in a way you don’t like.

“I was gone,” he says quietly. “And something happened to you, and I didn’t even know.”

You step closer. “Jack—”

“I hate that,” he continues, voice tightening. “I hate that I wasn’t here.”

“It wasn’t serious,” you insist. “I didn’t need you to come home or anything.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

He finally moves, closing the space between you. His hands hover near your shoulders like he doesn’t trust himself to touch.

“I don’t care if it’s small,” he says. “I don’t care if it heals on its own. I care that something happened and you decided I didn’t need to know.”

You soften immediately.

“I didn’t decide that,” you say. “I just didn’t think it was fair to put it on you when you were already dealing with so much.”

His voice drops. “That’s my job.”

You blink. “What?”

“Worrying,” he clarifies. “Caring. Being there. You don’t get to protect me from that.”

He swallows, then adds more quietly, “Especially not when I’m already not here.”

The truth of it settles between you.

“I’m okay,” you say gently. “I promise.”

He studies your face, then finally nods.

“Promise me something else,” he says.

“What?”

“Next time something happens—even if I’m away, even if you think it’s stupid—you tell me.”

You don’t hesitate. “Okay.”

“Promise,” he presses.

“I promise.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he walked through the door and rests his forehead against yours.

“I can’t protect you if you don’t let me try,” he murmurs.

From that moment on, Jack becomes unbearable.

In the softest, most infuriating way possible.

He moves things down from high shelves before you can reach for them. Carries groceries like he’s training for something. Slides your coffee mug closer so you don’t have to lean.

When you try to lift a laundry basket, he appears out of nowhere.

“Nope.”

“Jack.”

“You’re injured.”

“I pulled a muscle.”

“Injured,” he repeats, firm.

You roll your eyes, but you let him take it.

Later, you stretch your arm upward to open a cabinet—

He gently intercepts your wrist.

“Absolutely not.”

“I can open a door.”

“Not overhead,” he says. “That’s how it gets worse.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I watched a guy play through a shoulder injury and ruin his entire season,” he replies. “I’m not taking chances.”

You laugh. “This is not the NHL.”

“It is to me,” he says seriously.

At night, he sleeps lighter. Keeps his arm carefully draped around you, like he’s afraid of rolling into you wrong. When you shift, he wakes instantly.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, adjusting immediately.

One evening, you catch him watching you from the couch, expression soft but tense.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

“How much I miss when I’m gone.”

You sit beside him, leaning into his chest with your good arm.

“I’m okay,” you say again. “You know that, right?”

He presses a kiss to your hair.

“I know,” he says. “I just need you to let me worry sometimes.”

Now, you were sitting side by side in the glow of the court lights, the hum of the crowd rising and falling around you. Jack was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed, pretending to watch the score. You were trying to look anywhere but at him.

It was one of those fights that wasn’t really a fight. Just hurt feelings and silence that neither of you knew how to fix.

You were mid-sip of your drink when the arena’s jumbotron changed — the music shifting, the crowd cheering. You didn’t even have to look up to know what it was.

The kiss cam.

You laughed quietly to yourself, turning your head just in time to see the camera pan over a few couples — some giggling, some blushing, some pretending not to notice.

And then—

“Oh, no way,” Jack muttered beside you.

You followed his gaze. There you were.

You and Jack Hughes, live on the big screen.

The crowd around you erupted — loud cheers, a few whistles, people pointing and laughing. The camera zoomed in.

Jack’s eyes darted to you, wide and unsure. “You gotta be kidding me.”

You couldn’t help it — you started laughing, the sound breaking through the tension that had been sitting in your chest all night. “Guess they’re giving you a chance to redeem yourself,” you teased softly.

He looked at you then — really looked at you — and for the first time since the fight, there was a flicker of something familiar in his eyes. A smile ghosted across his lips, nervous and crooked.

“What do we do?” he asked quietly, voice almost lost under the noise of the crowd.

You tilted your head, trying not to smile too hard. “You’re the one under pressure here, Hughes.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, but you could see the pink creeping up his neck. “This is so unfair.”

The camera lingered, the crowd getting louder now, the chant starting up — “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You felt your heartbeat quicken, and before you could think of anything clever to say, Jack leaned closer.

His hand found the edge of your seat, his breath brushing against your cheek. You froze — not because you didn’t want it, but because of how soft he suddenly looked. How gentle.

“Still mad?” he murmured, barely audible over the noise.

“Maybe a little,” you whispered back.

He smiled — small, almost shy. “Can I fix that?”

And then, without waiting for your answer, he kissed you.

It wasn’t showy or rushed — just quiet, hesitant, real. The kind of kiss that said I’m sorry more than look at me. The crowd roared, but it all faded into background noise. For a moment, it was just him — the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his hand brushing your jaw, the soft press of his mouth against yours.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for half a second before he leaned away, face flushed and eyes bright.

The camera cut to another couple, the arena moving on, but you both stayed still, the air between you finally lighter.

“Didn’t mean to fight with you,” he said quietly.

You smiled, your fingers brushing against his. “Didn’t mean to kiss me in front of twenty thousand people either, huh?”

He grinned, boyish and bashful. “Yeah, well… I figured if I was gonna apologize, I might as well make it memorable.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “But you’re smiling again.”

And you were. You couldn’t help it.

and will catches you in the reflection of a window or a mirror or something and doesn’t say anything at first. smirks to himself, stores it away

and then it just becomes his favourite thing. anytime anywhere

kitchen? bro is deliberately reaching up to grab something off a shelf. gym? takes his hoodie off slower than necessary. plane? leans back, stretches his arms behind his head, glances sideways just to see if you’re looking

and when you are, because you always are, he grins and goes “you good over there” or “need a picture? might last longer”

and you get flustered every single time. deny it, roll your eyes, call him annoying. meanwhile he is fully basking in the attention

and in my eyes it’s not just teasing for him it’s also pretty intentional cuz he’s the kind of guy who pretends he’s joking while actually being very aware of how much he likes being wanted or admired

and then he’ll start dropping comments like “you know these don’t just look like this naturally, right?” or “shoulders been looking crazy lately huh?” and you refuse to respond and he just laughs and bumps into you on purpose so you have to steady yourself against his arms

and then it’s even worse because everyone else notices too. his teammates his friends and someone def makes a joke about how you go quiet whenever wills wearing a tank top and will just goes “yeah she’s my biggest fan” without even looking at you

but even along with all of that there’s still a softness to it because yeah he’s teasing you but it becomes familiar, affectionate, private yenno

will notices the way your eyes soften not just wander. how you relax around him, lean your head against his shoulder

and one night after he catches you staring again he doesn’t tease you just sorta tilts his head and goes “you know you don’t have to to pretend you don’t like looking at me right?” and then it’s not about the shoulders anymore

it’s about the way you like him. really like him. openly without hesitation or any games

and will who pretends he’s cocky and unserious realizes he’s never wanted to be admired by anyone more than you

You’d wanted to explain—to tell him that it wasn’t about trust, not really, that you were just trying to keep the pieces of yourself from spilling out and ruining a good thing. But the words tangled somewhere between your chest and your throat, and all that came out was, “I’m trying.”

He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know. I just… wish you’d let me in a little more.”

And that was it. He’d left it there—didn’t storm out, didn’t push. Just quietly gathered his keys and said he needed some air. The sound of the door closing had echoed long after he was gone.

Now the apartment felt too quiet. You’d paced the living room for a while, replaying his words, the guilt twisting tighter until it sat like a stone in your stomach. You’d told yourself to breathe, to calm down, to stop thinking—but your body didn’t listen.

Your hands started shaking first. Then the shallow breaths. Then the dizziness. It came like it always did: sudden, heavy, unstoppable.

You’d dropped to the floor beside the couch, knees pulled to your chest, trying to will it away. Not now, please not now.

The front door opened.

“Hey—” Jack’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. “I forgot my—”

He stopped when he saw you.

“Hey, hey,” he said quickly, kneeling down beside you. “You okay?”

You shook your head, hiding your face in your hands. “Jack, don’t—just go, please. I’m fine.” The words came out broken, too fast, not convincing anyone.

He didn’t move. “You’re not fine,” he said quietly. “It’s okay.”

He sat down across from you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him but not so close that it felt trapped. “Look at me, okay?”

You tried to shake your head again, but his voice was steady, grounding. “Just breathe with me. Slow. In…”—he drew in a slow, deep breath—“…and out.”

Your chest stuttered, but you followed him. One breath. Then another.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re safe. Nothing’s happening right now. Just me and you.”

He waited a beat, then offered his hands, palms up. “Can I?”

You hesitated before nodding. When your fingers touched his, it was like the room shifted—less spinning, more still. His thumbs brushed light circles against your skin.

“Good,” he whispered. “You’re doing really good.”

The panic didn’t vanish all at once, but it ebbed—like a tide pulling back. You could finally hear again: the faint hum of the fridge, the soft rasp of Jack’s breathing.

When you finally lifted your head, his eyes met yours—blue, worried, gentle.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you said, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to think I’m broken.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “You’re not broken,” he said immediately. “You’re just hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

He shook his head, squeezing your hands. “You won’t. You couldn’t.” He paused, voice softer now. “You don’t have to hide this part from me, okay? I want to know you—all of it. Even the hard parts.”

Something in your chest gave way at that. You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder, breathing in the steady rhythm of him. He didn’t say anything else—just wrapped an arm around you, keeping his touch light, careful, patient.

After a while, he spoke again, voice quiet against your hair. “Next time it feels like that… you don’t have to go through it alone.”

You nodded, eyes still closed. “Okay.”

He kissed the side of your head once, barely there. “Good,” he whispered.

Not in a grand, sweeping way—no thunderclap realizations or cinematic montages—but quietly, intensely, the way you can wake up one morning intending to research one thing for work and emerge six hours later with forty tabs open, your coffee cold, your brain buzzing with connections you can’t wait to share.

You’re a writer. Which means curiosity isn’t optional; it’s oxygen. One question leads to another leads to a footnote leads to a forum post from 2011 that somehow unlocks everything. When you hyperfixate, it’s not loud or disruptive. It’s focused. Reverent. Like the world has handed you a puzzle and you won’t rest until you understand every edge.

Nico learns this about you early on.

At first, it’s small things. You curling into the corner of the couch with your laptop, murmuring, “Wait, wait, listen to this,” and launching into an explanation about something wildly specific—how Olympic ice is kept at a slightly different temperature than NHL ice, or why certain medieval pigments were more valuable than gold, or how narrative pacing subtly changes depending on whether a story is written in second person.

You talk fast when you’re excited, hands moving as if they’re trying to keep up with your thoughts. Sometimes you stop mid-sentence, apologize, rewind. Sometimes you lose your place entirely and laugh at yourself.

“I’m rambling,” you say more often than you should.

Nico never interrupts.

He leans back, one ankle crossed over the other, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes on you like you’re explaining something that genuinely matters—because to him, you are. He hums thoughtfully. Asks questions. Remembers details weeks later and brings them up casually, like he’s been turning them over in his mind.

You try not to read too much into it, but there are moments—late at night, when your thoughts get sharp and unkind—where you wonder if you’re too much. If he listens because he’s polite. Because he loves you. Because he has to.

You never say that part out loud.

Then one day, a random topic comes up in the locker room.

Jesper is the one who brings it up, half-distracted as he pulls his jersey over his head, saying something offhand about a weird historical coincidence he’d heard on a podcast. Jack immediately derails it, confidently wrong, which of course means Luke chimes in just to argue with him.

Timo listens for about ten seconds before going, “That’s not even true,” and Jonas, ever calm, shrugs and says, “I don’t know, it sounds true.”

Nico, without thinking, goes, “Oh yeah, I actually know about that.”

The room pauses.

Jack stares at him. “Since when?”

Jesper laughs. “Okay, nerd. Enlighten us.”

Nico shrugs, suddenly sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not—my girlfriend’s a writer,” he says, like that explains everything. “She’s… kind of a genius. I hear about stuff like this a lot.”

Luke squints. “You study now?”

Timo snorts. “Man’s taking notes at home.”

Jonas smiles, amused. “So what you’re saying is you didn’t pull this out of nowhere.”

Nico laughs along with them, ears pink, but he keeps talking. Explains it properly. Corrects Jack when he gets a detail wrong, which Jack immediately pretends not to care about.

Eventually Nico adds, half-joking but earnest, “Honestly, if any of you ever have random questions, she could probably answer them. She knows, like… everything. Or at least where to find it.”

That actually gets their attention.

Jesper raises his eyebrows. “That’s kinda sick.”

Luke nods. “Lowkey intimidating.”

Timo grins. “Good to know. Tell her we’ll test her sometime.”

Nico goes home smiling.

You’re in the kitchen when he walks in, laptop open, papers spread everywhere, clearly mid-fixation. You look up at him, already bright with something to share, and for a moment everything feels exactly right.

Later, after dinner, he gets up to rinse the dishes. His phone lights up on the counter.

You don’t mean to look.

It’s a group chat. A joke. Someone referencing one of the things you explained to Nico earlier that week, adding a laughing emoji. Light teasing. Nothing cruel.

But your chest drops anyway.

Oh.

The thought lands sharp and sudden, like missing a step on the stairs.

He tells them. He makes it a joke. He listens, and then he laughs about it with his friends.

When Nico comes back, you’re quieter. You smile when he talks. You nod. You don’t launch into the new thing you’ve been researching.

He notices, but you brush it off easily. “Just tired,” you say. “Brain’s a little fried.”

The next week, you pull back without realizing you’re doing it.

You keep your discoveries to yourself. You stop saying “Wait, wait” and opening tabs. When you feel the urge to talk, you swallow it. You start editing yourself before the words ever leave your mouth.

Nico thinks you’re busy. He knows how your work comes in waves—blocks and bursts, feast or famine. He gives you space, trusts you’ll come back to him when you’re ready.

You, meanwhile, are quietly teaching yourself how to be less.

The night the team goes out, he’s excited. He wants you there. He’s been talking about you all week—about how smart you are, how funny, how you make everything interesting. Luke has apparently been planning questions. Jesper is curious. Even Jack, who pretends not to care, wants to see if you’ll call him out when he’s wrong.

When you arrive at the bar, though, you feel like a guest in your own life.

You stick close to the other girls, nursing a drink, smiling politely. You don’t volunteer anything. When Jack looks like he might come over, you glance away. When Jesper catches your eye and grins, you look down at your glass.

Nico clocks it immediately.

He keeps an eye on you, worry creeping in, until finally he tells the guys you’re tired. Asks them—gently, seriously—not to overwhelm you tonight.

Then he takes you home.

In the quiet of the car, the distance between you feels heavier than the noise ever did.

Inside the apartment, he finally asks. “Hey,” he says softly. “What’s been going on with you?”

You try to brush it off. You always do. But something in his voice—steady, concerned, patient—undoes you.

“If you didn’t want to hear about my writing,” you say, words trembling despite your best efforts, “that’s fine. I just—I wish you hadn’t made me a joke.”

His face falls instantly. “What?”

You tell him about the text. About how it made you feel. About how humiliating it is to think he listens just to laugh later.

Nico doesn’t interrupt. Not once.

When you’re done, he exhales, slow and deliberate, and steps closer. “Hey,” he says again, firmer this time. “That’s not what that was. Not even close.”

He explains. How proud he is. How he talks about you because he’s impressed, not amused. How the guys tease him because they tease everyone

“I love listening to you,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “I love the way your brain works. I love that you care about things. I would never make you the punchline.”

You cry, quietly, embarrassingly, and he holds you through it like it’s nothing at all.

The next time the team gets together, it’s quieter at first.

Not awkward—just expectant.

You’re sitting at the high-top with Nico half-turned toward you, his arm resting lightly behind your chair, not crowding, just there. Jesper keeps glancing over like he’s debating whether to speak. Luke’s already halfway into a question and then stopping himself. Jack looks like he’s trying very hard not to look like he’s trying.

Finally, Jesper breaks.

“Okay,” he says, leaning his elbows on the table. “I have a real one. Not a stupid one.”

You smile a little. “Define real.”

He grins. “Fair. So—” he gestures vaguely with his beer “—we were talking the other day about why some players just… disappear in the playoffs. Like, same skill, same prep, and suddenly nothing works. Is that actually a thing, mentally? Or is it just narrative crap people say after the fact?”

You blink, surprised—and then your face changes. Softens. Focus sharpens.

“That’s actually a really good question,” you say, already reaching for words. “And it’s kind of both. There’s a ton of research on performance psychology that shows pressure doesn’t just add stress—it changes how your brain accesses learned skills.”

Jack perks up. “Like yips?”

“Similar,” you nod, “but broader. Under extreme pressure, your brain shifts from automatic processing to conscious control. So things you normally do without thinking—timing, positioning—you start thinking about them. And that can mess you up.”

Luke leans forward. “So it’s not that they forget how to play.”

“No,” you say, smiling. “It’s that they’re suddenly too aware that they know how to play.”

Jonas laughs quietly. “That sounds… terrible.”

“It is,” you say. “Which is why routines and rituals matter so much. They keep the brain in automatic mode. It’s also why confidence isn’t just a feeling—it’s a neurological shortcut.”

Timo nods slowly. “Okay, that actually makes sense.”

Jack squints at you. “So when commentators say ‘he just wanted it too much,’ that’s… wrong?”

You tilt your head. “It’s oversimplified. Wanting it isn’t the problem. Trying to force execution is.”

Jesper laughs. “This is great. Ask another.”

Luke doesn’t even hesitate. “Okay—why do rivalries feel so intense even when the teams change every year? Like, logically it shouldn’t matter as much.”

You grin. “Oh, that one’s social identity theory.”

Nico lets out a soft laugh behind you, shaking his head like he knew this was coming.

You keep going. Explain how group identity forms, how symbols and repeated narratives wire emotional responses, how the brain treats team allegiance like belonging to a tribe. Jonas asks a follow-up. Timo adds an example. Jack argues one tiny detail just to argue, and you bat it down gently, confidently.

The conversation flows. Natural. Easy.

At some point, you glance sideways—and catch Nico watching you.

Not distracted. Not amused.

Proud in a way that feels almost private.

When you finish your last sentence, Jesper lifts his glass. “Okay,” he says. “I get it now.”

Jack nods. “Yeah. Nico wasn’t exaggerating.”

Luke grins at you. “You’re terrifying. In a good way.”

You laugh, a real one, shoulders loosening.

Nico squeezes your hand once, subtle, grounding—like he’s saying see? you’re safe. you’ve always been safe.

the next time they face off, you’re in the stands, wearing a sharks scarf or a hat or something but logan hasn’t even seen you yet. just the sight of mack is enough to set him off, to make him play like he’s angry at the ice.

and yeah cheeky mack over here knows what he’s doing. but he’s the guy who doesn’t start things but def finishes them. a little extra pressure along the boards, a slow release of logan’s jersey after the whistle.

and you’re watching from the stands and you just know this is bound to blow up any minute now. it’s not like you’re still into logan but at the end of the day you two shared a long part of your lives with each other and you definitely still care about him to some extent. on the other hand, mack feels like forever. if it comes down to picking sides you’re on his without doubt

it isn’t really about the hit but more about the way mack doesn’t flinch, about how secure he is. on the ice, in your life. the two have been dancing around each other all night so logan guesses now’s a good time as ever to drop the gloves

for him it’s reckless, emotional and mack is well, mack is calm. he’s completely in control of himself and when they both head off to the box and mack looks up at you once and just nods he’s perfectly content

and that’s part of what hurts logan too. because yeah you moved on but you moved on welllll. with someone who does everything he can’t. who even when he’s playing a hockey game and an inch from getting a tooth knocked out, makes sure to check in on you and be present for you