#jh86

Jack swings his leg over. The blade bites the ice. The sound, that shiiick, is the only clean thing left in the building. He joins the play, head on a swivel. The puck is a rumor in the corner. He angles his body, anticipating the clear.

It’s been a chippy, nasty game. The kind where every whistle is followed by a mandatory two-second shoving match. Sticks are high. Language is low. This is Devils-Rangers, the Hudson River rivalry dialed to a playoff fever pitch. It’s not hockey, it’s a turf war.

He finds open ice, just a small pocket near the hash marks. He taps his stick. Now. C’mon, Luke, see me.

Luke does. A crisp pass, tape-to-tape. Jack receives it, and in the same motion, he’s pivoting, protecting the puck, looking for Bratt.

Before he can move, a body slams into him. It’s not a clean hit. It’s late, high, and entirely intentional. The boards rattle. The glass shudders. Jack’s helmet smacks against the dasher, a dull thump that echoes inside his skull.

The whistle screams.

“Jesus, man! What the hell was that?” Bratt is in first, shoving the offender.

Jack gets to his feet, shaking the cobwebs out. He knows the number. 47. A new guy. Some call-up from Hartford, all piss and vinegar, trying to make a name for himself by running the Devils’ biggest star.

“You okay, Jacky?” Timo Meier skates over, gloves already half-off, looking for a dance partner.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Jack mutters, adjusting his helmet. He glares at number 47. The kid is smirking, chewing on his mouthguard like a piece of cud.

“Nice hit, asshole,” Jack says, skating a tight, angry circle. “Try that again, see what happens.”

The call-up, Kowalski, skates backward, his smirk widening. “What’s the matter, Hughes? Scared I’ll mess up the pretty face?”

“Just play the game,” Jack snaps, turning away. The refs are already moving in, trying to separate the small herd of red and white jerseys.

“That’s what I’m doing,” Kowalski says, his voice lowering, designed to carry only to Jack. He gets right beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, as the ref tries to push them apart. “Just playing. Though I gotta say, must be hard to focus on the game.”

Jack stops. He turns his head. “What?”

The ref is busy with Bratt and Rempe. They’re in a little bubble of quiet malice.

“You know,” Kowalski says, his eyes flicking up, scanning the luxury boxes that line the arena. He’s searching. “Must be hard. All this pressure. And with her watching and all.”

The red film descends.

It’s not a slow burn. It’s a switch. A cold, immediate click. The roaring of the 17,000 fans vanishes. The chill of the ice is gone. There is only the sour smell of Kowalski’s sweat and the ugly twist of his mouth.

“Shut your mouth,” Jack says. The words are flat. Deadly.

“Which one’s she in?” Kowalski continues, ignoring the warning, drunk on his own perceived edge. “The WAG suite? Yeah. Saw ‘em all coming in. Real nice. Y/N, right?”

He says your name.

He says your name, and Jack’s world narrows to the two-inch space between his fist and Kowalski’s jaw.

“Heard she’s been around since, what, high school? That’s a long time, man.” Kowalski leans in, his voice a greasy whisper. “Must be tough, y’know? Keeping it interesting. Keeping her ... satisfied. Especially when you’re playing this soft.”

Jack doesn’t remember dropping his gloves.

He doesn’t remember the thwack-thwack they make as they hit the ice. He only feels the sudden, shocking freedom of his bare knuckles.

Kowalski’s smirk falters. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second. He wasn’t expecting this. He was expecting a shove. A verbal volley. He wasn’t expecting Jack, the skill guy, the finesse player, to snap.

Jack’s first punch is pure, unadulterated rage. It’s not technical. It’s not smart. It’s a right hook fueled by every protective instinct he possesses. It connects with the side of Kowalski’s helmet, and the sting is immediate, a white-hot pain that shoots up his arm.

It doesn’t matter.

Kowalski stumbles, tries to get his own gloves off, but he’s too slow. Jack grabs the front of his jersey, the coarse material bunching in his fist.

“You. Don’t. Say. Her. Name.”

He punctuates each word with a pull, yanking Kowalski off balance. Kowalski swings wildly, a desperate, clumsy punch that grazes Jack’s shoulder.

Jack answers with a short, brutal jab that finds the gap between helmet and visor. He feels the give of cartilage. He hears the kid grunt.

“JACKY!”

It’s Luke. His brother’s voice.

And then the world explodes.

It’s not a scrum anymore. It’s a riot.

Timo Meier, who was already looking for a reason, finds one in the form of Carson Soucy. They tie up, two heavyweights spinning in a furious, grappling dance.

Bratt pairs off with Panarin, a mismatch of weight but not of anger.

But the real chaos erupts from the benches.

It happens in a wave. Kowalski’s linemates pile on Jack. Luke, seeing his brother at the bottom of a three-man heap, launches himself across the ice and dives headfirst into the pile, a missile of fraternal fury.

“GET OFF HIM!” Luke is screaming, his voice cracking.

That’s the signal. The unspoken agreement is broken. This isn’t a line brawl.

It’s a clearing.

Jack sees it in flashes. The Rangers bench door swings open. Coach Sullivan is screaming, but his players are already spilling onto the ice, a wave of white.

And then the Devils bench answers. Nico is actually trying to hold guys back for a second, trying to maintain order, but it’s hopeless. Jonas Siegenthaler is over the boards. Kurtis MacDermid, built for this very moment, is a blur, making a beeline for the biggest Ranger he can find.

The ice, already scarred, becomes a warzone.

Jack is still tangled with Kowalski, who is now bleeding from the nose, his bravado replaced with a watery panic. Another Ranger is pulling Jack’s jersey from behind, trying to get leverage.

“You piece of shit!” Jack grunts, trying to get free. He’s not a fighter. He knows this. His currency is speed, his hands, his brain. But right now, his brain is offline. It’s all instinct. The caveman part of his psyche that sees a threat to his mate, to you, and wants it eliminated.

He thinks of you. He thinks of the promise he made you after that game in Boston his rookie year.

“I just hate it, Jack. I hate seeing you fight.”

“It’s part of the game, babe. Sometimes it just ... happens.”

“Promise me you won’t go looking for it. Please. Your hands... your head. They’re too important.”

“I promise. I won’t look for it.”

He didn’t look for it. It found him. It found you.

A huge glove grabs the back of his collar. It’s a linesman. “Hughes! That’s enough! It’s over! Let him go!”

The adrenaline is so potent it makes the man’s shouts sound like they’re coming from underwater. 

Jack shoves Kowalski away. The kid scrambles, helped by a teammate.

Jack straightens up, his chest heaving. His lungs are on fire. His knuckles are raw, screaming. He tastes copper. He licks his lips. Blood. Probably from Kowalski.

He looks around.

It is sheer, beautiful bedlam.

The goalies are at center ice. Markstrom and Shesterkin. They aren’t fighting. They’re just standing there, five feet apart, masks on, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like two kings surveying a battlefield they have no intention of joining. It’s the goalies’ code.

Near the Rangers’ bench, Luke is tangled up with Jonny Brodzinski. They’re just wrestling now, the fire having gone out, replaced by weary grappling.

Nico is trying to pull MacDermid off of someone.

The noise is deafening. It’s not cheering. It’s not booing. It’s a single, primal roar. The sound of 17,000 people losing their collective minds.

The refs are whistling, their arms windmilling. Penalties are being handed out like candy on Halloween.

“Hughes! You’re done!” Wes McCauley points a definitive, dramatic finger at him. “And you!” He points at Kowalski. “You’re done! Game misconducts! Both of you! Get outta here!”

Jack doesn’t argue. He knows. You cross that line, you pay the toll.

He skates to the penalty box, but the door attendant just shakes his head and points down the tunnel. “You’re gone, Jack. All the way.”

Right. Misconduct.

He starts the long, lonely skate. From the penalty box to the small Zamboni gate that leads to the locker room. It feels like a mile.

The Rangers fans packed behind the benches are alive. They lean over the glass, their faces distorted with rage.

“FUCK YOU, HUGHES!”

“GO CRY TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND, YOU BABY!”

“DIRTY PIECE OF SHIT!”

He keeps his head down, but the words still land. Cry to your girlfriend.

They don’t know. They don’t know why. They just see the fight. They see the result. They don’t hear the words that lit the fuse.

Only he and Kowalski know. And Kowalski will never, ever admit it. It’s the one sacred, unwritten rule. You don’t talk about wives. You don’t talk about girlfriends. You don’t talk about families.

And this kid, this no-name AHL call-up, didn’t just break it. He shattered it.

Jack reaches the boards. He unclips his helmet. The cool, recycled air hits his sweaty hair. It feels... okay. His hands are shaking. Not from fear. From the leftover adrenaline, the seismic shock of what just happened.

He steps off the ice, his blades clacking on the rubber mat. He feels a sting on his cheek. He must have gotten tagged.

He’s at the mouth of the tunnel. The concrete walls feel like a tomb. In a few seconds, he’ll be in the quiet of the locker room, the game still raging behind him, and the regret will start to creep in. The regret for losing his cool. For leaving his team shorthanded.

But right now, there is only one thing he needs.

He stops. He turns.

He looks up.

His eyes scan the press boxes, the luxury suites, moving past the clusters of suits and the bright team logos. He’s searching for that one specific spot. The one he knows by heart. The WAG suite.

The lights are bright. The glare on the glass is bad. For a second, his heart seizes. He can’t find you.

There.

He sees you.

You are not sitting. You are standing, pressed against the glass, your palms flat against it as if you could somehow phase through and reach him. The other wives and girlfriends are behind you, a blur of worried faces, but he only sees you.

Your face.

You aren’t angry. You aren’t cheering. Your expression is one of pure, uncut, agonizing worry. Your brows are drawn together, your mouth slightly open. He can see the glitter of tears tracking down your cheeks, bright even from this distance.

He knows that look. It’s the same look you had when he dislocated his shoulder. The same look you had when he underwent season-ending shoulder surgery last year. It’s the “my-world-is-tilting“ look.

And it guts him.

This is the comedown. The rage is gone, washed away by the sight of your tears. All that’s left is this hollow ache. He did this. He caused that look.

He needs you to know. He needs to tell you, from 100 feet away, through soundproof glass, with 17,000 people screaming, that it’s okay. That he’s okay. That he’s sorry. That he loves you. That this whole, ugly, bloody mess was because that kid dared to speak your name.

He just stands there, helmet in hand, blood on his lip, hair plastered to his forehead. He just looks at you. He pours everything into that one, desperate gaze.

I’m sorry. I’m okay. It was for you. It was always, always for you.

The world isn’t loud anymore. It’s just you and him. A  moment, playing out in the middle of a hockey war. The bad boy, ejected, locking eyes with the good girl in the stands. Except he’s not a bad boy, and you’re not just a girl. You’re his. You’re his high school sweetheart. You’re his fiancée. You’re his entire goddamn universe.

You see it. He knows you do.

Your expression softens. The panic recedes, replaced by something else. Understanding. Sadness. But overwhelming, unconditional... love.

You lift one hand from the glass. Your fingers are trembling. You bring them to your lips.

And you blow him a kiss.

It’s not a cute, flirty gesture. It’s not for the cameras. It’s a lifeline. It’s a prayer. It’s I see you. I love you. Come home safe.

He feels it land. Right in the center of his chest. It’s a physical weight. It settles him. The shaking in his hands stops.

He can breathe again.

He gives you one short, sharp nod. A promise.

Then, someone gently tugs his arm. “C’mon, Jack. Let’s go.”

Jack breaks the gaze. He turns his back to the ice, to the noise, to you. He walks down the dark tunnel, the clack-clack-clack of his skates the only sound, the image of your kiss a fragile, perfect thing burning behind his eyes.

***

The silence of the apartment is a physical thing. It’s a thick, soft blanket, a necessary antidote to the violence of the last three hours. The game is over. They lost. Jack can feel the 4-2 loss buzzing under his skin, an itch of frustration, but it’s distant, overshadowed by the throbbing in his hand and the adrenaline hangover that’s starting to settle in his bones.

The only sounds are the hum of the fridge, the distant wail of a siren slicing through the Jersey night, and the gentle clink of ice cubes against glass.

You are sitting next to him on the deep, charcoal-grey couch. He’s slumped against the cushions, boots still on because he can’t muster the energy to bend over and untie them. You are perched on your knees, your expression a delicate, heartbreaking mixture of concern and exasperation.

“Hold still,” you murmur. Your voice is soft. It always is, after a game like this.

You’re holding a small glass bowl of ice. You wrap two cubes in a clean dish towel and press it gently to the swelling cut high on his cheek.

He winces. A sharp, involuntary hiss.

“Sorry. Sorry,” you say instantly, your touch softening.

“S’fine,” Jack mutters. His eyes are closed. He just wants to absorb this. The quiet. Your smell, which is something clean and warm, like laundry and vanilla. “It’s just ... cold.”

“That’s the point, genius.” You shift, moving the ice pack from his cheek down to his hand.

His right hand. It’s a mess. The knuckles are split, swollen, and a deep, angry purple that’s already blossoming.

He opens his eyes to look at it. “Looks kinda cool, right?”

You stop. You look from his hand to his face, your eyes flat. “No, Jack. It doesn’t look ‘cool.’ It looks like you punched a brick wall. Repeatedly.”

“Kowalski’s face looks worse,” he says, a grim satisfaction in his voice.

“I saw.” You sigh, a long, weary sound that cuts him deeper than any hockey stick. You put the makeshift ice pack on his knuckles. He flinches again, but this time he clenches his jaw and takes it. “They showed the replay. A lot. They showed him in the penalty box. His nose ...”

“Good,” Jack says. The word is granite. Hard, heavy, and final.

“Jack ...” you plead softly. “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what? Be glad I shut him up? I am. I’d do it again.” He means it. He’d take the suspension. He’d take the fine. He’d do it every single night if it meant that look of panic in Kowalski’s eyes.

You just shake your head, your hair falling over your shoulder. You’re quiet for a long time, just dabbing at the blood that’s dried on his skin, your touch impossibly gentle.

He hates this. He hates the worry he puts in your eyes. He’s seen it since you were sixteen. It was there when he got his first concussion in Ann Arbor. It was there at the draft, when he was waiting for his name to be called. It was there tonight, pressed against the glass.

He has made a conscious decision. He’s not going to tell you.

He’s not going to bring that kid’s filth into this apartment. He’s not going to plant that ugly, violating thought in your head. Why would he? He handled it. It’s over. The kid will be suspended, probably sent back to Hartford, and Jack will serve his time, and that will be that. You never have to know why he snapped. It’s his job to take the hits. It’s his job to protect you, sometimes even from the truth.

“You’re going to be suspended, you know,” you say, as if reading his mind.

“Yeah. Prob’ly.” He shifts, pulling you closer with his good hand, settling you against his side. You resist for a second, then melt into him, your head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder. He runs his thumb over the skin of your arm, a repetitive, soothing motion.

“A long time?” Your voice is small, muffled by his t-shirt.

“Dunno. Two games? Maybe three? League’s a crapshoot.” He kisses the top of your head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just ... hockey.”

You pull back, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes are too smart. You know him too well. You’ve been decoding him for a decade.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper.

“Do what?”

“That. ‘It’s just hockey.’ Don’t brush me off. I’ve been watching you play since we were kids, Jack. I’ve seen you get speared. I’ve seen you get cheap-shotted by Marchand. I’ve seen you get run by Trouba. You get up. You skate away. You score on the power play. You never ever do that.”

“It was a playoff game, babe. It was the Rags. It was ...”

“It was some random nobody,” you cut him off, your voice firm. “It was an AHL call-up. And you looked ... Jack, I saw your face right before. On the jumbotron. You looked … I’ve never seen you look like that. It wasn’t anger. It was something else. Something scary.” You search his eyes. “What did he say to you?”

He holds your gaze. He can feel his heart hammering, a dull thud-thud-thud against his ribs. He can’t lie to you. He’s the worst liar on planet Earth when it comes to you. But he can omit.

“Babe, it was just chirping.” He tries for a casual tone. “The kid was trying to get under my skin. Making a name for himself. He was saying dumb shit. About my game. About, y’know. Just ... garbage.”

“What garbage?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he insists, a little too forcefully. He softens his voice. “Please. It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I’m here. You’re here. We’re good. Can we just ... can we just be good?”

You stare at him for a long, agonizing moment. He can see the calculations turning in your mind. You know he’s hiding something. But you also see the bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes, the plea for peace.

You let out a slow breath. “Okay,” you concede. “Okay, Jack. But your knuckles are still bleeding through the towel.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s gross.” You slide off the couch. “I’m getting the first-aid kit. And then you’re taking a shower. You smell like a locker room.”

“Hey,” he protests, but there’s no heat in it.

“I mean it,” you call from the bathroom. “You smell like sweat and bad decisions.”

He chuckles, the sound rusty in his chest. “Love you, too.”

He leans his head back, closing his eyes again, letting the silence settle. This is good. The crisis is averted. You’re letting it go. It’ll be a one-day story. Jack Hughes Fights AHL Call Up, Gets Suspended. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

His phone, sitting on the glass coffee table, buzzes violently. It hasn’t stopped buzzing since he got in the car. It’s been a constant, frantic vibration. His agent. Tom Fitzgerald. His mom. Luke.

He ignores it. They can all wait.

You come back, a small white box in your hand. You sit on the floor in front of him, cross-legged, and motion for his hand.

“Gimme.”

He holds it out. You are so tender, so focused, as you open a small antiseptic wipe. You clean the blood off his knuckles, your touch light as a feather.

“This is gonna sting,” you warn.

“I think I can handle it, doc.”

You press the wipe to the biggest cut. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Shit.”

“Told you.” You blow on it gently, a soft puff of air. The simple, childlike gesture makes his heart ache.

“You’re good at this,” he says, his voice thick.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” you say, not looking up. “Way. Too. Much. Practice.” You’re concentrating, applying small butterfly bandages to pull the skin together. “This one might need a stitch, Jack. I’m serious.”

“It’ll heal. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, it’s ...” You stop.

Your phone, which was on the couch cushion beside him, starts to buzz. It’s not a single buzz. It’s a deluge. A frantic, unending bzz-bzz-bzz-bzz.

You look up, frowning. “Who in the world-”

“Just leave it,” Jack says quickly. “It’s probably just ... Twitter’s probably going nuts about the fight.”

“Yeah, but. that’s Luke,” you say, leaning forward to look at the screen. “And my mom? Why is my mom texting me ‘Honey, are you okay? Call me!’ And ... oh my god, Luke’s tagged me in fifty different things.”

A cold, heavy dread spills into Jack’s stomach. It’s a feeling worse than any pre-game anxiety.

“Babe,” he says, his voice low. “Don’t. Just let’s turn ‘em off. For tonight. Please.”

“Jack, what’s going on?” You’re not asking. You’re demanding. You pick up your phone, your thumb hovering over the notification. “Luke’s text just says ‘DO NOT look at Twitter. And I’m sorry. I’m gonna kill him.’”

“Who? Kill who?” You look at Jack, your eyes wide with a new, dawning fear. “Kill Kowalski? Why would Luke ...”

“Babe, please,” Jack says, sitting up straight. The pain in his body is gone, replaced by sheer, flooding panic. “Give me the phone. Don’t look at it.”

“Why?” Your voice is trembling now. “What is it?”

You unlock the phone.

Your Twitter feed loads. And it’s a firestorm.

You don’t even have to scroll. The first thing you see is a video, posted by a national sports account. The caption reads LEAKED MIC’D UP AUDIO: Here’s exactly what Rangers’ Kowalski said to Jack Hughes to spark the line brawl. WARNING: Disgusting and indefensible.

Your blood runs cold.

“Jack ...” you whisper.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice ragged. He reaches for the phone.

But you’re faster. You flinch away from him, your hand holding the phone tight. Your eyes are glued to the screen.

You press play.

The audio is staticky. It’s full of the sounds of the arena — the roar of the crowd, the scrape of skates. But the voices, captured by the ref’s lapel mic or Jack’s own, are sickeningly clear.

The phone slips from your fingers.

It doesn’t clatter to the floor. Jack catches it, his reflexes still sharp, and he slams it face down on the couch cushion.

The silence in the room is absolute. It’s a vacuum. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can only watch you.

You don’t move. You’re still sitting on the floor, your hands frozen in the air where you were holding the phone. Your face is pale. Not just pale, but a waxy, bloodless white. You aren’t crying. You aren’t hyperventilating. You’re just ... gone. You’re staring at the spot on the rug where the first-aid kit sits open.

“Babe,” Jack whispers. His voice cracks. “Babe. Say something.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, in a voice so small he can barely hear it, you say, “He said that. About me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A fact that has just lodged itself in reality.

“Babe, listen to me,” Jack says, sliding off the couch onto the floor in front of you. He tries to take your hands. They’re like ice. “It’s nothing. It’s garbage. It’s the words of a nobody.”

“A nobody,” you repeat, your voice hollow. “A nobody who everyone ... is hearing that? Right now?”

“I didn’t want you to hear it,” he says, his voice breaking with desperation. He’s failing. He’s trying to protect you, and he’s failing. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, baby. I just ... that’s why I didn’t tell you. I never wanted you to ...”

“That’s why,” you whisper. The numbness is starting to recede. The shock is being replaced by a sickening, cold wave of humiliation. The tears well up, fast and hot. “Oh, god. That’s why y-you hit him. Because h-he said ... he implied I ...”

You can’t even finish the sentence. A sob rips out of you, a wounded, broken sound that physically hurts him.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Jack says. The words are raw, torn from his throat. He’s not speaking metaphorically. “I’m gonna end his career. I’ll find him. I’ll ...”

“No!” You grab the front of his shirt, your fists bunching the fabric. “No. No more fighting. Please.” You’re sobbing now, your face crumbling. “It’s everywhere. Everyone thinks—they’re all ... they’re all talking about me.”

“No,” Jack says, his voice fierce. He pulls you against him. You’re on your knees, and he just wraps his arms around you, holding you so tight he’s afraid he’ll break you, his chin resting on the top of your head as you cry into his chest. “No, they’re not. They’re talking about him. They’re talking about what a piece of shit he is.”

“It’s so ... vile,” you choke out. “It’s so ... personal. Why would he-”

“Because he’s weak,” Jack says, rubbing your back. “Because he’s a coward, and he wanted to get to me, and he tried to use you. Because he’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing,” you weep. “It feels ... I feel dirty.”

That word. It shatters him.

He pulls you back, grabbing your face between his hands. His battered, swollen, bloody hands are cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He forces you to look at him.

“Don’t you ever,” he says, his voice shaking with a terrifying intensity. “Ever. Say that. Do not let that fucking asshole do that to you. Do you hear me?”

You just cry, your eyes locked on his.

“You,” he says, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. “You are the best, purest, strongest person I have ever known. You are everything. Since we were fifteen. You are everything. What that garbage-can player said ... that’s his filth. It’s his shame. It’s not yours. It never will be.”

“But, Jack ...”

“No. Listen.” He’s desperate for you to understand. “He was wrong. And I was right. I’d take a twenty-game suspension for that. I’d take a season. I don’t care. He doesn’t get to say your name. He doesn’t get to imply that.”

You look at him, really look at him. His eyes, frantic and fierce and so full of a protective love it steals your breath. His cheek, cut and swelling. His hand, which you’re still holding, a wreck.

You lean forward, your whole body trembling. You press your lips, soft and salty with your own tears, to the cut on his cheek. You just hold it there for a second.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his skin.

“Stop,” he says, his voice thick. “Stop being sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, pulling back. “That you had to hear that. That this is a thing.”

“It’s a thing we’ll handle,” he says. “Like we handle everything.”

“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”

You pick up his injured hand, the one you were bandaging. You lift it to your mouth.

He flinches, but he lets you. His eyes are shining.

Your tears are dripping onto his skin, mixing with the blood.

You pull back, your eyes boring into his. The tears are still flowing, but the panic is gone. It’s been replaced by a familiar fire. The same fire he has.

“You are not soft,” you say, your voice suddenly as hard as his. “You are the strongest person I know. You are the center of my entire life. And I love you. I love you so much it makes me stupid, Jack Hughes. Don’t you ever let anyone make you feel like you have to defend me. But ... thank you.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The tension in his shoulders, the rage that’s been simmering for hours, it just dissolves. He leans his forehead against yours.

“God, I love you,” he whispers. “I just ... I’m sorry you heard it. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it from getting to you.”

“It didn’t,” you say, pulling him closer. “He didn’t get to me. We’re okay.” You take a shaky breath. “We’re okay, right?”

“We’re okay.”

He kisses you.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s not soft. It’s desperate. It’s a claiming. It’s raw, and it tastes like salt and iron and the safety of home. It’s a kiss that says You are mine and I am yours and fuck the rest of the world.

He pulls back, just an inch. “My phone’s been blowing up,” he says, his voice rough. “My agent is probably having a stroke.”

“Mine has been too,” you say, glancing at the screen, which is lit up like a Christmas tree. “It’s ... god, it’s everywhere.”

“Turn on the TV,” Jack says suddenly.

“What? Jack, no. I don’t want to-”

“Turn it on. Flip to TNT. I just ... I gotta see.”

You hesitate, then grab the remote. You click the TV on. The bright blue of the TNT studio floods the dark room.

And there it is. The panel. Liam McHugh. Anson Carter. Paul Bissonnette.

And Wayne freaking Gretzky.

Their faces are all serious. They aren’t laughing about the fight.

“... and I’m gonna say this,” Gretzky is saying, his voice firm. “We all played hard. We all said things in the heat of the moment. But there is a line. There is a code. And in my entire career, you never crossed that line. You don’t talk about a man’s wife. You don’t talk about his family. What that kid, Kowalski, did ... that’s not hockey. That’s not being tough. That’s just ... it’s cowardice.”

Bissonnette nods, his usual goofy persona gone. “BizNasty“ is gone, and “Paul“ is here. “He’s an AHL call-up, Wayne. And he just ended his own career. He’ll be lucky if he plays in the ECHL after this. You don’t do that. You just don’t. Not to a star player, not to any player. Jack Hughes ... look, I’d expect a 5-game suspension for him, easy. And he’ll take it. And I’ll tell you what, every single guy in that Devils room, and most of the guys in the Rangers room, they know Hughes was 100% in the right. Some things are bigger than the game.”

You and Jack are just staring at the screen.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Wayne Gretzky.”

“He said I was right,” Jack says, a strange, dazed look on his face.

You grab your phone, your fingers flying. You open Twitter. It’s  not what you expected. It’s not people mocking you.

It’s support.

The support is overwhelming. It’s from fans. It’s from Rangers fans. It’s from players.

“Jack,” you say, your voice thick with a new emotion. “Look.”

You show him the phone. He scrolls. And scrolls. And scrolls.

A small, shocked laugh escapes him. “Well ... shit.”

“They’re on our side,” you say, the relief so profound it makes you dizzy. “Everyone ... they’re on our side.”

“I told you,” he says, his voice full of a weary, vindicated pride. “He’s the asshole. Not us.”

“Not us,” you agree.

He reaches for the remote and clicks the TV off. The room plunges back into soft darkness, lit only by the city glow from the window.

He reaches over to the armchair and grabs both his phone and your phone. He holds the power button on one, then the other, until both screens go black. He tosses them back on the chair.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“The world,” he says, “can be loud tomorrow. My agent can wait. Your mom can wait. The entire NHL can wait.”

He pulls you from the floor, back onto the couch. He lies down, wincing as his sore muscles protest. He pulls you down on top of him, arranging you so your head is tucked perfectly under his chin, your legs tangled with his. He doesn’t care if it’s sore. This is where you belong.

He wraps his arms around you, his battered, bandaged hand resting on your back.

“You good?” He whispers into your hair.

Your voice is muffled by his shirt, but he feels the vibration of it in his chest. “Yeah. I’m good.”

You’re quiet for a long time. The only sound is his heartbeat, steady and strong under your ear.

“... Jack?” You say.

“Yeah, babe?”

“You’re definitely suspended.”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Oh, one hundred percent. Longest suspension of my career, probably.”

“Sucks.”

He holds you tighter.

you cleared your throat lightly.

"i signed us up for something tomorrow."

he didn't react at first, just tapped his screen to pause the video. "what time?"

"ten."

that made him glance over his shoulder at you; ten was manageable. early, but not unreasonable.

"it's a yoga class," you added.

he nodded once. it sounded good -- stretching, mobility, recovery.

you let a few seconds pass before finishing your sentence.

"it's a couples class, and it's fully nude."

the room didn't get quieter or louder, but something in the air shifted. quinn's shoulders went still. completely still. the kind of stillness that only happens when someone is recalculating.

he slowly set the tablet face down on the couch and turned around fully to look at you. his expression wasn't angry, it wasn't even shocked. it was analytical.

"fully," he repeated carefully.

you nodded, keeping your face neutral. he leaned back against the couch, forearms resting on his knees now. there was a faint tightening along his jawline. his brain was clearly running scenarios -- room layout, number of people, proximity, you in the middle of it all.

"with other people there?" he asked.

"yes."

that's when you could see it -- the smallest flicker in his eyes. not insecurity, not distrust, but protectiveness.

he wasn't loud about it, didn't raise his voice or snap. instead, he asked how many people, whether you'd already paid, if it was refundable.

every question he asked sounded calm, but the tapping of his fingers against his knee betrayed him.

when you told him it wasn't refundable, he leaned back and exhaled through his nose, head tipping toward the ceiling like he was absorbing a minor catastrophe.

"i don't see the purpose of being fully nude," he said finally, voice level. "why would stretching require...that."

you shrugged lightly, "it's meant to be freeing."

his eyes flickered to you again, sharper now. the idea wasn't sitting right with him. not because he didn't trust you -- you could see that clearly. it was the strangers. the setting. the lack of control.

he leaned forward slightly, voice lowering, "if i'm doing yoga with you," he said evenly, "it's not going to be in a public gym."

there it was. the line in the sand.

that was when your composure cracked. the laughter slipped out before you could stop it, and the confusion on his face lasted exactly two seconds before the realisation dawned on him.

his eyes dropped to your phone propped up against the arm of the couch.

"you're joking."

you nodded, still laughing.

he shook his head once, reaching forward to tug you closer to him. his arm slid around your waist instinctively, holding you there like he'd been bracing himself for something he didn't want to picture.

"you're unbelievable," he muttered, but his grip didn't loosen.

he wouldn't admit it outright, but he'd been quietly spiraling. he absolutely would have shown up just to stand between you and every imaginary stranger in that room.

NICO HISCHIER

the cafe was quiet, early morning light casting soft shadows across the table between you. nico sat across from you, posture relaxed but attentive, and fingers loosely wrapped around his coffee cup.

he always listened fully when you spoke. eye contact steady, focused. which is what made this more interesting.

"i'm trying something new tomorrow," you said casually.

he tilted his head slightly. "oh?"

"a yoga class."

he nodded approvingly, knowing the advantages that came with yoga.

"it's nude yoga. one of my friends invited me."

the pause was subtle. he didn't react immediately. didn't frown or raise his voice. he simply blinked once, then leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands together in front of him.

"nude," he repeated calmly.

"yup."

"and there will be other people?"

you nodded.

his jaw set slightly. not aggressively. just firmly.

"i trust you," he said evenly after a moment. "that isn't the issue."

there it was. he wasn't angry. he wasn't insecure. he simply didn't like the idea of it. you could see it in the way his thumb pressed against his knuckle -- a small tell of tension.

"i prefer privacy," he continued, voice measured. "especially with something like that."

the calmness made it more intense somehow. he wasn't pleading. he wasn't reactive. he was drawing a boundary. when you mentioned you'd already paid, his brows lifted subtly.

"then we should discuss it," he said, tone firmer now.

that was when you let out a chuckle. he stared at you for a long second before he realised why you started to laugh. you were just playing a silly prank on him to see how he'd react. upon the realisation, he exhaled slowly, tension dissolving.

"you are so mean," he said quietly, but there was the faintest smile tugging at his mouth now.

he reached across the table, taking your hand in his.

"next time," he added, thumb brushing gently over your skin, "leave me out of your little experiments."

and with that, he leaned back, still steady, still composed, but his hand lingered just enough to remind you that he'd been paying attention the whole time.

LUKE HUGHES

you told luke while the two of you were folding laundry together, sitting cross-legged on the bedroom floor. it was domestic and quiet, the kind of soft moment that made the prank feel almost cruel.

almost.

"i signed us up for something tomorrow," you said lightly.

he glanced up immediately, smiling. "what?"

"a yoga class."

he nodded, folding one of his hoodies neatly. "that's good."

you swallowed the grin threatening to surface. "it's couples yoga...and it's fully nude."

the hoodie slipped slightly in his hands. he blinked.

"nude?" he asked quietly.

you nodded.

there was no dramatic reaction, no pacing, no immediate argument. instead, luke went very still, staring down at the fabric in his hands like he was trying to reorganise his throughts before speaking.

"are there gonna be other people there?" he asked after a moment.

"uhh yeah i think so."

his throat bobbed slightly when he swallowed. you could almost see the internal spiral beginning -- steady overthinking.

he trusted you. that much was obvious. but the idea of strangers seeing you like that unsettled him in a way he didn't quite know how to articulate.

"i'm gonna be honest, i don't really like the sound of that," he admitted softly.

it wasn't controlling. it wasn't accusatory. it was vulnerable. you watched the faint flush creep up his neck. he rubbed the back of it absently, a nervous habit surfacing.

"are you sure you want to do that?" he asked.

there was genuine concern in his voice -- more about you than himself.

when you told him you'd already paid, his eyes widened slightly, stress flickering across his face.

he set the hoodie down and shifted to sit closer to you, his hand brushed against your almost accidentally. "i don't know if i'm okay with that," he admitted softly, voice low and careful.

you reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "it's just a class," you said, trying to soothe the unease you could feel radiating off him.

he swallowed and nodded, but didn't let go of your hand. "i know," he said quietly. "it's just...hard to picture. i guess i just...want to be with you, not...everyone else."

there was no anger in his words, just sincerity. his eyes searched yours for understanding.

you smiled softly, brushing your fingers over his. "relax," you said, leaning a little closer. "it's a prank. i just wanted to see your reaction."

his eyes widened slightly, and for a moment his mouth opened like he wanted to say something, then closed again. relief flooded over his features, and the faint pink on his neck deepened, this time from embarrassment instead of panic.

"you...you're joking?" he asked, incredulous, voice low and still careful.

"yes," you said, stifling a laugh. "no nude yoga tomorrow. you can relax."

luke exhaled slowly, leaning back against you, a small, half-laugh escaping him. "i- okay, i- wow," he muttered, shaking his head, still processing. "you are absolutely impossible."

you grinned, letting the tension melt between you. "i know. but admit it -- you totally panicked."

he looked down at your intertwined hands, cheeks still flushed, and managed a small, reluctant, smile. "maybe a little," he admitted, voice quiet, almost sheepish. then he added, softer, almsot tenderly, "but i would've held your hand the whole time, just so you know."

you laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder. "good to know. that's reassuring."

he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, still keeping his hand around yours. "you're lucky i like you," he murmured quietly. "even when you're impossible."

and there you stayed, side by side on the floor, the prank done, the tension gone, and luke entirely flustered -- soft, protective, and completely yours.

JACK HUGHES

you told him while the two of you were in the kitchen, sunlight spilling across the countertops. jack was leaning against the island, absentmindedly spinning a water bottle in his hands while you pretended to scroll through your phone.

it was the perfect setup.

"i'm doing something tomorrow," you said casually.

he looked up immediately, "what?"

"a yoga class."

he shrugged. "hot yoga?"

you shook your head slightly. "not entirely...it's nude yoga which really helps you sweat everything out. i'm going with a friend."

the reaction was instant. his hand stopped mid-spin. the bottle clattered lightly against the counter as he blinked at you, trying to decide if he misheard.

"nude," he repeated. "like fully naked, no clothes at all?"

you nodded.

he pushed off the counter, pacing once across the kitchen like he needed movement to process it. his reactions were never subtle -- everything showed on his face.

"with who?" he asked.

"a friend, and of course everyone else attending the class."

you watched the shift happen in real time. the playfulness drained first, then the casual confidence. what replaced it wasn't anger -- it was agitation.

he ran a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. "how many people?"

you shrugged, "uhh i don't know, maybe like fifteen?"

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "absolutely not."

the words came out fast, impulsive, and protective. he wasn't yelling, but he was definitely reacting. his body language said everything -- pacing, shoulders tense, eyes flicking back to you like he was trying to understand how you could possibly think this was fine.

"i trust you, obviously," he said quickly, almost defensively. "that's not what i'm concerned about."

you tilted your head, feigning innocence.

"it's some random dudes in a room," he continued, frustration threading through his voice. "why would you wanna do that?"

there was something almost boyish about how transparent he was. he wasn't calculating his response. he wasn't filtering it. he just didn't like it.

when you added that you'd already paid, he groaned and dragged a hand down his face, turning away for a second as if trying to cool himself down.

that's when his eyes landed on your phone angled suspiciously on the counter.

he froze.

"...are you filming?"

you broke immediately.

relief washed over his face first -- visible and dramatic -- followed by mild betrayal.

"you're insane," he muttered, stepping toward you and pulling you against his chest, not letting go of you.

his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, chin resting on your head like he needed to reassure himself the scenario wasn't real.

"for the record," he said more quietly, "i was not jealous."

you hummed into his shirt. he tightened his hold just slightly.

"okay, maybe a little."

Y/n is focused on her phone as she walks through the apartment only to scream, glass of water flying and spilling on the floor as she trips over Jack's hockey bag.

"Fuck me!" Y/n exclaims grimacing as she pushes back onto her knees only to hear the aggressive thudding nearing her. "Ja-"

"You ask and you will receive, baby-ah, who put that water there?" He laughs almost falling on the puddle of water from her spilled water before he continues running towards her and scooping her up, a struggling a little with the angle he came at her from but managing to throw her over his shoulder.

"Jack!"

"You asked to be fucked and I'm the only one with the privilege to make your wants reality, baby." Jack declares as if he has no other option but to concede to her demand.

Y/n laughs a little before she's slammed down on the bed and with Jack suddenly looking at her with a smirk, blue eyes dragging down her body.

"I tripped over your stupid hockey bag."

"I'll make it up to you." Jack states finally climbing over her, panting in excitement. "Three times over, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that."

"As you should, baby." Jack smiles then kissing over her grazed knee.

-

Y/n rubs her own face a little feeling completely exhausted. She'd flown over to Minnesota to watch Jack and Luke playing against Quinn but since she couldn't fly with her boyfriend, she flew on her own. Though he made sure it was first class, a delay occurred and she ended up waiting 5 extra hours to get off the tarmac and back to Jersey.

All that to say, she's tired and getting home shoves the door open with Jack getting there to hold it only to watching y/n bounce her head off the door way before he can try and put his hand up to stop the hit.

"Fuck me." Y/n hisses rubbing her forehead and Jack is a little torn on whether to act on his usual response.

So he takes her bags and tosses them inside before cupping her face to force her to let him inspect the damage then deciding it's not bad and he can treat her as he always does.

"Alright, baby. Usually you wait till the door is closed but since you ask." Jack chuckles scooping y/n up and kicking the door closed. "Luckily Luke is already asleep."

"Jacky I'm so tired." Y/n whines actually not sure she has it in her for sex.

"Then this should help you get to sleep." Jack smirks while y/n yawns blinking slowly at him only for him to peck her lips. "Just head."

Y/n is never actually going to turn sex down with Jack especially when he so innocently trying to just make her feel good.

"Wait-I need to shower before you-"

"I'll clean you up." Jack smirks making her grimace as he pulls her pants down practically trembling with excitement.

There's no denying how obsessed he is with y/n.

"I wanna taste." Jack declares while y/n puffs out a breath.

-

Y/n had drunk a lot of alcohol.

"Ja-cky." Y/n squeals from on top of the counter she'd somehow climbed on in the time he'd been gone to the bathroom.

She slips on the spillages and even with Jack shoving forward to catch her, her ribs slam into the edge earning loud "Oooh"s from the surrounding crowd.

Her friends screams in a panic from the counter making the bartenders and security panic to help them down more safely than y/n's dramatic fall.

"Fuck me, ah ah-no ow-fuck-fuck, Jack." Y/n panics feel a burst of pain through her ribs before she realises what she said. "Don't you dare."

"Maybe later." Jack jokes then shaking his head. "We can't fuck in an ER."

Y/n knows Jack absolutely would try once the doctor's have given her the ok.

They do end up at the ER and y/n is diagnosed with some pretty badly bruised ribs, but by some miracle no cracks or breaks. Which actually shocked Jack.

"Will you stop?" Y/n tsks lying on the bed as Jack tries to creep his hand under the bed but he only takes that as reason to stand up and lean over the bed, planting hot wet kisses on her cheek that slowly travel down her neck.

"I'm just trying to make you feel better, baby. They said they might take a while to get you discharged. So might as well make the most of it." Jack states, voice taking on a tone that sends a shiver down her spine because he knew it works every time. "You'll have to be quiet...we don't want anyone to come in telling us off."

Getting fingered in the ER after a drunk injury is a new experience and one that proves to be more enjoyable than y/n anticipated. Being high on pain meds also added to the sensations.

You quietly slipped inside the bathroom, not wanting to break him out of his little bubble yet. Quinn was standing in the shower under the running water. Through the glass, you could see him with his head back. He looked so peaceful, and you felt a pang of guilt.

He had no idea what was coming. 

As you hopped onto the counter, you knocked down the toothbrush. His eyes snapped open, quickly turning his head towards you. 

“I’m sorry, baby,“ you whispered. “I just don't wanna be alone in the bedroom.“

The focused look on his face softened as he realized it was just you. Smile replacing his furrowed brows. The sweet smile he only saved for you.

“Hi,“ he murmured, extending his hand towards you. “Wanna join me?“

“Oh. Not really.“ You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to grin. “I actually need to tell you something.“

The water stopped running, and Quinn stepped out, not even bothering to dry off before wrapping a towel around his hips.  He stepped between your legs, cupping your face in his hands.

His thumbs caressed your cheeks, searching your expression for anything that could give him a clue as to what happened.

“What is it? Did something happen?“ 

“I just…“ You started, looking down at your hands. “I won’t be able to pay the mortgage this month.“

There was a beat of silence. 

“What?“ 

“I can't pay the mortgage this month,“ you said, voice a bit louder. 

“No, I heard you,“ he looked you dead in the eyes. “I just… don’t get it.“

“I’m so sorry.“

Quinn was starting to get more confused by every passing second. Not really knowing where you got the idea that he wanted you to pay.

“But… you never pay it,“ he pointed out. He took a step back, running a hand through his wet hair.

“Babe, I’m so confused. I thought we had this figured out. I don’t want you to pay. I’ve never asked you to pay. “

“I know, I just... I can’t do it this month,“ you repeated, biting your lip to keep from breaking. 

He squinted at you, his brain clearly trying to find the logic. “Okay... but since you don't pay it any month, does that mean anything is actually changing?“

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A snort escaped, followed by a wholehearted laugh that echoed off the walls. 

Quinn froze, his hands dropping to his sides as the realization dawned on his face. He let out a heavy sigh, his hands slid around your waist, bringing you closer.

“This is one of your pranks? You don’t actually want to pay, right?“

“Yeah, I’m sorry,“ you laughed, tilting your head to press a quick kiss to his lips.  “But I would be happy to pa–“

“Don’t even think about it. Never.“

Jack Hughes

Jack refused to let you touch your wallet from the day you met. Even before you moved in together, he insisted on paying your bills, wanting you to be completely stress free. So you could focus on your studies.

You always hated that, hated the feeling of people paying for your things. As you moved in together, you had started sneaking out to buy groceries alone, just so you could pay for something yourself.

But today, you had an idea in your head.

You found him in the living room, sprawled on the couch with a controller in his hand. He was locked in a game. 

“Hey,“ you said, standing right in front of the TV to block his view. 

“Love, move– move, pleaseee,“ he leaned his entire body to the side, trying to see the screen. “I’m gonna lose to a ten-year-old.“

“Jack. It's important.“

He groaned, pausing the game with a dramatic sigh. He tossed the controller next to him and looked up at you. A playful pout on his lips. “This better be good, baby.“

“I just… I wanted to tell you that I won’t be able to pay the mortgage this month,“ you said, forcing your voice to tremble.

Jack blinked. He didn’t look angry or worried. Just… lost.

“What?“ he asked.

“I said I won’t be able to pay the mortgage this month,“ you whispered, trying your best to look sad.

You waited for sweet reassurance, the 'Don't worry about it, babe.' Instead, a mischievous smirk spread across his face. He leaned forward, resting his forearm on his knees.

“Oh, man…“ he sighed, shaking his head. “That’s a huge problem, baby. I was actually counting on that money.“

Your heart skipped. This was not what you were expecting. 

“What? What do you mean?“

“Yeah,“ he said, nodding as he stood up to stand in front of you. “I was actually gonna ask you if you could pay half the rent. It’s tough out here, you know? With the prices increasing and all…“

You looked at him, horrified, wondering if he was actually having a financial crisis you didn't know about. “Jack, are you serious? Why didn’t you say anything sooner?“

“I just didn’t want you to worry. Thought I had it figured out. But times have been tough.“

“Yeah… okay, I can do that. Just let me know sooner next time, please,“ you said, your heart aching because you thought he had been suffering in silence. 

Jack let out a loud laugh, his head falling back as he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you against his chest. 

“You thought you had me, huh?“ He smiled into your hair, his whole body shaking with laughter. “You think I don’t have a tiktok? That I haven’t seen the videos?“

“Oh my god,“ you slapped his chest. “You made me worried! I was thinking about what second job I would have to take on.“

“Please,“ he grinned, tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. His expression softened. “As if I would ever let you pay for anything. I'm the one who takes care of you, remember? But you really need to work on your pranking skills.“

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But seriously... if you want to pay for dinner tonight, I’m down.“

“Yeah, I can do that,“ already reaching for your wallet on the table.

“No,“ he said, grabbing your hand. “Sit down.“

Luke Hughes

Since the moment you had moved into Luke’s place, he had demanded one thing. Your money was your money. He wanted you to enjoy your life, to buy the things that made you happy, while he handled the boring adult stuff.

Your friend told you about the prank. Saying how her boyfriend just laughed, telling her he knew she was pranking him. 

So, you decided to try it on Luke.

You were standing in the kitchen, busy cooking lunch, when Luke came back home. The thud of his bag hitting the floor echoed through the apartment, followed by him shouting something about how good the food smelled. 

He quickly made his way into the kitchen, taking his place behind you, sliding his hands around your waist. His chin found its place on your shoulder. 

“Hi, baby,“ he muttered, planting a lingering kiss on your temple. “How have you been?“

“Well, hello,“ you smiled, turning your head towards him. “Good. Just finished cleaning up.“

“Good, I’m gonna go take a quick shower and then help you with the rest.“

With that, he parted from you, squeezing your hips one last time before letting go. And you saw the opportunity. This was the perfect moment. 

“Actually,“ you said, quickly turning around. “I need to tell you something. It’s about the mortgage.“

Luke straightened up, the shower long forgotten. “The mortgage? What about it?“

“I won’t be able to pay my share this month,“ you said, your voice small. You took a deep breath, looking down at your feet. “I’m really sorry.“

The silence that followed was heavy. When you looked up, Luke wasn’t confused. He looked genuinely hurt. Like you had just told him you were breaking up with him. 

“Baby, what are you talking about?“ He asked, his voice dropping. 

“I just feel bad,“ you said, trying to keep the prank going. “I don’t want to be a burden.“

“A burden?“ Luke stepped towards you, closing the gap. He reached out, his large hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Stop. First of all, you don't have a share. Why would you even let yourself get stressed over this? I already told you, I’ve got this.“

“I just thought–“

“No,“ he cut you off. He looked genuinely offended by the idea of you worrying about money. You could see a small pout forming on his lips. “I’m the one who’s supposed to make sure you don’t have to worry about the roof over your head.“

“Luke, it’s okay–“

“It’s not,“ he insisted, pulling you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Don't ever say that again. If you have extra money, go buy that dress or heels you wanted. But don't you even dare think about the mortgage. I’ve got you. Always.“

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. Seeing him hurt, hurt you. Your hands found the hair at the nape of his neck, softly playing with the curls. “It was a prank, Luke. I didn’t think you would react like this. I’m sorry, baby.“

Luke pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. He just stared at you, almost relieved to find out you were joking. 

“A prank?“ He repeated. 

“Yeah,“ you whispered, reaching up to cup his face, your thumbs caressing his cheeks. “It’s a trend. I just… wanted to see your reaction.“

The realization hit him all at once. He let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping his forehead against yours.

“I hate you,“ he mumbled, but didn’t pull away. “I felt like the worst boyfriend for making you worry about that.“

“You’re the best boyfriend,“ you said, softly kissing his lips. “I’m sorry. It was actually really cute.“

“Cute? I was serious. I’m still offended that you would even think I would let you pay.“ With that he threw you over his shoulder and started walking towards the bathroom, making you giggle.

“For that, you are joining me in the shower.“

“Whatever you want, handsome,“ you laughed.

when you agreed to live with your best friend, jack, a year ago, you definitely thought it was going to be interesting.

you've known each other for as long as you can remember, been best friends since you were twelve, and told each other everything. literally, everything.

because of this dynamic you had with each other, there weren't exactly any... boundaries in your relationship. and there never have been.

you've never actually... had sex with jack, but you've done pretty much everything else.

it started about a year ago now. you've always been very open with each other, sharing everything about your life. it was right around the time jack asked you to move in with him. he was at your apartment, sitting on your couch as you paced around, ranting about your latest failed tinder date.

you'd been complaining about how pent up you were, how long it had been since you'd gotten any sort of action, and how the guy you'd seen that night had made you suck his dick, and then refused to return the favor.

jack had listened intently, humming in understanding every few seconds, before saying something that shocked you.

"i could help you out, y'know,"

it had taken some effort, but eventually jack convinced you that him eating you out wouldn't ruin your friendship, and then he gave you the best head of your life.

he was right, too. it didn't ruin your friendship. actually, it didn't change anything, except the fact that you now occasionally did hand stuff.

you both agreed that if one of you were to get into a relationship, your... arrangement would come to an end, no questions asked.

neither of you have gotten into a relationship since then, though.

not for lack of effort, from you at least. you went on a tinder date at least once a week, and it never worked out. and when you came home, whining from being left needy, jack was always there to help.

you were there to help him, too.

on days like today, for example.

jack always came home from practice absolutely beat, and today was no different. you know when he comes home because of the slam of the door, and you know that his first stop is going to be your room by because that's what he always does.

as soon as you hear the soft knock on your door, you call out, "come in," and jack pushes the door open. he's sat on your bed within seconds.

"today sucked," he complains, looking at you with his best puppy dog eyes.

you roll your eyes. you know what he wants, but you told yourself you were never going to do anything for him if he didn't ask for it. he's a grown man, he can ask politely. "just spit it out, jack," you say.

jack throws his head back and groans dramatically. but when he looks at you again, there's a look on his face that you're definitely meant to pity.

still, he manages to find the strength to beg, "can i play with your boobs, please?" he makes sure to add the please at the end, because you've scolded him for it before, and punished him by not letting him.

you roll your eyes, but there's a smile playing on your lips. you should've expected this; the first thing he wants (needs, if you ask him) as soon as he gets home from practice, or a game, or hanging out with friends, or... anything, really, is your boobs.

you look at him for a long moment, smiling at the way he squirms desperately under your gaze, before reaching for the hem of your oversized shirt, and pulling it over your head.

jack practically squeals with glee when he realizes that you hadn't been wearing a bra. you were just relaxing at home, why would you put one on?

as soon as the shirt has cleared your head, jack is no longer looking at your face. his eyes are glued to your tits, his hands subconsciously reaching out to grasp them, before realizing and letting them drop sadly in his lap.

you lay back, your tits jiggling with every movement in a way that makes jack gulp. he continues watching you, though, so you roll your eyes and gesture at them. "c'mon jack, i'm not gonna just sit here and wait for you,"

he smiles excitedly, and moves so that he's laying stomach down between your leg. he places his face in your chest, between your tits, his hands coming up to squeeze them against his face, letting out a relieved sigh at the pressure, and the softness of the skin engulfing him.

"i'm gonna put on a show," you whisper, reaching for the remote next to you. "any suggestions?"

jack hums, smushing your tits tighter, which lets you know that he's not exactly thinking right now, so you nod, and begin scrolling through hulu.

you click on your favorite show and drop the clicker on the bed next to you, completely ignoring your best friend still stuck in your chest. one of your hands comes up to his head, absent-mindedly carding your fingers through his brown locks, which causes jack to let out a little moan every time you tug lightly.

after a bit of relaxing and breathing in your scent between your tits, jack removes himself from his boob sandwich. he starts kissing along the fat of your tit, pressing his face into it, before finally coming to a stop at your nipple.

he presses a few kisses around it, loving the warmth against his face, before wrapping his lips around your nipple.

you inhale sharply at the sudden wetness on your nipple. you knew he was going to do this, he's done it lots of times before, but the sensation is always a little bit unexpected.

his eyes are closed, suckling softly, his other hand coming up to massage and fondle with your other tit. the longer his mouth is attached to you, the more relaxed his body becomes, until he's practically melted into your body, all of the tension leaving his body with the comfort of your chest combined with your fingers scratching his scalp.

"you're such a baby," you murmur, tangling your fingers in the roots of his hair and tugging lightly. he whines low, but doesn't react other than to switch tits, resuming his ministrations on the other side.

you can feel him growing harder against your thigh, but he doesn't make any move to do anything about it. honestly, you doubt he even notices, too caught up in the feel of your nipple in his mouth.

ever since the lines of your friendship blurred, this is something you and jack do a lot, pretty much every day when he's home. and when he's not, you're getting constant texts about how much he misses you (and your tits) and how he wishes he were with you (and your tits). all friendly, of course, despite what your friends think.

after a while, he starts humping your leg subtly. so subtly you don't even notice at first, but you also think he doesn't. he's so out of it, laying there with nothing in his head but the desperation to have his mouth on your tits.

it's moments like this that you really love. jack is a wonderful guy, your best friend in the whole entire world, and he pleases you more than any man you've ever met.

the two of you are attached at the hip, have been your whole life. sure, sometimes you wish your... arrangement... was something more, but this is good. this is fun. it gives you just enough without giving you too much hope, and there's something relaxing about that in a way that you didn't expect.

sure, you'd take more. but you don't want to risk ruining you and jack's friendship, so providing him something like this, being a safe person to him.

you'll take that, too.

he drifts off on your chest, his mouth going slack, soft snores coming out of his mouth. his body goes limp on yours, and you let out a sigh, knowing that you're going to be confined to your bed for a at least the next two hours.

you reach for your shirt, which you'd just set down on the bed next to you, and slip it over your head as much as you can, jostling jack as least you can.

you make sure to keep his head where it is, resting between your tits, his happy place. you pull your shirt over his face, and caress his cheek through the fabric.

jack's woken up this exact way lots of times, and he's told you just about a million times that it's his favorite sight to open his eyes to.

you drift off, too, your show droning on in the background, jack's breath warming your chest, the weight of his body lulling you into a calm sleep.

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01.

Jack knows you can't skate. You leave the athletics to him, always have and always will.

So, why on God's green earth does he send you a voice message telling you there's a family skate on Friday??

You had three days to mentally prepare for peak mortal embarassment and you spent every second of it both praying it'd go well and side-eyeing your audacious boyfriend.

When Friday rolls around, you're reluctant to get out of bed. A text from Jack saying, "Morning, love. Open the door..surprise! 😘" pushed you to finally get up.

When you open the door, you are met with a food deliveryman.

"Uhh, for Jack Hughes?", he says, obviously confused by a woman opening the door.

"Yeah, sorry, he ordered for me. Thanks!", you say with a smile and a nod.

When you come inside, you giggle (against your own will...you're technically still 'mad' at Jack) and tear into the paper bag. You stop in your over-excited tracks.

You're favorite chai from that niche little shop that's too expensive for you to justify getting more than once a month and a lemon poppyseed babka meet your eyes.

You scramble to get to your phone to thank your boyfriend.

Instead you see a phone call notification. "G'morning, love. Big day", he teases.

"Thank you for the treats, but you're still on thin ice, pal", you tease back.

"Nah, ice won't be thin later. I told you it's at 12, right?"

"Ugh, yeah you did. Am I driving there?", you question.

He scoffs. "Hell no. Just be ready at 11:30, baby", he responds.

"Alright, Mr. Hughes. Have fun at your meeting", you tease. "Yeah, yeah", he replies before he hangs up. ❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.❦.

02.

Before you know it, it's 12. The very dreaded family skate time.

You drag your feet in the parking lot to the sound of Jack's obnoxious laughter.

You insist they don't have your shoe size and that oh no, looks like you can't participate! Then, Jack informs you he had your skate set aside to ensure there was no backing out possible on your end.

After twenty minutes of you at your worst, Jack has laced your skates and your hand is gripping his like he's the only thing keeping you on the ice. Forget gravity, ya know?

"Jack, you can't let me go, okay? I'll slip a-and break my neck or something and you'll be single forever", you desperately mutter.

"Single forever?", he laughs through his question.

"Uh, yeah. Because if I die on this ice, I'll haunt you and this stadium forever. Good lucky trying to find a new girl when I'm haunting you, bud", you monologue.

You hadn't realize you were already skating by the time you stopped talking. Someway, somehow Jack had started moving the two of you along without you noticing.

"Good skating, Yn", Luke yells from across the ice.

"Huh? Oh- Jack! I told you to warn me before we started moving", you say through deep inhales.

"If I'd told you, we'd still be standing still. It's not too bad, huh?"

You hated to admit you were wrong, but it really wasn't all that bad.

"No, BUT, you better stay by my side, Hughes."

"Whatever you want, princess."

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03.

The "problem" with Jack Hughes is he's sweet. Too sweet.

He'd been on a roadie for two weeks. Without you realizing it, you two had established a roadie tradition.

He gets home, you two unwind together on the couch, and like clockwork he reveals his souvenir.

Tonight is no different.

"Jacky? Wine or coke?", you yell to the living room.

"Whatever you want, Yn!", he responds. So, you bring both.

"How was the roadie? I mean, I watched all the games I could but how was it for you?", you ask.

"Not awful, but too long. I swear, these roadies just get harder the older I get", he chuckles.

"You gonna start talking about the good old days now, Jacky?", you joke.

Mid-laugh he sits up straight like he just remembered something ultra important. He jumps up and runs to his backpack. You laugh, finding him absolutely and ridiculously adorable.

He comes back into the living room with his hands behind his back. "Close your eyes, baby", he tells you.

You go along with his antics and cover your eyes with your hands.

"Okay, you can open 'em now", he says.

You almost melt at the sight of him with a keychain in his hands. Not just any keychain, but a Jellycat twin marshmallow keychain.

"What's this?", you ask happily.

"For you. I found it at this place near the New York stadium and thought of you. You like these things right?", he asked, looking for your approval.

"I'd like anything you got me, you know that", you say before settling into his chest.

"It's us", he says without explantion. You look up at him, confused at what he's talking about.

"The marshmallows. You're the pink one, though", he explains.

You look up at him and realize that he's it. The mystical one for you. You'd found him at 24 and now at 26, he's just as sweet as he was on the first date.

You kiss his face till he's laughing so hard you worry he'll never stop laughing.

"Thank you, babe", you finally mutter into his chest. In response, you get a kiss on your forhead.

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04.

Jack's not picky with his food. But, before you, he had a set food schedule with no place for budging.

You, though, are a self-proclaimed foodie and have taken to making Jack into one too.

Case-in-point, today.

Luke's home (surprisingly, since he seems to dash when ever Jack gets mushy with you, which is always) and everyone's hungry.

You have the deck of take-out menus on the table in front of you as Luke settles in on the end of the couch. It's between Thai and Mongolian tonight, unbeknowst to the youngest Hughes brother.

"Spaghetti sounds good, no?", he asks you.

Suddenly, Jack appears behind your spot on the couch. "Wednesdays are 'Adventure Days'", Jack says like that explains everything.

Luke looks to you for explanation before you say, "Jack always wanted Italian or burgers and I always wanted to try something new. We settled on Wednesdays being my day to pick and Fridays being his."

As you speak, you feel Jack's warm gaze on you and he pecks your cheek before he sits down on the couch. Luke can sense the lovey-dovey of it all starting up again and leaves you both with a grunt and a murmur about chicken satay.

All Luke could think about as he walked back to his room was "He would've let me get my pasta back then. At least, he's happy.."

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05.

There's never any quiet at a Hughes family function. There's barely space, let alone silence.

Yet, you thrive at these. Birthdays, anniversaries, you name it, you love being with the Hugheses.

It's easy to figure out why. Your own family is small and you honestly don't spend much time together. Once your brother moved out, you quickly followed suit and moved away the year after. If you all see each other once a year, that's a lot.

On the other hand, the Hughes can't live without each other. Of course, Jack and Luke live together so you see Luke daily. But, Quinn and the boys' parents aren't ever too far away.

Today is their cousin Emma's birthday. You'd come prepared with a gift set from Sol de Janeiro and a makeup brush set. Having talked to her a few times you thought she'd liked these.

When Jack picked you up, he told you that you didn't have to get him a birthday present much less his cousin. You swatted him away and told him that was complete and utter nonsense. "Everyone deserves to feel special on their day, Jacky", you insisted.

Once you both got inside, it was hugs and smiles all around. You were immediately split up when Ellen caught sight of you and before you knew it she was telling you a childhood story in which Jack lost a tooth playing mini sticks. Jim then saw you with his wife and whisked you away to the kitchen to set you up a plate. Before you even got to eat your second bite, Quinn walked up to you and asked for some advice regarding his girlfriend. Not last and certainly not least, Luke dared you to play mini sticks against the little kids.

Jack next saw you when you got scored on by a toddler. He laughed at you, caught ahold of your sweater and lightly spun you around to be face-to-face with him. "Ms. Ln? Is that you?"

"Ha ha", you drily replied.

"Having fun?", he asked into the crown of your head.

"Yeah. I love your family. Everyone's so...warm", you confess.

"They love you. Mom's always asking how you are and Dad's always telling me you're a keeper. Y'know, even Quinn told me he's never seen me this happy?"

Your eyes water at the realization that the people who had begun to feel like family to you had long ago adopted you into theirs.

"What about Luke?", you ask in the wateriest voice Jack's ever heard come from you.

"Pfft, he loves to act like he hates how mushy you've made me. But, the other night" he says before looking around to make sure Luke can't hear him before he continues, "he said he hopes I marry you. Apparently, you're the coolest girlfriend I've ever had."

At this admission, you hug Jack just a little tighter.

You've never had anyone, much less your boyfriend, be so upfront about how much you matter to them. You think you could get used to it.

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06.

It's your company's end-of-year Christmas party and it's the first time Jack's been able to attend one with you. Being on IR has its perks!

You're all dressed up and you're putting on the finishing touches. Touch of gloss, heels, and perfume.

"Pictures?", Jack asks.

He knows the drill after years of being with you.

You don't love getting so fancy too often so when you do you like to take advantage of it with a good dozen or so pictures.

"Yeah, please", you smile up at him.

Suddenly, he's doing faux exercises to prepare for the big task of being your photographer. You giggle and hand him your phone.

"Okay. 1,2,3. Yeah, now smile softly. Hm, spin? Yeah! What about with the purse now? Okay, that's 25 pictures", he finishes.

As you look through them all, you realize Jack's come a long way from that guy who used to take blurry pictures of you and insisted he could "see you perfectly" in them.

You kiss him on the cheek and get a hold of his hand.

"I love you, sweetheart", you say as he locks up behind him.

"Love you more. Y'know that, right?"