3 times you find Quinn’s favorite pictures + 1 time Quinn finds yours

Is Creativity a SuperPower?

In her book Creatrix: She Who Makes, Lucy H. Pearce writes that ‘creativity is our superpower’.

I’ve never thought of creativity as a superpower. For me, it feels as essential and automatic as breathing. Breathing is not a superpower to me. It’s life-giving. Life-necessary.

What if I step back and consider the possibility that creativity is a superpower? That in some way, its very presence has…

"Quinn, I do care for you. So much."

You've been going round and round about this for the past half hour.

"But we have to be realistic. I just don't know if I'd be a good fit for your lifestyle long-term."

"My lifestyle," he says slowly. His tone is unreadable, but the expression on his face is crystal clear. He's pissed.

"Yeah."

"You've been a part of my lifestyle for the past eight months," he says flatly. "You've come to my games. You've met my teammates. You've met my family."

Bitterness rises like bile in your throat. You try your best not to sound accusatory. One of you has to keep a level head here.

"Because you asked me to--"

"I was trying to show you how serious I am about us!"

You wince. "There isn't supposed to be an us."

"Who decided that?"

You blink, incredulous. "Both of us? When we started doing this? I'm not the picture perfect hockey wife, Quinn. You don't need to catch flack for dating me--"

He laughs meanly. "That's what this is about? The fucking optics? You're joking."

"It's not just the optics. It's the expectations," you reason. "I don't want to get you in trouble if I decide to open my mouth about something. And I don't wanna tone myself down for the sake of people I don't even fucking know."

Quinn's mouth is pressed into a thin line with the effort it takes him not to interrupt you. He knows he'll get nowhere with you if he does that, but he's practically vibrating.

"And," you go on. "I don't want to find out I'm not worth the effort later on down the line when you get tired of people giving you shit for dating someone like me."

"So you won't date me because you're scared I'll break up with you?"

Not what you said at all. But alright. You'll go for a new strategy.

"We have fun as is," you try to keep your voice as even, as reasonable as possible. "Do we really need to rock the boat here?"

"Fine. Whatever."

Something in the way he practically spits it out makes your chest twist. You don't want to hurt him and it feels like you're prolonging the inevitable here.

"Quinn--" His head whips back to you, eyes narrowing as something in your voice catches. "If this isn't what you want, maybe we should call it quits completely."

"Absolutely not," he snaps.

You stare at him as he tears a hand through his hair, the stress practically radiating off him, and wait patiently as he composes himself. As a friend of his before all this, you've seen this song and dance a few times.

"I'm sorry." Quinn says when you don't speak. He's not, but you'll let it slide. It's the thought that counts and you're not sorry either. "Let's just have a nice night, okay? I don't want to fight before an away game."

Your gaze drifts to where your bag sits beside the front door. You came to spend the night before the Wild's latest roadie, but...you could leave. Force the seperation the two of you desperately need so you don't make this a thing. Except you would have to come back, because there's some spare clothes that are nestled in a drawer in the bedroom that you don't wanna give up.

Truly, you didn't expect breaking up with your not-relationship to get turned down like this. You weren't even trying to break things off with him at first. Quinn brought this on himself by talking about summer plans and just...assuming you would be along for the ride. You'd simply said that wasn't going to work, you had your own plans, and he'd gotten steadily more agitated as you held your ground. Then it just became a principle, because God, was he acting entitled to your time lately...

He says your name and you startle, blinking up at him.

"Okay, yeah," it's an automatic response.

He tilts his head, skeptical. Guarded. "Yeah? We'll drop it?"

"Yeah."

You'll drop it, for now. You can always try to have this conversation again later. Once he's back from his trip, he'll be more receptive. That or maybe he'll realize he doesn't need a woman at home tying him down and that you were right, you guys have been acting a little too much like boyfriend and girlfriend to simply call this casual.

------------

You jump when arms wrap around your waist the next day.

"Morning," he yawns and you shudder at the hot breath against your throat.

Quinn's eyes track the movement in the mirror. You don't like how intensely he's looking at you. It's too early for the weight of his attention.

You try and shrug him off when you go to spit out the toothpaste, but he simply loosens his hold from your waist to your hips.

"Morning," you say cautiously, wiping your hand across your mouth. You glance at him over your shoulder.

He's being clingy. His nose brushes the column of your throat as he practically nuzzles into you. He presses a kiss between the space between your shoulder and your neck with just the right amount of pressure that your stomach swoops traitorously. He knows you a little too well.

But you know him too. You can see the tension in his shoulders. Your spat from yesterday is still fresh in your mind, despite Quinn's best efforts to make you think of other things last night.

It's quiet as he breathes you in. You can feel his heartbeat steady against where your back is pressed up against his chest. You wait, again, for him to speak. To crack first.

"Are we okay?" he mumbles finally.

"Yeah," you lie. "We're okay."

Quinn visibly relaxes. Like this, he almost looks like boyfriend material. Tired eyes, voice raspy with sleep, hair mussed. He kisses your cheek and goes to finish his last minute packing.

-------

He makes the post sometime on his flight out. You don't realize it right away, but your eyes nearly bug out of your head at all the notifications you have on your phone when you glance at it on your lunch break. The message from your friend Mila is the first one that catches your eye.

Did you see what Quinn posted?

No, you haven't. You tell her as much, she says check Instagram. You wonder if maybe there's another trade or some weirdo shit that's always going on in the hockey world. That would solve a lot of your problems, wouldn't it?

The food you've been picking at for your lunch tastes like ash in your mouth when you see it.

Quinn's posted a photo dump. Something out of character for him but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. It's the third picture that makes your skin hot. You know the picture because Mila took it of the two of you. The bar is packed, you're seated in his lap to fit all of your group in one spot. You'd just kicked his ass at darts and the grin on your face is triumphant. The way Quinn's looking at you is with an undeniable fondness and a sly smile that you could chalk up the look to close friendship, maybe, if you were trying to get the gold in being willfully ignorant. But your arm thrown around his shoulders to keep you steady and his hand wrapped around your waist is damning. Not to mention how close your faces are to each other.

She'd texted it to you later that night and you'd showed it to Quinn, because he looked good in the photo and you told him as much. So he told you to send it to him.

Heart thudding, you open up your text threads with him to find no new messages. Nothing? No heads up about this?

Your shaking fingers are flying across your phone's keyboard.

What the fuck Quinn??

Call me ASAP

A response comes through ten excruciating minutes later. Unfairly, you think he's making you sweat on purpose.

I'll call you after the game baby

Then;

That okay?

No. No, it wasn't okay in the slightest. You leave him on read and put your phone on do not disturb. You don't check it again until you're leaving work for the day, and it's only to respond to your immediate friend group. When the score widget for the Wild's upcoming game tonight against Tampa Bay pops up, you swipe it away.

In bed that night, you look at the post again. You're not in it once but twice. The seventh picture is less incriminating, but you're in the background of it, arguing-but-not-really-arguing with Boldy about something, the two of you fighting grins.

Fuck.

You refuse to look at the comments. You cannot put yourself in that position. But before you go to sleep, you choose a different sort of torture. You glance at your messages with Quinn, stomach twisting.

I know you're mad but please answer so we can talk about this

Answer the fucking phone

Fuck him, you think. He made his bed. He can lie in it.

------

Your friends say you're being crazy to ignore him. They can agree that it wasn't a great move on his part, but isn't it kind of romantic? He just likes you so much, he wants to show you off. And hey, your account is private, so it's fine. Really.

You try not to be upset at them for taking his side because really, they're just trying to be neutral. They're your friends first, but Quinn's too to an extent. Your friend groups intersect, it's how you met in the first place. So you tell yourself it doesn't matter what they think, at least with this. You know the truth. You know what you're seeing.

And what you see now is Quinn Hughes standing outside your apartment.

Quinn straightens when he sees you like a dog hearing the front door open. The sheer relief on his face almost makes you feel bad, a twist of guilt in your gut. You knew the roadie was over but you didn't think he would come straight to your place. Then he opens his mouth and you're pissed off all over again.

"Hey, baby."

You scoff and shoulder past him to get your key in the door. "Don't hey, baby me. What are you doing here?"

His brows pinch. "What am I -- I was worried about you. You haven't returned any of my calls. I've texted you like fifty times--"

"And you couldn't think of why that is?" You bite out over your shoulder. He's slipped into your apartment after you, stopping short when you whirl on him. "What in the actual fuck were you thinking posting that?"

He hesitates. "It's a nice photo of you. Of us."

"It's my face on your account! I have family texting me asking why I didn't tell them I was dating a member of the Minnesota Wild. Our friends are joking about me becoming a WAG. There are twitter posts confirming me as your--" your throat spasms. You'd had to delete the app after that. "I told you I wasn't ready for something serious. And you hard-launched me on your Instagram just to piss me off!"

"That's not--"

"That's not even typical shit you post! So don't -- don't act like you didn't know exactly what you were doing."

"You said we were okay!"

Your jaw drops.

Oh my fucking god.

"As in not fighting, Quinn! Don't play dumb."

Quinn is silent as you fume in front of him. He's looking at you like you're the irrational one here, his mouth twists in an expression that can only be described as cranky. Like this is a minor inconvenience and not a huge fucking deal.

But he stares at you long enough that you think he must be able to see the cracks in your anger, the anxiety and betrayal you haven't allowed yourself to feel seeping through. You've been shoving it down the past four days because you know you'll have to break this stalemate the two of you have.

You have to break up with him and you're not even dating.

"Well?" You feel stripped to the bone by this whole ordeal. Your nerves are utterly shot. His scrutiny becomes too much to bear, so you push. "Don't have anything to say?"

He just keeps looking at you, with that stupid blank stare he's perfected for the media. You're about to turn away, to storm off and tell him to fuck off out of your life, when he breaks the silence.

"I don't regret it," he says quietly, stepping into your space. "Not if it means I get to keep you."

Your stomach drops.

"What?"

He smiles but it's flat. Doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'm not something to be kept, Quinn," you say weakly. You can't believe that just came out of his mouth.

"I know, baby," he murmurs absently. You don't think he's really listening anymore, not when his gaze has turned hungry and heavy-lidded as he takes you in. His fingers graze your hip, a finger hooking on your belt loop. "Missed you, y'know?"

Then his hands are up under your shirt, skimming your sides in a way that makes you freeze up. He's got you backed up against the counter when he kisses you, before he's dipping his head to that spot he knows you like.

Your breath hitches despite your best efforts, despite the hands you have pressed against his chest, despite your squirming.

He smirks against your skin. Huffs out a laugh. "Missed this, especially."

You try again, reaching for some semblance of control while his knee slips between your legs, spreading them apart. One of his hands trails down. "Quinn--"

He shushes you, his mouth on yours now, swallowing the rest of your words so they're nothing more than a pathetic noise in the back of your throat.

I feel you bc Quinn's my fav but Jack is so much easier for me to write and come up with ideas for as well 😭 BUT HELLO I LOVE YOUR DOLLS!!! seriously, thank you so much for sending this 🫂 I loved this so much and the time skips were seamless!!!

I did give her #baggage regarding being a woman in the nhl with a d partner that's a man because unfortunately sometimes your male coworkers are wack in a way that isn't a full blown Quinndemic. Also her past team selection was from a random NHL team generator wheel and it landed on Boston so here we are 😭 Anyways I love your writing AND I hope this is at least a little bit entertaining! It's a little long so I will not blame you if you don't post it but I hope you enjoy anyways !!

-----

The post-game interview is the worst part.

You were shocked that you had been selected as one of the unlucky participants, considering the hit on you took you out for half of second period. A three player pile up, you'd been sandwiched between two Bruins, smeared across the boards after the one-two hit. It had been bad enough that the refs reviewed footage to decide if it was a 5 minute major or a 2 minute minor. After Quinn stopped barking at them, anyway.

You also weren't surprised they asked for you, because it had been your former defense partner orchestrating it.

You'd been chirping Coleman since first period and got mean after the hit he laid on your rookie sent him down the tunnel. You didn't remember him playing so fucking physical back when he was your d-partner, but things change. People adapt.

"It seemed like you were having a heated discussion out there with your former teammate during the first period."

"It wasn't a heated discussion," you say. Your tone brokers no argument. "It was maybe fifteen seconds of our time on the ice during a stoppage of play. Second, I thought it was a dirty hit and I told him as much. That's all."

You remember Quinn at the peripheral of your vision, skating a loose circle around the two of you while you told Coleman off. He tilted his head ever so slightly -- a silent question. You were saved from answering by the ref's hand on your shoulder.

"How did he take that?"

You feel your face twitch. "You have the clip, don't you?"

The reporter blinks. It's the most bite you've given a journalist in a while. Your eyes flick to where Hynes is, who gives nothing away, before the next question is volleyed at you.

"The hit on Curley wasn't the only one tonight though. How do you feel about the hit on you during the second period?"

Your brow furrows. Fucking really?

"Like it hurt. A lot."

You didn't think Petersson meant to slam into you after you had already been checked into the boards, considering how apologetic he'd been while trying to help you up, but ultimately it was deemed a two minute minor on the both of them. As you skated off the ice to get checked out, the Wild got to play a 3-on-5, and that was really the best you can ask for, considering the circumstances.

You won the game 5-2.

When it's obvious you won't give them anymore on that subject, another reporter jumps in.

"The two of you were known for your defensive partnership on-and-off the ice during your time as rookies with the Bruins--" at this, you scratch the inside of your wrist, a nervous tic, "--this isn't the first game you've played against them since the trade, but have you been keeping up with Coleman's performance this season? It seems to be finally recovering after your exit from the org."

Ouch.

"No. I mean, I've been a little busy with..." you gesture to the locker room around you. A few polite laughs. "His performance isn't really my concern. If he's getting his groove back, good for him. I'd say I'm more concerned about improving my performance than anything."

"Do you feel like distance from the Bruins has been helpful in that regard?"

You frown. They are not being subtle in the slightest about trying to pitch your trade as emotionally motivated, even after a few seasons with the Wild under your belt.

"Being with the Wild has been great for my development as a player. I think the stats show that."

"Do you think Quinn Hughes has anything to do with it?"

There it is. You fight not to roll your eyes, and it's a near thing.

"Did you ask him the same question about me?"

You smile, to let them know it's okay to laugh and make a show of looking over their heads in the direction Quinn's being interviewed while they titter.

"But in all seriouness, yes. Having a good defense partner is game-changing. Knowing each other's tendencies is a huge advantage on the ice and I'd like to think we know each other fairly well. We elevate each other's play to a degree I didn't think was possible."

It's not a lie. Part of you wishes it was. Then it would be easier to detangle yourself from whatever you and Quinn have become off-ice. But, you reason with yourself, that part of you doesn't know puck.

"I think the more we play together, the better we'll get."

----

You stare at your phone until your eyes burn, reading over Coleman's text again and again while your heel bounces.

You played great tonight. The Wild are lucky to have you.

Can we talk?

"You alright?"

Quinn stands above you, car keys in hand. You hadn't even heard him walk up over the blood roaring in your ears.

You pocket your phone and stand up with a wince. You can already feel the bruises forming. "M'fine. How are you feeling?"

In third period, there had been a tripping call against Boston that laid Quinn flat on his ass. It was a little funny. But because Quinn was yours, you'd gotten a little physical. The ref should have called you out on elbowing, and you probably would have if you hadn't gotten your own ass handed to you earlier.

He shrugs one shoulder. "I'll live."

The two of you head out to where his car is parked in companionable silence. Truthfully, moments like these are the ones where you find Quinn the most tolerable. On the ice, he truly is your favorite person ever. Never have you had a defense partner so in tune with you. Not even with Coleman, and you two had been best friends once you were paired together.

You just wished Quinn wasn't such a fucking weirdo loser otherwise.

He fiddles with the knobs now that the sun is down, asking in a low murmur if it's warm enough and you wave him away. It's halfway back to the apartment building when your phone lights up the inside of the car from where it sits on the center console. You frown, snag it. Your stomach full on turns over, jaw tumbling open.

"You're fucking joking."

Quinn hums in question. You look at his profile, the traffic light casting him in a sickly glow, one that matches how your insides feel right about now.

"Coleman's calling me."

His head snaps towards you. He returns his attention to the road hastily, though his lip is curled. "Why's he calling you?"

Anxiety gnaws at your gut. You hadn't talked to Coleman one-on-one since he reacted poorly to the trade news. His reaction had been explosive, like it had been your fault. It had stung so badly to find out what he truly thought of you, that he didn't view you as you viewed him but as a missed opportunity.

He'd tried to reach out since then occasionally, usually after a bad loss, but you could never muster the courage to answer, even as the months turned to years.

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Should I--"

"Answer it."

The hair on the back of your neck rises. There's an edge in Quinn's voice that makes you hesitate. But your curiosity wins over self-preservation.

"Hello?"

"Shit," he gives a breathy, disbelieving laugh. "I wasn't sure if you'd actually pick up."

Your mouth twists. "Yeah, well..."

You can't say much more with how your pulse has picked up. You're not scared, per se, but you're definitely in fight or flight.

The silence stretches. Coleman clears his throat.

"I just, uh. I wanted to apologize. I got...a little carried away tonight."

You catch how the words I'm sorry never leave his mouth, though, and slink down further in your seat. "Sure did. It felt like shit, by the way. Because I know you were wondering."

He exhales. "Could we talk? Can I see you?"

Involuntarily, your eyes flick to Quinn. He faces forward, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. You're pretty sure he can hear Coleman on the other end, even with your phone's volume low.

"I can't tonight."

In the background, you hear the sounds typical of nightlife. A bar. You wonder if he's out with the team nursing their wounds. You wonder how many drinks he's had. "I could come to your place?"

Panic clutches your chest at the idea for many reasons, one of them sitting right next to you.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please."

He has to be drunk.

"Look, I'm not really in a space I can talk right now--" Now Quinn's gaze slides towards you, unreadable in the dark, carefully blank. "I'm not saying this to be mean. But can't you just say whatever you want to say to me over the phone?"

"I just -- I miss you, okay? I'll admit it. It hasn't been the same without you."

Quinn scoffs. You shoot him a look that is positively murderous, mouthing shut up. But to your growing horror, he doesn't back down.

"Bullshit." Offense is laced in every word. He's incredulous. "Is that why he took you out tonight? He misses you? You're fucking joking."

"Am I on fucking speaker?" Coleman's voice crackles through the phone.

"No! Quinn's just me driving me home."

A pause as your words sink in. Then, a laugh, but it's bitter. "I thought you didn't fuck hockey players."

Hurt stabs at your gut as you bristle, a pained noise escaping your throat. This is all too much. You hang up before he can say anything else, though you think he might still be talking, tossing your phone back onto the center console.

You scrub your free hand over your face, then lift your glare to Quinn in the driver's seat. "What the fuck, dude?"

"What?" He glances your way, fingers tapping on the steering wheel at the red light. His eyes widen in mock outrage. "Oh, you're mad at me now?"

"You escalated that."

"Whoops," he mutters, not sounding sorry at all. Something in you snaps.

"Are you incapable of shutting the fuck up? Geniunely?"

His brows jump nearly to his hairline. "I'm just supposed to let him talk to you like that? Is that what I'm hearing?"

"Yes," you bite out. You're gripping your crossed arms with enough force it might bruise and force your hands to relax.

Quinm looks lost, but his jaw ticks all the same. "I just care about you. That's all."

It always circles back to that.

"Just stop," you mutter, then hurry to correct yourself. "Stop talking. Please. I just want to go home and sleep."

Blessedly, it seems Quinn takes your request to heart. The rest of the drive passes in silence and the tension begins to dissipate, leaving you somehow more exhausted than before. You don't think you could endure another lecture about the nature of this arrangement he's ensnared you in after the night you've just had. You might grab the steering wheel out of his hands and jerk it to the side just to get him to shut the fuck up if he tried.

But when he puts the car in park, instead of clambering out, Quinn turns to you, elbow resting on the center console.

His voice is low when he speaks.

"What did he mean when he said he thought you didn't fuck hockey players?"

You flinch. Coleman's reaction to getting supposedly "friend-zoned" is the reason you've adopted your rule in the first place.

"I say that all the time. I've said it to you and to Curley and everyone on the team has heard me say it at some point or another. I've always said that."

You don't meet his eyes. He stares at you, waiting, and you want to melt into the seat because the way he looks at you burns right through you sometimes. It's under the the weight of that gaze that you crack, sighing heavily.

"What do you think it means, Quinny?" The nickname is barbed in your mouth and the close-lipped smile you give him has no warmth. "You're not the first teammate who's tried to get in my pants."

He was just the only one who had resorted to blackmail to keep the door open.

Something flashes in his gaze. You can't tell if its irritaiton or pity or some other slippery thing. What you can see is the question hiding behind his teeth, pressing down on his tongue. Sometimes he reminds you of a lovesick teenager, seeking out information that will make him sick to his stomach. Then, because he can't help himself:

"Have you two--"

"No." It's vehement. "No, God. We were friends. I thought we were, anyway. He wanted more, and I didn't, and he was okay with that until he wasn't." You unbuckle your seatbelt and make your escape out the car, throwing over your shoulder: "Why do you think he's such an asshole to me?"

----

Quinn watches the video probably five times that night.

Knowing each other's tendencies is a huge advantage. We know each other fairly well. We elevate each other. The more we play together, the better we'll get.

He knows it's too much to hope you're finally getting it. He's a man in love, not delusional. But it is progress. Just like how it had been progress when you had climbed into his lap earlier tonight.

After a rough game -- regardless if it was a win or a loss -- you usually liked it hard, quick, almost mean. Like you couldn't help yourself and you were pissed off about it. But he made sure to take his time with you tonight.

Sure, you knew what you wanted but Quinn knew what you needed. And on nights like these, you needed him to take you apart into a breathy, babbling mess under him who'd say whatever he wanted if he would just let you come. Of course, he rewarded the right answers. He wasn't cruel.

You're sleeping beside him as he scrolls through your phone. It's nothing he hasn't done before, but this time he's looking for something specific.

He checks Instagram first. You're always on there. He expects your DMs with Coleman to be farther down in your messages based on how you spoke about him tonight. Except in your inbox sits a slew of new ones, unopened.

The timestamps date them at just a few hours ago.

At first they aren't nice, is the thing. And then they border on pathetic. I'm sorrys and I miss yous and forgive mes that have Quinn rubbing at his mouth absently, brow pinched. He scrolls up, up, up. You had stopped messaging back with him after the trade. Before that you were messaging every day. Something happened, that tracks with what you told him.

No wonder you're so cagey about getting close to him. Your last d-partner wasn't reliable in the slightest, wasn't honest with you.

Quinn's gaze rakes over you in his bed, in his UMich sweatshirt -- after he'd taken off the threadbare BU one you had on earlier. You'd come onto him before he could ask why you were wearing it in the first place after tonight's game of all nights. But then you'd shifted just right on top of him and suddenly there were more pressing matters.

Coleman had no idea what he had lost until it was gone. Quinn could never be so idiotic as to let you slip through his grasp.

He hovers over the newest messages, taps the Delete For You option on all of the ones from tonight. The texts are what he checks next. You have the contact muted, but not blocked, and his frown only deepens at seeing the texts from today. You didn't mention that. Should he block him? Would that be going too far? Surely you'd notice.

Biting at his thumbnail, he switches back over to your Instagram profile without deciding and swipes down until he's at the time period he's looking for. You're less polished back then, but you look happy. Rookie year, still finding your footing. With Coleman by your side, it looks like. He combs through the comments, trying to paint a better picture of your time in Boston.

Quinn goes very still when you stir beside him. You roll over, practically smashing your face into your pillow and shifting the position of your legs. You get like this when you're too warm, so he leans over and pulls the covers down slightly in an effort to cool you off, exposing your bare thigh. Your breathing evens back out in less than a minute and slowly, slowly, he returns his attention to your phone.

He should delete those dating apps you still have installed while he's at it.

Okay I've been sitting on this one for a bit (I'm sorry ☹️ every time I wanted to comment on it my brain was like a flatline sound bc my bandwidth is not what it was 😭) and it's just too good. I get butterflies every time I reread it as if it's the first time. This was absolutely a treat and I am so unbelievably thankful you took the time to write something so incredible and share it. And share it with me at that!!!

#BootsOnTheGroundJournalism is killing me because you don't even know you're about to have a direct line to everything NHL (whether you want it or not)

when you find the pictures on trevor's phone, it's purely by accident. you use his face id from where he sleeps on the couch because boundaries are fickle in sports and you've used his phone before, he's used yours. you're looking for a picture you want to send that was taken at a publicity event, because its the funniest picture, and you can't find it in your phone so surely he must have it saved.

except there's a folder that has your name on it. you blink. you have albums with friends names on them but in there...there's pictures of you that you definitely don't remember taking. and you would have remembered. but you never would have let him take such intimate photos of you in the first place. jack would freak the fuck out if he knew--

there's a video.

you tap your thumb on it, biting down so hard on your lip you taste blood. you make it through maybe three seconds before the phone clatters from your hand onto the coffee table, you practically throwing it away from your person.

trevor doesn't wake up from his spot on your couch. out like a light. your breathing has gone funky and reedy and you retreat to the bathroom, locking the door behind you and you're gonna be sick. you try to make sense of what you saw. you don't want to make sense of it. you want to have never seen it.

you want jack, of all people. but there is no way in hell you can tell him what's on that phone. so you fall asleep in one of his old hoodies that he gave you when you were traded to the flyers, your bedroom door locked.

its a fitful rest. you drag yourself out of bed hours before your alarm. you shoot z a text with shaking hands while he sleeps on your couch. left for the rink early, had to run some errands. it's only when you're in the car that you break. you allow it, before you dam it all up again. denial chokes you, but you know what you saw last night.

that sits with you throughout the week, like a rock in your stomach. you give the performance of a lifetime of doing just fine, but it does waver more than usual. when people ask if you're alright, you shrug it off. you haven't been sleeping well. it's not a lie. and through it all, z is kind to you. he's nice to you. so, so nice. he tries to cheer you up. you feeling okay? you want to believe it. you desperately want to believe it. but you know what you saw. you know. right?

eventually you break on a call with jack. what you're going through is too heavy. your voice cracks at one point but even before that he knows something is wrong but you won't tell him what, you just keep saying you miss him, that's all. even when he offers (threatens) to drive out there. no, no. it's fine. you just needed to hear his voice. you just..need him. can you come visit at some point? when your schedules line up? it's the first time you've asked for him to visit, instead of him telling you he's visiting. he's not sure how to feel about it.

you want it to be you visiting him, but it makes more sense for him to come to you, see his friends. when he's there, you're on him like a tick on a dog. you can pretend things are normal, because jack might be something that's happened to you, but he won't let anything else happen to you. but one night, when you're stretched out on the couch with him, tucked into his side, he tastes salt when he kisses your cheek and realizes you've been silently crying for god knows how long. of course he freaks out, because the movie you have on isn't even sad. what is going on? you're just relieved he's here, you say. everything's been so hard without him. you appeal to his emotions. this is a secret you'll die with if you can help it.

of course after the trip he asks trevor to check in on you while he's gone, to keep a closer eye on you because you don't seem to he doing too hot...when that's the last fucking person in the world you want to be alone with right now. of course trevor's at your door right now. of course he's got a foot in the door you when you try to shut it, dismissing him that you're fine. he just wants to talk.

because when trevor unlocked his phone the next morning that day, of course he saw the last thing that had been opened up. you didn't tap out to the home screen, did you? of course he connected the dots. he's not stupid.

this is making me feel soooo insane hello

It takes everything in you not to swerve into a ditch, the question shocks you so bad.

"What'd you say?"

"I mean, we already live with him," your brother says. "I'm not exactly sure what you guys are waiting for."

He doesn't notice you whiteknuckling the steering wheel yet and you force yourself to relax before he does.

"We've only been together a year, Nasir." And a half. But rounding down was the easiest way to keep your sanity.

He shrugs, already losing interest with the topic and scrolls through his phone to find something to Bluetooth to the car radio.

"How would you feel about that?" you say after ten miles have passed. You think it's admirable your voice doesn't shake in the slightest. "Us getting married?"

Your little brother sobers then. He geniunely mulls it over, which you weren't expecting. You'd been half expecting a duh or something like it, considering how much he looks up to Jack. Maybe he expects you to be the one to propose.

"I would be okay with it," he says finally. He looks over at you. "You guys do a lot for me but...you deserve to be happy too, you know."

You don't say anything to that. You don't think you could around the lump forming in your throat.

"But," he goes on after a minute. "I don't think you should change your last name."

"No?"

"Uh, yeah," he says, like it would be idiotic to consider. "You're gonna wanna share a last name with one of the greatest hockey players ever once I'm drafted, right?"

You bark out a laugh and Nasir grins in such a way that has warmth spreading in your chest. You love this about him. His drive is amazing and his joy is still contagious, even as he starts to tilt into the dreaded teen territory.

The rest of the ride back from the tournament is quiet, for the most part. The two of you had spent the weekend with Nasir's team at a tournament a few hours away. Jack wanted to come, he always does, but his hectic NHL schedule wouldn't allow it. Secretly, you're grateful for the time away from him. It's few and far between, but during the season it gets semi-consistent. Enough for you to catch your breath, anyway.

It's dark by the time you get back to the city, and you can't help the relief when you pull up to the house -- your house, you guess. Your leg is starting to cramp from driving for so long.

Jack's there, of course. His game ended a few hours ago. He greets you by the door like he always does, a peck on the lips and his hand settling on your waist lazily as you tell Nasir that yes he might have taken a shower at the rink earlier today, but that was before traveling in a car for five hours, of course he has to go take another shower. He grumbles but acquiesces when Jack backs you up, leaving the two of you alone.

"How was the game?" you ask as you toe off your boots.

It's more of a courtesy than anything. You know they'd won because Nasir had been watching the ESPN stream on his phone for a good chunk of the ride back after he threw you for a loop.

"Good," he says absently. His eyes dart over your face. "You okay?"

You force a smile. "Just tired. Long drive."

Jack's eyes still roam your features as he nods. He's too damn perceptive sometimes.

Whatever he sees, he decides it's not worth pursuing, tucking a flyaway hair behind your ear. "How was the tournament?"

"I'll let him tell you about it."

And Nasir does talk about it over the late dinner the three of you have. He talks about the three assists he got on Saturday and how the team's goalie killed it this morning during the last few games. The passion with which he talks about the tournament, about hockey is undeniable. The kid is reading Sidney Crosby biographies in his spare time. He's utterly obsessed with the game.

Now you're trying your best not to fall asleep on the couch, attention divided between scrolling aimlessly on socials and a TV show you're half-heartedly watching. You watch as Nasir leans over to show Jack a video on his phone for the tenth time -- probably the one he just sent you, or some hockey thing. To his credit, Jack sets his own phone facedown, giving him his full attention every time.

It's a little bit later when Nasir goes to bed that fully cements what you're about to do. He always makes sure to track you down and tell you goodnight and that he loves you. It melts your heart every time. You dread the day he gets too old to make his rounds.

But then he leans over the back of the couch awkwardly as he walks by Jack and wraps an arm around his shoulders in a half-hug. "Love you."

"Love you too, bud."

It's not the first time he's said it to Jack. It's not even the first time Jack's said it back to him. Still, it squeezes something in your chest terrible as you watch him trudge up the stairs to his room, just like it does every other time.

You don't doubt Jack's love for your little brother.

You know what you have to do, don't you?

It takes the better part of an hour to steel yourself for what comes next. You think about this past summer. You think about how Jack's brothers had treated Nasir, how they'd taken him on the boat and he'd absolutely loved it. How they'd looked at his tape from last season and given him pointers. How kind Ellen had been, and how she still calls you and him on a semi-regular basis, not just asking after you guys when she talks to Jack. How much she cares about how well Nasir is doing.

It's out before you can stop yourself.

"Hey."

Your heart kicks up a notch when Jack looks at you, a divot in his brow. You brace yourself.

"Thank you."

"Baby..." It's said almost like a warning, but the affection laced in it makes it a pretty worthless deterrent. He hates when you thank him for things he considers the bare minimum -- something that's chafed between the two of you early on when you were still getting used to the idea that you were his girlfriend now.

You press on anyway. "I'm serious. I can't thank you enough for just...being you, with him. He's so much more confident since he's met you. More self-assured."

The emotion that roughens your voice comes to you easily. It's not a lie. Jack sits up, covering some of the distance betwen the two of you in one smooth movement and turning it into just a sliver.

"I care about him. You know that.'

"I know. I can still be grateful." You pick at your sweatshirt (technically his), gaze downcast, and take a steadying breath. "Jack, I'm...really sorry for how I acted a few weeks ago."

Nasir had been at a friend's house for the night. You'd been frustrated at your inability to find another job that worked with his hockey schedule and wallowing in the fact your old job had been perfect. Jack's suggestion that maybe you stay unemployed, let him keep footing the bill, had sent you on a tirade, everything from the past year and a half pent up finally spilling out. You'd been cruel. Said the two of you were doing just fine before he showed up.

You had regretted it instantly, your hand flying over your mouth as if you couldn't believe what came out.

Time had stopped for you. But Jack simply cocked his head, gaze narrowed slightly, before he said softly, "You know that isn't true."

You remember crumpling then. Head in hands, sucking in a ragged breath. Because he was right. That was the worst of it. You'd tried so hard on your own, but there was no chance in hell you would have gotten this far without him. You were so sure you'd blown this whole thing up for you, yeah, but for Nasir and that had you melting the fuck down.

But then Jack was there, caging you against his chest, tucking your head underneath his chin, mumbling utter nonsense.

It had been three weeks since that fight. Three weeks since the make-up sex you hadn't wanted but he insisted on to make you feel better. Three weeks since the morning after, Jack wrapping himself around you and asking against your shoulder if the two of you were good.

He had never asked you if you were good before. He always just decided you were.

You've been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since.

"You were stressed," he says now. "I know you didn't mean it. We all say stupid shit when we reach a limit."

His thumb moves in slow circles on your thigh. You think it's an attempt to soothe. You let him try for a beat.

"Nasir asked if we were gonna get married."

He stops. Not just his minstrations, but everything. Hell, he practically stops breathing. You know Jack well enough by now that you can see when the words hit, when they sink in. His entire body language screams don't fuck this up.

"When?"

"Tonight," you hold his stare evenly. "On the ride back."

He wets his lips, gaze sliding to the side, to the stairs that lead up to the bedroom you share with him and to Nasir's room, before its back on you. "How do you feel about that?"

"How do you feel?"

He makes a face, nose scrunching. It's a little funny, this close up. "I asked you first."

Fine. You'll show your cards.

"I feel like it's a big step." You look around the living room, at the house, at what your life has become before peering up at him through your lashes. "But that's something we're kind of good at, isn't it?"

You know Jack. If you give an inch, he'll take a mile.

You're counting on it.

You guys spoil me, holy shit. This is INCREDIBLE. I want to go paragraph by paragraph but it's literally going to just be me going !!!!! because I love every word of this. It's so brilliantly written from how easy Reader's relationship is with Nasir to how lived in the world feels once Jack is introduced. There's an innate affection to how she perceives Jack that's tempered and it's such a sharp contrast to the bone deep love she has for Nasir