Sarcasm is my only defence!! @ceejay-95 - Tumblr Blog

Bears, Centaurs, and Famous Last Names

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Hollander!Reader

Warnings: Hockey injuries

Authors Note: Finished this at four in the morning so if it sucks don't yell at me

Word Count: 12k

Requested: Honestly kind of

Summary: Quinn sees you before he sees the puck flying toward his face. Good thing you're an athlete trainer and you can nurse him back to health. He is a little curious about your mysterious family, though.

“You’ll be fine, Quinn, it’s not gonna be a thing.”

Quinn sighs, shaking his head lightly and passively kicking a pebble that had rolled onto the sidewalk, “I know, Jack. But, I don’t know, I’m just worried.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Luke’s voice crackles over the phone Quinn has clutched in his hand, laced with slight exhaustion, “You’re the best hockey player I know. You’ll be okay.”

Quinn glances around, eyes skipping over the trees, the vague orange color of the leaves indicating the change in seasons.

“Quinn, you’re in your head, don’t worry about it,” Luke speaks up over the phone again when Quinn doesn’t respond, “You’re gonna get on the ice and it’s gonna feel like muscle memory. You’re gonna completely forget you were nervous in the first place.”

Quinn sniffs, the cold air nipping at the tip of his nose, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“I always am.”

That, at least, makes Quinn huff a small laugh through his anxiety, “I’ll call you after?”

“Yeah. I’ll be waiting.”

“Bye, Jack. Love you,” Quinn says, eyes tracing the walls of Yost Ice Arena in the distance.

“Bye, Quinn. Love you.”

With that, the line clicks dead and Quinn is left back alone with his thoughts and an impending sense of existential dread.

It’s not like Quinn is worried about how he’s going to play. Of course, there are the basic thoughts that go through his head before he plays his first game for any team. What if he hits a divot in the ice and goes pitching face first into the ground? What if he completely misses a pass from his teammate and gets benched for the rest of the game? What if he’s trying to defend and someone scores a shot between his legs?

But he knows those things could happen during any game and he trusts his ability as a player enough for those not to be his worst fears.

His actual worst fear, something he’s refused to admit to anyone, not his brothers, not his parents, not his coaches, not his teammates, is just the simple question of what if it just doesn’t work?

He could get past a moment of failure like a fall or a missed pass. Those things would be funny in hindsight and would be looked past if he had a good game.

But what couldn’t be moved past would be if he just couldn’t play. If he doesn't click with his teammates, if something in his brain flips and he just doesn’t play well, it would mean the end of everything he’d worked for his entire life.

Needless to say, Quinn has had a lot on his mind since the semester started.

He walks through the arena like a ghost, passively waving at attendants he vaguely recognizes, the distant hum of the Michigan home crowd thrumming through the walls.

He stares blankly ahead as he reaches the locker room, pushing the door open, immediately being overrun by the sound of his loud college-age teammates who have never been quiet in their lives.

He waves at the few players who look up to greet him as he walks in and he nods at the player next to him as he sits down in his locker.

He dresses slowly, taking in every moment and sensation, trying his best to keep down the dining hall meal he had scarfed down in a nervous haze.

He has to tie his skates four times, his hands failing him with each attempt.

Eventually, he gets his laces tied and he stands up and turns around, gripping his blue and yellow in his still-shaking hands.

He takes a deep breath, thinking about his brothers back home and every single time he’d stepped on the ice before this. He knows his parents are in the stands. He vaguely wonders where his brothers are.

He shakes his head, sliding the unfamiliar jersey over his pads and sitting back down.

His pattern of ghosting continues through warm-ups. It’s like his brain is somewhere else. His skates move across the ice like a practiced pattern. The captain says something to him. He replies. He later realizes he doesn’t remember a word of the conversation.

Every puck leaves his stick with perfect accuracy. It does little to quell his nerves.

Before he realizes it, the team is lining up on the ice for the start of the game and Quinn is suddenly hit over the head by the reality of the situation.

It’s like he logs back in, the way he’s suddenly overwhelmed by senses.

He can feel the chill of the air in the rink creeping up the back of his neck, the way his pads sit heavy against his shoulders, the uncomfortable metal bench he’s sat against.

He hears the roar of the Michigan crowd, cheers echoing across the arena as fans eagerly await the puck drop.

Probably most importantly, he can feel the weight of his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

This is gonna be a long game.

The puck drops then, and Quinn’s gaze is transfixed on his teammates skating fluidly in sync, the puck passing gracefully between them.

Every second feels like an hour as Quinn waits for his name to be called out.

Every fear from earlier suddenly comes back and he has to make a mighty effort to not puke right onto the ice.

“Hughes!”

Shit.

He glances up at his coach who fixes him with a hardened stare, “You’re next.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He nods slightly and looks back to the ice, not trusting his voice.

His stick stays clutched tightly in his hand as he stands up to lean against the wall in front of him.

Just as he expected, while his team is attacking, a defenseman comes skating up to the wall and jumps over it, patting Quinn on the back as he does.

Quinn does his best to hurdle the wall without tripping and falling flat on his face in front of an arena full of people.

He manages to do so, skating quickly into position.

This is it. This is when he finds out if eighteen years of his life had been in vain.

Luckily for him, he seems to fit right in with the rest of the team's flow, making him vaguely wonder why he’d been worried in the first place at all.

He has a couple great stops and more than a few great passes down the boards to his teammates before his first shift is over and he finds himself throwing his body back over the wall.

His teammates all congratulate him in their own little ways as he steps toward the bench. A fist bump here, a slap on the back there. His coach even reaches over to place a firm pat on his shoulder as he sits down.

From there, he falls into a rhythm. He stops worrying about his next shift on the ice. He actually finds himself leaning forward, eagerly waiting for his coach to call his name.

He registers an assist in the second period and he’s smiling before he even realizes what happened.

It’s early in the third period when it happens.

His coach calls his name out and he quickly throws himself over the wall, skating out with a kind of unburdened power he had felt in a while.

Michigan is all over the other team. They’re barely letting them skate out of their own defensive third, let alone into Michigan’s.

This fact is probably what gives Quinn the peace of mind to let himself skate up the ice and stay there.

For some reason, probably due to a lack of good decision making skills in his teenage brain, Quinn finds himself glancing out at the crowd.

It’s the sight he had expected to see, honestly.

The same type of thing he had seen when he’d watched games on TV. The same thing he’d seen at the events he’d been to before hockey season started. Blue and yellow covers everything and everyone. Though, the crowd is dressed for much cooler weather than most student sections are.

He sees some hockey jerseys. He even sees jerseys for completely unrelated sports but he forces his gaze to keep moving.

Then, it catches.

There’s a girl sitting in the first row of seats. Right up against the glass. She’s wearing a white sweatshirt, the words “MICHIGAN ATHLETIC TRAINING” printed across the front of it in navy. Her hair is up, clearly thrown together casually. Glasses frame her face. But not in a nerdy way, more so in a way that makes her look cooler than Quinn thinks he’s ever looked.

She’s watching the game with a kind of intensity that shows that she's not just a casual fan enjoying some hockey. No, she clearly lives for this sport. Quinn decides right then and there that he needs to know this girl.

Maybe it has something to do with his daydreaming. Hell, it 100% has to do with his daydreaming. But, Quinn’s preoccupation means that he doesn’t notice the shouting of his teammates. He doesn’t notice the way everyone’s gaze turns to him. He only notices something is happening when the girl's eyes turn to him as well.

The puck hits him in the face before he even has time to turn and see it coming.

Quinn knows he’s only out for a few seconds but it feels like an hour.

He rolls over to face the ceiling with a groan, his body not having caught up enough to be hurt yet. He gets a few breaths and a blink or two before the pain begins to bloom violently in his cheekbone.

He manages to slide his gloves off his shaking hands, his stick now abandoned on the ice near him. He reaches hand up to touch his face and his fingers pull away wet. He weakly lifts his hand into view and is unsurprised with the crimson color that meets him.

Stitches. Great.

The face of his teammate pops into view, a concerned look laced onto his features.

“You good, Hughesy?”

Quinn blinks, the lights above beginning to cause his head to ache, “Sure.”

His teammate reaches a hand out to help him sit up and Quinn’s eyes immediately catch on the puck laying on the ice near him, the black rubber tinted just slightly red on the edge.

An image that would be terrifying if he wasn’t feeling more embarrassed than anything else.

Now, he’ll forever be the kid who was stupid enough to take his eye off the puck and got practically bludgeoned by a piece of shit rubber disk instead of the freshman defenseman who registered an assist in his first game ever.

God fucking damn it, Jack and Luke are never going to let him live this down.

Despite himself, he finds himself glancing towards the girl that had taken his attention off the game in the first place.

Unfortunately for him, she’s not even there so maybe none of this had been worth the trouble.

He vaguely wonders if he should be a little worried that he probably has a head injury and he’s more worried about the pretty girl he saw in the stands for ten seconds.

That’s probably fine.

The trainers are out on the ice now, and Quinn once again thinks back to the girl in the athletic training sweatshirt. He wonders if she actually is a trainer or if she just knows one? What if she only does training for football and not hockey? What if she does do hockey games and he’ll have to see her at a game in the future? What if she works at the medical center on campus? What if she’s not even a trainer and this entire thought process is for nothing?

Quinn vaguely hopes that this line of thought was just because that puck had completely rattled his brain.

He gets helped off the ice and cooperates when the trainer presses a piece of gauze to the bleeding wound on his cheek.

He dizzily follows the trainers to the medical room where he’s sat in one of those fancy reclining chairs that all sports training rooms seem to have.

The lights in the room dim suddenly and Quinn is grateful that it just slightly eases the pounding headache forming in his skull.

People bustle around the room. Someone hands him a clean cloth and tells him to apply firm pressure. He gets asked a few questions about himself and the injury.

“Any loss of consciousness?” The girl asks him, slightly older than the other people in the room but younger than the woman that’s clearly their head trainer, or whatever. Probably a senior.

“Yeah, but just a few seconds, I think.”

Quinn thought he was softening the blow by saying that his trip to sleepytime had only been a few seconds but apparently that was still the wrong answer because the energy in the room gets even more concerned.

“Any nausea? Light sensitivity?”

Quinn glances up, squinting his eyes and blinking a few times, “Lights hurt.”

A few minutes later, someone grabs the cloth Quinn is holding to his cheek and gets to work applying a bandage. Quinn hisses slightly when it’s cleaned but makes no other noise until the bandage is fully applied.

“Well, Mr Hughes, I must say, that was one nasty hit,” the older woman walks over, sliding onto the rolling stool that’s sat next to the bed he’s laying on, “But luckily for you, it’s superficial—no stitches. We’re going to close it and keep it covered.”

Quinn would cheer if it weren’t for the fact that any single noise causes his head to ring out like it’s going to explode.

“But,” the woman continues, her expression turning serious, “you’ve got a concussion. Because you lost consciousness, you’re done for tonight—no chance of returning to the game.”

She rolls closer on the stool. “We don’t have the full testing setup here at the arena, so I need you at the South Complex Performance Center tomorrow for a complete evaluation.”

“For now, we’re not giving you any medication—just ice and rest. Take it easy tonight. No strenuous activity, no screens, and absolutely no hockey until you’re cleared and officially entered into concussion protocol.”

Quinn feels like he’s going to throw up for reasons completely unrelated to the concussion.

“Do you have someone who can help you tonight?” The trainer lady asks kindly, “Someone who can get you changed, get your stuff, get you back to your dorm?”

Quinn thinks for a few seconds. His parents are here. They can probably help. But he’d have to call them and he doesn’t know where his phone is. Even if he did, he’d been hit in the head enough times to know he’s not supposed to use it. He doesn’t really have any close friends on campus and the only people he talks to regularly are still on the ice.

The trainer lady seems to sense his debacle as she learns forward and asks softly, “What dorm are you staying in, sweetheart?”

“South Quad,” Quinn manages to mutter, despite his tongue suddenly feeling like lead in his mouth.

“South Quad,” the trainer mumbles to herself before she turns to a kid next to her and ask, “Can you call-“

Quinn doesn’t hear the last part as his ears begin to ring and he blinks his eyes shut in an attempt to at least quiet the attack on one of his senses.

“Okay, Quinn, this is what we’re gonna do,” the trainer lady starts. He probably should learn her name, “I have one of my trainers coming down here to help you out. She’s in the same dorm as you are so she’s just gonna supervise and walk back with you to make sure you don’t pass out in a bush on the way. That sound okay?”

Quinn is only passively listening but he’ll take any help he could get if it means he gets to go back to his dorm and lay down. So, he nods. The moment sends his headache spiraling again and he has to take a deep steadying breath to avoid vomiting from the dizziness.

Quinn isn’t sure how long he sits there waiting for the mystery trainer to appear but it has to have only been a minute or two.

He blinks his eyes open when the door creaks, signaling an arrival.

But any kind of exhaustion is pulled out of him when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

The girl from earlier.

You stand there, glasses pushed up on top of your head, athletic training sweatshirt enveloping your body, and a look of concern on your face that just makes Quinn grateful that you’re thinking about him at all.

“Hollzy,” the trainer lady says to you and you nod back, stepping further into the room and letting the door fall closed behind you.

“What’s up?” That’s the first time Quinn has heard your voice and he’s pretty sure he only wants to hear that sound for the rest of his life.

“We need you to take Hughes over here back to the dorm. Concussion. He’s in your hall.”

You nod slightly, “He’s good to leave now?”

The trainer lady nods back, “Yep. Just needs a quick visit to the locker room beforehand. You think you can handle that?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him,” you reply smoothly, “Cheekbone, right? Does he need an ice pack?”

“Yes, actually,” the lady says, nodding toward the freezer across the room, “Can you grab him one?”

You start walking that way, turning your back towards the chair where Quinn is sitting. As you turn, he can see the name HOLLANDER printed across the back.

His memories, as blurry as they are, snap immediately towards the man he had claimed multiple times as his favorite NHL player, Shane Hollander.

He huffs a small laugh to himself. He didn’t know Hollander was a common last name. He vaguely wonders how many times people have mentioned your last name to you since you started orbiting hockey. Must be exhausting.

You appear at his side, an ice pack wrapped in a paper towel in your outstretched hand. His eyes catch on the Ottawa Centaurs wrist band you're wearing, the black rubber stark against your skin.

An Ottawa fan? Quinn guesses it’s not that uncommon for Michigan but it is extra funny for you to be an Ottawa fan with the last name Hollander. The universe is strange like that.

He’s so wrapped up in observing your bracelets that he almost forgets to accept the ice pack you’re offering. It’s only when you thrust it forward again that he snaps back and grabs the ice pack, his hand brushing against your own. He holds it up to his cheek, grateful for the cold even through the bandage.

“You ready to go, champ?” Your hand pats gently against the shoulder of his jersey.

Quinn hums in vague agreement, having already learned his lesson about nodding his head.

“Let’s go,” you hum, standing by his side, ready to help him if he needs it.

Quinn worries for approximately two seconds about walking on his skates but he quickly realizes that someone had put skate guards on them when he wasn’t paying attention.

Luckily for him, his injuries seem to be restrained to just his head, as he can walk mostly fine, outside of the bouts of dizziness that occasionally plague him as you and him walk back to the locker room.

You push the door open for him and Quinn sits himself down at his locker, needing to take a quick second to adjust to the lighting and get rid of some dizziness.

“Do you need help taking off your stuff? I don’t want you over-exerting yourself,” your voice comes out completely professional but Quinn still finds himself blushing at the idea of you caring for him.

“I can get my jersey off and stuff,” he supplies honestly, not wanting to burden you more than he already has, “I don’t know about my skates.”

You nod from where you’re leaning against the wall at the far end of the locker room, chewing slightly at your cheek. You slide your glasses down your nose and push off the wall, making your way to the locker next to him. You pat his knee as you sit down, gesturing for him to move his skate up to where you’re sitting.

He complies, his muscles only slightly sore as he does so.

He watches intently as you slide your nails between the threads of his laces, pulling the knots apart.

Quinn takes this time to observe you, watching the way your brow furrows and you bite your lip as you work on his skate, the little scars above your lip and eyebrow that he can only wonder about, the way the overhead lights are reflecting off your glasses, the small necklace peaking out from under your sweatshirt. He squints in an attempt to see the necklace better. His best guess is that it’s text of some sort but it honestly looks like it’s not even written with the Latin alphabet, let alone written in English.

You’re most of the way through untying his laces on one skate when he realizes he should probably be helping to speed this along.

He reaches up to slide his jersey off, throwing it into his locker and moving to take his shoulder pads off as well.

You pull one skate off and lay it aside, reaching for his other ankle. He lifts his other leg and you make much quicker work of the second skate.

When you’re done, you offer to wait outside while he changes and Quinn changes quickly, unwilling to admit that part of his rush is that he kinda missed talking to you.

He grabs his bag on the way out, sliding the door open carefully to make sure he doesn’t run into you.

You smile at him when he walks out and Quinn feels a flip in his chest that he decides to blame on his concussion, fully aware that head injuries usually don’t have direct correlation with heartbeats unless something is seriously wrong.

You and Quinn make your way out of the arena together, walking calmly through Michigan’s campus, the night sky shining dimly above.

The dorm you’re both living in isn’t the farthest thing from the arena, which Quinn has been grateful for since the first day of classes.

“So…athletic training?” Quinn asks after the silence had stretched on a little too long for his liking.

You send him a sideways glance, your eyes narrowed. Thankfully, it’s with amusement rather than suspicion.

“Yeah, I’m a freshman. I wanna be a trainer for an NHL team after I graduate,” you supply calmly, your voice steady but warm with something more that Quinn can’t name.

“Why’d you pick training?” He asks, not wanting to give you time to ask questions about himself.

“Is it easier for your head to listen instead of talk?” You ask softly, voice inquisitive.

Quinn simply hums in response, watching as you nod your head.

“I wanted to be a trainer because my brother played hockey,” you start, your voice suddenly turning heavier than Quinn had been prepared for, “I played hockey too but girls barely get recognition so I quit. My brother kept getting hurt and I felt bad so I decided I wanted to learn to be someone who could make him feel better.”

“Does your brother still play hockey?”

You nod, a small smirk forming on your lips, “Yeah.”

“College?”

“No,” you shake your head, grin widening, “He never went to college.”

“Oh,” Quinn responds, having the sudden image of a male version of you playing in some rec hockey league, “He any good?”

Your grin stretches impossibly wider and you laugh, “He’s okay.”

Quinn has the sudden sense that you’re making a joke he’s not in on so he moves the conversation on.

“What’s your favorite team?”

You hum slightly, “It was the metros for a while but I grew up with the Centaurs. I’d say the Centaurs.”

“Centaurs,” Quinn mumbles to himself, “You went from the best team in the league to the worst one?”

You shrug, “Some things are more important than wins and losses. Wait til I tell you I occasionally cheer for Boston.”

Quinn's too concussed to understand what you mean. He does groan at the Boston mention, though.

“You’re from Canada?”

Quinn would define himself as kinda-Canadian but mostly American. He’s pretty sure most of the people on this campus would define themselves as American. He can’t say that Canadians are the most common.

“Yeah, grew up in Ottawa,” you respond, voice laced with warmth, “Lived in Montreal for a year before I came to Michigan.”

“Hmm,” Quinn replies, “D’ya like Michigan?”

“It’s no Ottawa,” you laugh, “But it’s nice. Reminds me of home enough.”

Quinn’s not sure if you’d done it on purpose but he realizes that you’re both standing at the base of your dorm building, the conversation between you having done enough to make the walk seem short.

“What floor are you on?” You ask, pulling your keys out to buzz the door to the ground floor open.

“Third,” Quinn replies, stepping through the door, “You?”

“Same!” You say with a cheery grin, walking past him to the elevator, “You’re not allowed to use stairs for the next few days, by the way. Bad for your bruised brain.”

Quinn huffs a small laugh at your cheerful demeanor as he steps onto the elevator after you. You press the button for your floor and he notices a gold bear head ring on your index finger. It almost seems out of character.

The elevator ride is actually quiet. Not awkward, though. Just thoughtful.

The doors open and the two of you make your way to your doors. Quinn gets to his and you stand near him as he unlocks the door. Once it’s open, he turns around to face you.

“Any parting words, doc?”

“Take a Tylenol or something, mostly,” you shrug, “Don’t take any long hot showers, stay away from screens, get some sleep. I’m two doors down, let me know if you need anything at all. Room 316.”

Quinn nods, ignoring the headache this time, “Will do.”

You stare at him softly for a few seconds before you move, “Good night, Hughes.”

“Good night,-“

Suddenly, Quinn realizes he doesn’t even know your first name. He freezes.

You supply your first name helpfully, "But all the athletes call me Hollzy.”

“Hollzy,” Quinn states, feeling the word out on his tongue, “Like the hockey player.”

“Yeah,” you hum with a small smirk, “Like Shane Hollander.”

“Goodnight, Quinn.”

“Goodnight, Holly.”

He knows that’s not what you said but he feels wrong referring to you like he’s just another athlete you’re working with.

Maybe you sense his thought process because you just smirk and begin to walk to your own room.

Quinn steps fully into his dorm, letting the door shut behind him.

That night, under the helpful aid of four Tylenol and a now-melted ice pack, he falls asleep to dream of bears, centaurs, and girls with famous last names.

——-

The next morning, Quinn wakes to the feeling of pressure in his temples that makes him want to dip his head in water. There’s no classes today. It’s a Saturday. He’s not sure he could go to classes even if there were any.

He dresses in the dark, vaguely recalling the trainer lady’s advice to go to South Complex to get a full concussion test.

He gets halfway down the hallway, phone and keys in hand, before he realizes he has no idea where South Complex is.

He knows he could look it up on maps. But he has a strange sense of desire to talk to you that he disguises as an aversion to using his phone in his state.

He finds his feet carrying him back down the hall to Dorm 316 before he really thinks about it.

He knocks gently, standing awkwardly at your door.

It swings open after a few seconds and Quinn finds himself breathless once again.

Something about you right now, effortless and unguarded, is so beautiful to him. You’re wearing a Michigan Football hoodie and your glasses are resting back on your face over your slightly-squinted eyes.

“Oh, hey Quinn!” You say, too cheerful for 8 am, “You need something?”

Quinn takes a second to process your question before he starts talking, “Oh, yeah. I just- I don’t know where south Complex is and the trainer lady told me to go there-“

“Oh, south complex? That’s not far,” you hum, stepping to the side of the doorway, “I’ll take you. Come in for a sec, though. I should change that bandage.”

With that, you gesture lightly at his face before you gesture for him to walk in. He follows you inside, taking in the decor.

His eyes barely begin to graze the room before you’re pulling out the chair by your desk and gesturing for him to sit down.

“I’ll just be a sec. Med kits in the bathroom,” you call over your shoulder as you turn a corner and walk into the bathroom at the back of the room.

Once you're gone, Quinn turns his attention back to your room.

It’s charming, that’s for sure.

The first thing he notices is that it’s definitely a single room. He immediately thinks back to his dorm application and the exorbitant prices being charged for single dorms. Interesting.

He doesn’t care much about your personal finances, though, so he keeps looking.

The decorations make sense for someone who looked as interested in hockey as you did at the game last night. There’s a Montreal Metros poster right next to a Boston Bruins one on the wall across from your bed.

Quinn knows a lot of hockey fans who would scoff at that combination.

He glances at your desk and sees a small collection of Polaroids lazily thrown on top of each other. The top one is a picture of you in a Metros jersey leaning against the glass at a stadium he recognizes as Madison Square Garden, Scott Hunter, of all people, holding up a peace sign to the camera from the other side of the glass.

That’s the only Polaroid he can see fully and he thinks it would be weird to look through the rest of them. But what he can see is what looks like different hockey and sports jerseys in every photo. He briefly wonders if they’re all just photos of you with athletes you’ve met over the years.

Also on the desk is your computer, stickers all across the case, an old-looking leather notebook with the Michigan logo on it, and strange-looking bobble heads of Ilya Rozanov and Sidney Crosby (?).

He blinks at the last one but turns his head, decking to ignore the fifty questions that float through his brain at the sight.

There’s a Canadian flag on the wall. There’s also a sweatshirt with what looks like a youth hockey league printed on it thrown casually on top of your bed. It’s sitting right next to two stuffed animals. One of a dragon and the other a little football with legs and eyes.

There’s a calendar on the wall with pictures of travel destinations. The pages of it are still flipped to August. He vaguely wonders if you know it’s October. From where he’s sitting, he can see a large heart drawn around August 24th with the words HOLLZY BDAY scrawled inside.

He notes passively that he should remember that your birthday is August 24th.

“Okay, I found it. Sorry,” you say suddenly, rounding the corner and stepping back into the room, “I can never find this thing when I need it.”

You laugh slightly as you say it and make your way over to him, setting the kit down on the desk by Quinn’s arm. You pop the thing open, rooting around for something. You pull out a new bandage and some kind of ointment, and grab a washcloth Quinn hadn’t even noticed you bring out.

“Okay, hold still,” you hum lowly, reaching toward his face, “I’m gonna take off the bandage you have on and I don’t want to hurt you.”

He just nods, watching your face as one of your hands slides to brace the back of his head and the other one gently peels at the edge of the bandage on his cheek.

Quinn has to try his hardest not to shiver at the feeling of your hands against his head. He can feel the weight of your fingers against his skull and the roughness of your finger tips against his skin.

In this moment, your face is drawn into a mask of focus, your teeth digging into your bottom lip and your eyebrows just barely furrowed.

Quinn misses the warmth of your hands the second they pull away. You dispose of the bandage and unscrew the ointment.

“This is gonna be cold,” you hum, eyes still tracing the cut on his cheek.

Quinn shivers as soon as you swipe the ointment over the cut. You laugh slightly at his reaction and Quinn is grateful to hear the sound.

“Told you,” you say with a hint of smugness. Quinn is just glad your hands are back to cradling his face.

“I have to ask,” Quinn starts when you turn around to grab the bandage, “What’s with the bobble heads?”

You pause at the question, your eyes flickering to your desk, the bandage half-open in your hand. But then, your face breaks out into a grin and you laugh, “Oh yeah, those.”

You turn back to Quinn the bandage now completely open, “The Crosby one was bought by one of the football players as a joke because it’s the only hockey player he knows. The Rozanov one was a moving-in gift from my brother's boyfriend.”

Quinn is starting to paint an image of your life in his head the more you talk. Brother’s boyfriend. Maybe that’s why you like Scott Hunter.

“So your brother's boyfriend was making fun of you with the Rozanov thing?”

“Yeah,” you say, turning to toss the bandage packaging in the trash can next to your desk, “He’s a shithead but my brother loves him so I look past it.”

Quinn hums, missing your proximity as you move away. You turn back and hand him something you’d picked up off your dresser. He looks down at your outstretched hand, grabbing the pair of sunglasses you seem to be handing him.

He glances back up, but grabs them from your hand anyway.

“For your head,” you offer, seemingly picking up on his confused silence.

“Thanks,” Quinn hums, turning the glasses around in his hands. A little gold logo catches his eye, “Are these Prada?”

You’re already turned around, walking away to grab your shoes from by the door, “Oh, yeah. They were a gift from my brother for my birthday.”

Oh. Quinn is really stretching this vision of your brother. A rich guy who spends his free time playing in a rec league with an asshole boyfriend. Interesting.

“You ready?” You ask him, your keys and phone now in hand. You’ve put on a hat with what Quinn recognizes as a Rhianna lyric on it.

“Yeah,” he responds, smoothly removing himself from both the chair and the intimate environment of your dorm room. It’s amazing how much you can learn about someone just from being in their space.

The two of you walk to South Complex together, conversation passing easily between you. He asks you about football season, what is was like to grow up in Ottawa, how important hockey was to your life, even about your favorite Drake album.

You ask Quinn what it was like to have two younger brothers, how it feels to be the oldest, how he feels to be the “next big thing”, and to rank his teammates in terms of neatness in the locker room.

Quinn likes talking to you. It’s almost like you’ve known each other for years when you haven’t even known each other for sixteen hours yet.

Quinn notices your magnetic behavior as you walk. You wave at most of the people you pass, calling out names and giving high fives to people you’re clearly familiar with. Quinn’s astounded that, even as a freshman, you seem so in your element and so familiar with this campus. Quinn’s not sure that he could tell you the names of anyone enrolled that isn’t on the hockey team.

When you reach South Complex Performance Center, you bring him back to one of the training rooms, scanning your key to get inside. You, once again, wave at and greet everyone by name.

He just follows you like a lost puppy.

“Hey, Doc!” You call out as you enter one of the rooms, holding the door open for Quinn to step inside.

The “Doc” in question looks up from across the room. He’s an older man, maybe in his fifties, with gray hair perfectly swept into a hairstyle most of the guys on Quinn’s team would probably envy. Despite his age, he’s still built like an athlete. Maybe basketball or running based on his thin-but-muscular physique.

“Hey, Hollzy!” Doc says, setting down the clipboard he had had in his hand and striding towards the two of you, “Who do we have here?”

“Quinn Hughes,” Quinn supplies, suddenly feeling like he’s been a bit helpless around you over the past day, “I play for the hockey team. Got hit in the head last night.”

“I take it, that bandage is covering up that nasty hit, then?” Doc asks, gesturing towards Quinn’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Quinn replies, “Just a little cut, though.”

Doc hums, glancing toward you.

“Beckers suspects he most likely has a concussion. We’re coming up here this morning to get him fully checked,” you say, voice dipped in familiarity.

“Ah, well, thank you, my star-pupil,” Doc grins, already moving across the room, “Always keeping these athletes in check.”

“I’ve had a lot of experience,” you reply with a small smirk.

“That, I know!” Doc says over his shoulder as he walks into a room that Quinn assumes is his office.

He re-emerges with a clipboard and a pen, glasses pushed up on his face, “Well–Quinn, was it?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn replies with a slight nod, suddenly remembering the sunglasses and pushing them to the top of his head so as to not seem disrespectful to the trainer in front of him.

“Oh, no. Feel free to keep those on if they’re helping,” Doc waves him away with a flicker of his hand, “Well, Quinn, we’re gonna take you down the hall to a quiet, private room so I can ask you some questions and get this figured out for you. We’ll do some tests after and I’ll call your coach and let him know what we figure out.”

Quinn had honestly forgotten about his coach since last night. But he just listens to Doc as he talks, occasionally glancing sideways at you.

“One of the football players is in room eight and he’s asking for you,” Doc says, suddenly turning in your direction, “Your favorite running back.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, “What’s wrong with him?”

“Cramping in his left calf,” Doc supplies, seeming just as amused about this mystery football player as you are, “Just use the roller and stretch him out. He’ll be fine.”

You start to move toward the door, Quinn noticing that your sweatshirt is just a navy version of your white one from yesterday, HOLLANDER, still starkly printed on the back.

Doc stops you before you can leave completely, “When you’re done with him, QB1 is scheduled for an ice bath and there’s a couple of basketball players who need their ankles taped before morning practice. Then the water bottles need to be filled for volleyball practice and Walters wants to have a meeting with you to schedule yours, Smithy’s, and Booger’s games for November. There’s also some journalism kids coming in after lunch who want to write a piece about the trainers. You can just give them a tour and answer some questions. Your brother also had breakfast delivered. Jameson said it's in her office. I think she wants some of the football players to move it to meeting room four.”

Quinn is pretty sure that even his non-concussed brain wouldn't have been able to remember all of that.

“Got it,” you hum, pulling the door open, “I’ll see you later, Quinn. Doc knows where I am if you need me.”

Quinn watches you go, smiling slightly, “Thanks, Holly.”

“Alright, Quinn, let’s go see how bad that puck got you,” Doc says, clipboard in hand, walking toward the door you had just walked out of.

The next hour is filled with questions and testing that becomes so repetitive that Quinn’s head is practically spinning. Doc asks him about his symptoms, his medical history, and has him take the same test he had to take before the season started to track his reaction time, memory, processing speed and a multitude of other things that Quinn forgets as soon as he's told them.

After all that, Doc calls a physician in to do more tests. The new guy shines a flashlight directly in Quinn’s eye so he's automatically lower on Quinn’s list of favorite medical professionals than Doc is.

Finally, Quinn is released to just see how a light walk around the center will affect his head. Doc accompanies on this one, giving a passive tour and pointing out rooms that Quinn is sure he’ll become pretty familiar with while he plays here.

When they get back to the room, the physician is still there and Quin watches as he and Doc discuss for a few moments before the physician turns to Quinn and tells him he has a concussion. Quinn could have diagnosed that himself just from the constant headache and the gash on his cheek but he guesses its nice to have a professional opinion.

He’s told he can start the five-step concussion protocol as soon as his symptoms are gone and that he should come back to the performance center every morning to fill out a symptoms sheet until Doc finds that he's prepared to start the protocol.

Doc then tells him he can hang out in the training room from earlier with the lights dimmed, maybe do some recovery for the game from the night before, and ice the cut on his cheek if he’d like.

Quinn, still thinking of you somewhere in the building and suddenly realizing just how sore his muscles are, agrees.

So, here he is, a cold therapy unit currently circulating ice water and compressing his knees, sunglasses back over his eyes, trying not to fall asleep. Doc has some hockey talk show playing quietly over the speakers in the room as he had seemed to sense Quinn’s immediate boredom at having to sit still in a dim room without his phone or anyone else for company.

Quinn hadn’t been entirely alone, though. Every so often, the door would open and he would perk up in hopes of it being you only to be met with another trainer or an athlete coming to ask Doc a question. One of Quinn's teammates even came in to get his wrist taped before practice, sending Quinn a sympathetic look as he passed through.

The door opens again and Quinn is already ready to be disappointed. But, when he glances up, he can’t help the smile that splits his face.

There you are, holding three donuts in one hand, each one wrapped in a paper towel, and a drink carrier with three coffees in it in the other hand.

“How ya feeling, superstar?” You ask teasingly, moving to his side, placing the drink carrier on the recliner next to his and holding out the stack of donuts.

Quinn takes the top one, “Concussed, mostly. Thank you.”

You nod, walking across the room towards Doc’s office, “That’s to be expected. You know, considering the concussion.”

You raise your free hand to knock on the side of the door frame that leads to Doc’s office. From where he’s sitting, Quinn can vaguely see Doc turning around to face you.

“I was wondering what the millionaire breakfast was gonna be,” Doc says humorously, accepting the donut in your outstretched hand.

“It’s a pretty safe choice,” you reply with a small laugh, leaving the office and walking back to Quinn’s side. He’s not entirely sure what that exchange was referring to. Doc said your brother had breakfast delivered, right?

You then do the same charade to hand Doc and Quinn each a coffee out of the drink carrier.

When you’re done, you grab your own coffee and donut and sit down on a stool you drag over to rest right next to Quinn.

“I figured you’d be hungry since you were trapped in here all morning,” you say, taking a bite of the glazed donut wrapped in the paper towel in your hand, “I’m failing my nutrition class but I’m pretty sure donuts make you more immune to concussions. Don’t worry about the hockey meal plan, Hughesy.”

Quinn is suddenly struck by the same feeling he’d gotten when he’d seen you for the first time at the game the night before. Complete and total awe. It’s like he’s in a trance. He knows he probably looks stupid. Sitting here, both knees wrapped in bulky compression ice wraps, donut in hand, giant bandage on his cheek, borrowed Prada sunglasses on his nose, and a stupid dopey grin splitting his face.

He’s mostly just amazed by how fascinated he is by someone he met less than a day ago. Every second you’ve known him, you’ve shown so much care for everyone around you. You took the time to clean his wound at a time of day where most of campus would be asleep, you walked him back to the dorm when you didn’t have to, you even came back to bring him breakfast when it was obvious you had so much to do today.

“Go out with me?”

You blink, swallowing the sip of iced coffee you had just taken in, “Sorry?”

“Ignore that,” Quinn replies, immediately overtaken by extreme and all-consuming embarrassment. Of course, he’d found his first real non-teammate friend on campus and had immediately ruined it by letting his stupid crush get the better of him. Jesus Christ. He starts to prepare an apology in his head, his eyes closing and his head leaning back against the wall behind him.

He can hear the sound of you shifting off the chair and he assumes you’re leaving. He doesn’t blame you. He just needs to apologize before you leave.

But, instead, when he opens his eyes, you’re looking down at him, a small smile on your lips.

“I will go out with you, Quinn Hughes,” you say softly and Quinn feels the pit in his stomach immediately dissipate, “I was wondering when you would ask.”

Quinn smiles widely, letting out a small breath he’d apparently been holding, “Really?”

“Yeah,” you reply with a shrug, “It’s kind of easy to tell someone is into you when they won’t stop staring at you.”

Quinn blushes at the idea of you noticing his maybe-prolonged glances at you, his hands reaching up to cover his face, “Ugh, I didn’t know you noticed that.”

“Noooo, don’t cover that face,” you say with a laugh, reaching for his wrists, “I’ve spent so long taking care of it.”

Quinn concedes, letting you pull his hands away. He feels his heart skip when you pull one hand away but leave the other one resting against his wrist as he settles it on the seat beside him.

“I hope this isn’t a concussion thing and you still think I’m hot when your headache goes away,” you hum, voice laced with slight amusement.

“I thought you were beautiful before I got hit in the head,” Quinn says quickly, trying to disprove your joke but thinking very little about the words that leave his mouth, “You were so beautiful that it made me get in the head.”

You furrow your eyebrows but your eyes gleam with excitement, “You got hit in the face because you were distracted looking at me?”

“Ugh,” Quinn groans, feeling the blush creeping back up his cheeks.

“That's so sweet!” you exclaim, “That’s like a total meet-cute, Quinn!”

Quinn is still reveling in his embarrassment but he finds himself smiling involuntarily at your happiness.

“Hey,” you say, sliding your hand down his wrist to tangle your fingers together, “You have the length of this concussion to think about where you’re gonna take me on a date. Until then, I’m happy to walk you here and back every morning. Gives me an excuse to ditch the needy football players for a few minutes, at least.”

Quinn just chuckles, ultimately just satisfied to hear you talk about the place where you’re most in your element.

“My brain’s already diving for ideas,” he hums calmly, gesturing vaguely with his free hand towards his head.

—

The next three months pass with ease.

Quinn recovers from the concussion just fine, though he’ll always say his recovery was aided by the beautiful girl and her Prada sunglasses escorting him to and from the performance center.

You request to work during Quinn’s first game back on the ice. He scores twice in the second period and gets an assist in the third. His teammates all make fun of him after he leans past the bench to kiss you. He can tell your fellow trainers are making fun of you too. He asks you to be his girlfriend that night.

He still walks you to the performance center every morning that you’re working. He even goes to football games when he’s available just to see you on the sideline.

He brings you coffee on days you’re stuck in the center, laughing at the jeers of your athlete friends, he walks with you to class, sitting next to you in the classes you have together, he takes you to dinner off campus whenever you’re both free from sporting events.

You both go to the gym together on non-practice days, he ignores your RA to have sleepovers in your dorm, and you even charmed his family when they came to one of his games.

All in all, the past three months have been pretty good for Quinn.

He still relishes in the quiet mornings. The rare times when he doesn’t have to be up at the ass-crack of dawn to practice, you don’t have to rush down to the center at six in the morning to deal with the athletes with early practices, and neither of you have any classes until later.

This morning is one of those mornings.

Quinn had woken up to something that definitely wasn’t you clutched in his arms. He blinks groggily, glancing down at his chest. He’s met with the small face of your stuffed football staring up at him happily. Okay.

He lets go of the football, rolling over to face you.

But you’re not there. He blinks, rolling back over to turn on the lamp on your bedside table so he can glance around the room.

There’s a few differences in your decor since Quinn had first visited your dorm.

There’s a new polaroid in the stack on your desk. The one on top is now a picture of you on the other side of the glass from Quinn, wearing a Michigan hockey jersey as Quinn grins in the background.

There’s a few pictures pinned to your walls from the past three months. Quinn’s favorite is the selfie of you sending a kissy face to the camera as Quinn is grimacing widely and easing himself into an ice bath behind you.

There’s a new hoodie hanging from your bed post. This one has the US hockey federation’s logo emblazoned on the chest.

Quinn even got you to flip your calendar to the current month!

Luckily, he only has to wallow in his confusion for a few seconds before he hears the sound of your key in the door and then you are walking in, your phone between your ear and your shoulder, the door knob in one hand and a drink carrier in the other.

You glance up and notice that Quinn is awake, smiling warmly when you see him. Even when you glance away, he still finds himself smiling from your presence.

“Yeah, Friday,” you say into your phone, setting your keys and the drink carrier down on your desk right on top of a polaroid of you on the sidelines with Tom Brady, a picture he had begged you to tell the story of multiple times, “No, I’m not.”

Quinn assumes you are talking to a family member, based on the warm tint to your voice.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” you grab one of the coffees from the drink carrier and turn to hand it to Quinn, who sits up and grabs it from you, muttering a quiet thank you, “Okay, I love you. Yeah, I-”

You pause and then sigh, your lips turning into a thinly-conceiled smile, “Ya tebya lyublyu, Lily. You’ve gotta give it up on the Russian thing, I’m a bad student.”

You grab your own coffee as Quinn takes a sip of the one you had handed him. You start to toe your shoes off, making your way to sit on the bed next to Quinn.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Love you both, I’ll see you. Good luck.”

“Okay, bye.”

With that, you click the hang-up button, throwing your phone carelessly onto your bed and leaning across Quinn to set your coffee on the bedside table. You stop on your way to sit back, reaching a hand up to cradle Quinn’s cheek.

He stares up at you, helpless in your touch.

“Who was that?”

“My brother,” you hum softly, eyes flickering across Quinn’s face, “Him and his boyfriend are coming to the game Friday.”

Quinn is snapped out of the trance he had been put in by your proximity, “What? Really?”

“Yeah,” you reply, tongue darting out to wet your lips, “They’ve heard so much about my talented hockey player boyfriend and they want to meet him.”

“Holy shit,” Quinn says, almost in disbelief. He hadn’t met any members of your family yet. It’s not that you were keeping them a secret, it’s just obvious that you’re not the most open about them so Quinn didn’t want to push you about it. But he would be lying if he said he had not been wondering about them, and even creating his own ideas of who these people might be.

“Don’t be so excited,” you hum, leaning closer, “They’re both kinda lame.”

Then, you press your lips to Quinn’s, effectively silencing whatever he was about to say about your rich rec-league brother and his asshole Russian boyfriend.

Neither of you got much done the rest of the morning.

—-

For the next two days, Quinn thinks of your family every time he steps on the ice. He’s pretty sure it’s the mystery that has his brain operating in overdrive about this whole thing. He really doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of your brother and his boyfriend.

The game starts in two hours and though you’re not working tonight, you are still in the training room of Yost Arena, wrapping pre-wrap around Quinn’s wrist. He’d twisted it in a fall the day before and, while it was never too much of a concern for him, you had insisted on wrapping it for him.

“Don’t sweat it Quintin,” you say, eyes focused on where your hands are ripping the end of the pre-wrap, “They’re not scary, I promise.”

“You said your brother’s boyfriend is an asshole,” Quinn replies, keeping his wrist straight as you reach down to grab athletic tape out of the bag beneath you.

You fingers scratch at the tape roll, peeling it and beginning to wrap it around his wrist, “He is. But he’s also just Russian. Being an asshole is the only option. Is that too tight?”

“No, it’s good,” Quinn replies, allowing you to continue to rip strips of athletic tape and press them around his wrist and up to his thumb, “I just want them to like me.”

“You’re good at hockey, they’ll like you,” you reply, smoothing your hand over Quinn’s wrist and your tape-job, “That’s kinda all it takes to impress them.”

Quinn remains unconvinced but he doesn’t show it. Instead, he flexes his hand and leans forward, intending to show his appreciation for your care physically.

Your lips taste like your vanilla chapstick and the beer you’d pretended not to drink when it had been handed to you by a football player at the pregame earlier. Because of course the entire football team had decided to come to this game too.

“Get a room!” Quinn quickly recognizes the voice as belonging to one of your fellow trainers, Booger, who Quinn knew he would be stuck with for the game tonight.

He doesn’t mind Booger, in all his burly shoulders and gruff haircut, but he’s not you.

“Fuck off, Boogie,” you reply over your shoulder, turning back around to look at Quinn, “I’ll see you after, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quinn replies, already missing your touch, “Let me know what your family wants to do.”

“Probably just dinner at a diner or something, but I’ll let you know,” you shrug, leaning forward to press one last kiss on Quinn’s lips, “Bye, Hughesy.”

“Bye, Holly,” Quinn calls after you as you leave, leaving the med room quiet.

Now he just has to get through three periods of hockey without embarrassing himself.

—-

It starts with whispers in the locker room.

Their star forward is turning to the players around him to ask, “Did you hear? Is it true?”

The whispers and speculation spread from there. They reach Quinn but the true context of the questioning never graces his ears.

It’s finally revealed when their biggest defenseman barrels in from the hallway, shouting about as loud as he does on the ice, “Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are HERE!”

What the fuck?

The room bursts into chaos.

Players are shouting from all directions, half the team is rapidly typing on their phones, but everyone is trying to ask the same question: is it true?

Are the best two players in the National Hockey League really here tonight? If so, what for? Speculation ranges from recruitment to personal connections to the other team. Quinn hears one of his teammates tell another that it’s because Rozanov’s cousin is dating someone on the opposing team. Quinn’s not sure that’s it.

Players wonder why Rozanov and Hollander would be here, let alone together? What is so important as to put the biggest rivalry in the NHL on pause?

Usually, a kind of chaos like this would be quickly put to rest by their captain. But, when Quinn glances his way, he seems just as invested in the questioning as the rest of the team.

The room only quiets when their coach comes in and asks why half the team doesn’t have their jerseys on.

That silences the team as they all quickly finish dressing and get ready for warm-ups.

On the ice, the whispers don’t quiet.

Quinn isn’t sure but he thinks that the other team is whispering about it as well, based on the way their eyes scan the Michigan home crowd. Based on their confusion, Quinn determines that the potential for the presence of these hockey legends has nothing to do with the opposing team which only makes his own confusion greater.

He’s stretching his hip when he hears his teammates shouting to each other. When he glances their way, he sees them all pointing up above the row of stands. Quinn’s eyes follow their pointing up to one of the private boxes.

Holy shit.

Of course, the two figures standing in the box aren’t overtly trying to make themselves seen. They’re just visible over the ledge in front of them, discussing something with who Quinn assumes is a third person that he can’t see.

But, despite the decreased visibility, they are undeniably Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.

Holy shit.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the team is then shepherded back into the locker room.

Quinn is in a haze through the team talk and the starting line-up, barely registering his own name being called out as starting. He knew he would be, anyway. But the added presence of both the greatest players in the NHL and your family has him almost dreading the puck drop. He vaguely wonders if you know those players are here. His head snaps back to the Rozanov bobblehead on your desk.

Now, Quinn is lined up on the ice, waiting for the game to start, and his stomach is turning. He’s been trying his hardest not to glance up at the box his entire team had been ogling before. He’s also feeling too nervous to even scan the crowd for you and your family.

As soon as the game starts, Quinn moves like it’s been coded into him. His brain kicks into auto-pilot, and he’s flying across the ice just like he had in every game before. He’s so in the zone that he barely notices that any time has passed before his shift is over and he’s climbing over the wall to sit on the bench.

Booger hands him a water bottle and he’s lifting it towards his mouth when one of his teammates, the second goalie, is leaning over and pointing up towards the box currently plaguing Quinn’s thoughts, “Isn’t that your Hollzy?”

The team had become so familiar with you over the season that they’d taken to referring to you by your nickname. Quinn does understand the need for the added “your” in this context, though, considering the other Hollzy currently occupying the arena.

Quinn quickly abandons that train of thought when he realizes what his teammate had asked, his head snapping up to look up toward the box.

There you are. Sitting in one of the luxury box seats, directly between Hollander and Rozanov, the former’s arm slung around your shoulder and the latter gesturing with his hands toward the ice.

Suddenly, a lot of things make much more sense to Quinn.

The shared last name he had waved off, the collection of high-profile sports polaroids, the Rozanov bobblehead, the expensive sunglasses, the russian terms you’d occasionally mutter into your phone, the large breakfasts occasionally delivered to the performance center that provided enough food to feed the whole building, all of it.

Shane Hollander is your brother.

Which means Ilya Rozanov is dating your brother.

Ilya Rozanov is dating Shane Hollander.

Holy shit.

Quinn still has the bottle half-way to his mouth when his coach tells him he’s going back in. He blinks a few times, trying his best to kick start his brain back into hockey mode and to ignore the world-exploding revelation he had just gone through. He’s sure he looks crazy from the outside, mouth hanging just slightly open and his eyes engaging in a dead stare at the ice in front of him.

But he has to forget about the complicated family tree he’s been planted next to as soon as his skates hit the ice.

He focuses only on the game in front of him for every shift he has. His world narrows to a laser-focus, his brain thinking of nothing but the puck and the ice. He gets an assist in the first period just before he gets taken off.

Once his butt hits the bench, he’s back to staring up at the box.

This pattern continues for the entire game. He alternates between a laser-focus on the puck and a wide-eyed stare towards you and your family.

Late in the third period, Michigan is tied 2-2. Quinn has been put back on as their best defensive option to avoid the opposing team getting a game-winning goal.

Quinn gathers the puck behind the goal, quickly skating out and sending a lateral pass to his teammate across the ice. His teammate skates off quickly, streaking down the boards through the neutral zone. He tears into the attacking third, sending a drop pass to another player who drags the puck around a defender’s stick and fires a slapshot towards the goalie who attempts to glove the shot but ends up deflecting it back into play.

An opposing defender tries to clear the puck through the neutral zone but Quinn is there to receive it, handling the puck as he moves up the ice. His eyes scan to both sides, noting his teammates drifting on the edge of the play.

The opposing center in front of him is clearly not confident in his ability to stop Quinn. He can tell immediately just from the way the center shifts his stick from hand to hand unsurely. Quinn pulls the puck laterally across his body, sending the center following it, unable to recover quick enough when Quinn shifts the puck back to his forehand.

He snaps a low wrist shot through the traffic.

Time slows down.

The puck slips past multiple players who can do nothing but watch it go. The goalie reaches for it but the puck goes post-down and past the red line before he can snatch at it.

Yost Arena erupts.

Quinn’s teammates are swarming him before he has time to realize he scored.

Bodies pile on top of him, all shouting and cheering in their own gleeful ways. Quinn finds himself grinning along with them.

As soon as he is free from the pile of heavy sweaty hockey players, Quinn’s eyes are looking up to the box he hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from. For the first time tonight, Quinn locks eyes with you.

You’re standing in the first row of box seating, cheering loudly and clapping happily. Shane Hollander is standing beside you, a small smile on his lips as he claps as well. Ilya Rozanov is on your other side, just smirking down at the ice.

Quinn finds himself not really caring about the famous players on your side, though. He’s just entranced by the giddy grin splitting your face as you clap your hands, wearing a jersey he knows he gave you.

God, he’s in love with you.

The last thirty seconds of the game are some of the giddiest of Quinn’s life. His stomach is in knots, just from the excitement of the win.

As soon as the buzzer bleats to signal the end and the Michigan win, Quinn’s team spill out onto the ice, all congratulating and cheering on Quinn for his goal and their starting goalie for an amazing save he’d pulled off late in the third.

Eventually, Quinn gets back into the locker room, his hands immediately finding his phone. He swipes away all the notifications that aren’t from you, clicking your text thread open.

Holly

Shane and Ilya found a diner off-campus but nearby

They like you, like i said they would

What a goal!!! I’m so proud of you!!!

We’re gonna wait at the far end of the athletic hallway outside of the locker room, try to stay inconspicuous

Love you, see you soon superstar

Quinn feels like he can’t breathe as he reads your messages. His face can’t help the grin that overtakes it.

He basically rips off his gear, quickly escaping his partying teammates and their proposed hangouts with the excuse of having “something to do”.

When he walks out of the locker room, he sees you immediately.

You’re still wearing the jersey that Quinn knows has HUGHES printed on the back of it. Beside you are the two imposing figures of your brother and your future brother-in-law, having a low discussion.

Your eyes find Quinn’s first and you light up when you see him.

“Quinn!” you gasp, grinning as you jog lightly toward him. He makes up the empty space, already reaching out for you when you collide with him, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning into him, “You scored!”

“I did,” Quinn laughs warmly, looking down at you, “I think you’re my lucky charm.”

“You got a concussion the first time I went to a game,” you hum, eyes tracing Quinn’s features as you hang off of him.

“Really?” Quinn asks, feigning confusion, “I don’t remember that.”

“Don’t joke about concussion-induced brain damage, you dork,” you reply, laughing as you lean up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

A cough that Quinn swears has a russian accent rings out from behind you and Quinn is suddenly reminded that you have company. He detaches himself from you, finally getting a close look at the two hockey players he’s seen a million times in his life.

You look between your family and your boyfriend, seemingly sensing the slight tension between them.

“Shane, Ilya, this is my boyfriend, Quinn,” you start, voice cheerful, “He’s actually going to college so he’s automatically smarter than both of you.”

That makes Quinn eke out a shocked laugh but he has to disguise it as a cough.

“Quinn, these are my brothers, Shane and Ilya,” you continue, gesturing toward the couple across from you, “They’re not scary, they just pretend to be.”

“Nice to meet both of you,” Quinn says, deciding he should try to make an at-least polite impression on your family, “I grew up watching you guys.”

Shane is the first one to move, smiling kindly at Quinn and reaching out a hand, “Nice to meet my sister’s boyfriend and support some upcoming hockey players.”

Quinn shakes Shane’s hand, smiling in relief at the man’s kindness and seeming acceptance.

Quinn’s gaze then turns to Ilya, who's watching the interaction with narrowed eyes and not even a ghost of a smile.

“Ilya, quit,” you sigh, shaking your head at the Russian.

Ilya glances toward you, his gaze softening before he looks back to Quinn, “You are not bad hockey player. Not as good as me. But you are not terrible.”

Quinn is pretty sure that’s a compliment coming from Ilya Rozanov. So, he grins, nodding, “Thanks, man.”

When Quinn looks at you, you seem pleased with how the interaction has gone.

“Dinner, anyone?” you ask cheerfully, gesturing vaguely toward the exit.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Shane replies, turning on his heel.

“I can eat,” Ilya responds, falling into stride next to his boyfriend.

You and Quinn walk a pace or two behind, your arm entangling around Quinn’s elbow. You look up at him, “They like you. Which is really good because I love you.”

“Hm,” Quinn hums softly, “That’s good. I love you too.”

Your grin widens at the declaration and you look back forward, following two of your favorite people.

Later that night, someone on the team will send a picture of the four of you in the hallway to the team group chat and Quinn’s phone will blow up with texts from his teammates demanding to know how he knows Rozanov and Hollander.

Unfortunately for them, he’ll be too busy laughing over a plate of loaded fries with his beautiful girlfriend and Ilya Rozanov while Shane Hollander tells a story about that time he got a nosebleed during practice rookie year to answer their texts.

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