Summary: When Y/N gets caught on the jumbotron at a Canucks game with a ridiculous sign, she thinks it’s the most embarrassing moment of her life—until Quinn Hughes notices from the bench and turns it into the start of something unexpected. Between teasing banter, awkward near-misses, and a full-circle jumbotron moment of his own, Quinn proves that sometimes love shows up in the funniest places.
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If I could pinpoint the exact moment my life tilted sideways, it would be at Rogers Arena, section 118, seat 9, holding a neon pink sign that said:
“Quinn, marry me? (Just kidding… unless?)”
It was supposed to be a joke. My best friend Maddie dared me to bring it, claiming it would “liven up my boring, hockey-obsessed existence.” For context, I’m not even a die-hard Canucks fan. Maddie scored the tickets from her cousin who couldn’t go, and since she’s allergic to the smell of beer stadiums—or so she claims—I ended up bringing my coworker Josh instead.
Josh, unfortunately, had the personality of stale popcorn.
“Do you think they’ll win tonight?” he asked, sipping his overpriced soda without enthusiasm.
“I don’t know,” I replied, waving my ridiculous sign halfheartedly. “I just hope they don’t completely embarrass themselves.”
The irony was lost on me at the time.
Because ten minutes later, during a TV timeout, the dreaded jumbotron camera zoomed in.
First, it landed on a couple making out. The crowd erupted in laughter and applause. Then, it panned to a little kid eating cotton candy with his entire face. Adorable.
And then—oh no.
My face. My neon pink sign. Forty feet tall on the screen.
I froze, like a deer caught in LED headlights. Then, the crowd roared. People pointed, clapped, whistled. Some chanted, “Say yes! Say yes!”
I did the only thing my fight-or-flight brain could manage: I stood up, held the sign higher, and did a mortifying little dance that was equal parts Macarena and panic seizure.
Josh sank into his seat like he wanted to disappear.
I should’ve been horrified, and I was. But then, I made the mistake of glancing at the Canucks bench.
And there he was. Quinn Hughes.
The Quinn Hughes.
Star defenseman. Team golden boy. Hockey wunderkind.
Laughing.
At me.
Not in a cruel way, though. His shoulders shook as he pressed his gloved hand over his mouth, his helmet tilting down as if to hide the grin. But it was too late. I’d seen it. Everyone had. Even the announcer’s voice teased, “Looks like we’ve got a proposal for Hughesy tonight!”
The camera split-screened between me and him.
Kill me. Just kill me right there on the sticky arena floor.
I dropped back into my seat, covering my flaming face with both hands, while Josh muttered, “Wow, you’re famous now.”
I wanted to tell him that infamy was more accurate.
The game ended in a Canucks win, but I barely registered it. Every time Quinn skated by, I swore he smirked a little in my direction. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe I was hallucinating from sheer embarrassment.
By the time we shuffled out with the crowd, my phone buzzed nonstop—friends had seen me on TV. Screenshots. Memes. One even captioned my dance with:
“When your crush is an NHL player and subtlety isn’t in your vocabulary.”
I considered changing my name, moving to a remote island, or maybe just faking amnesia.
Instead, I went home, threw the cursed sign into the back of my closet, and swore never to think about Quinn Hughes again.
Of course, however, life doesn’t work like that.
Because three days later, while standing in line for coffee before work, someone tapped my shoulder.
“Hey. You’re the jumbotron girl, right?”
I turned.
And there he was. In real life. No helmet, no pads. Just Quinn Hughes, standing behind me in line, looking unfairly normal in a hoodie and joggers, his hair sticking out from under a cap.
My soul left my body.
My brain short-circuited.
My body screamed: Say something cool.
My mouth betrayed me.
“Oh my God.”
Not great.
Quinn’s lips curved into a grin, the kind that seemed both amused and politely restrained, like he was used to people reacting this way. But I wasn’t “people.” I was that girl—the idiot who danced with a neon sign like a deranged flamingo on live television.
“Sorry,” I sputtered. “You just—you startled me.”
“Didn’t mean to,” he said, voice low, smooth, with the faintest hint of awkwardness. “I just thought… it was you. With the sign.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I crossed my arms instinctively, like I could shield myself from the memory. “Yeah. That was me. My fifteen minutes of humiliation.”
His grin widened, and his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “I thought it was funny.”
“Funny?” I echoed, disbelief dripping from my voice.
“Yeah.” He shrugged, casual. “Made the game more interesting.”
My eyebrows shot up. “I was holding a sign asking you to marry me. That’s not funny—that’s tragic.”
“Depends who you ask.” He shifted forward as the line moved. “The guys haven’t stopped bringing it up in the locker room.”
“Oh no.” I buried my face in my hands. “I’m a punchline.”
“Not a bad one,” he said quickly. “Just… memorable.”
I peeked at him between my fingers, suspicious. “Are you trying to make me feel better, or are you actually entertained by my public downfall?”
“Both,” he admitted, smirk tugging at his mouth.
I groaned. “I should move to a different country. Maybe Antarctica. Penguins don’t judge.”
“Pretty sure they do,” he deadpanned.
I laughed despite myself, which only made this whole surreal interaction worse. Here I was, talking to Quinn Hughes—Quinn Hughes—in line at my local coffee shop, like he wasn’t a professional athlete whose face was plastered across half the billboards in Vancouver.
The barista called, “Next!” and Quinn nodded toward the counter. “Go ahead. I’ll cover it.”
I blinked. “What? No. You don’t have to—”
“Think of it as repayment for the entertainment.”
My brain scrambled for a protest, but the words got stuck in my throat as he stepped up beside me, already pulling out his wallet.
“Uh…” I fumbled. “Okay. But only because you’re guilt-tripping me.”
He chuckled softly. “Sure.”
We ended up at a small table by the window, my latte steaming in front of me, his black coffee untouched. I hadn’t intended to sit with him, but when he gestured to the empty chair across from him with a quiet, “Want to join me?” I panicked and said yes.
Now I sat there, hyper-aware of every awkward fidget.
“So,” I started, desperate to fill the silence. “Do you often track down random fans from jumbotrons, or am I just special?”
He tilted his head, considering. “You’re the first.”
“Wow. What an honor,” I said dryly.
“You should be proud.”
“Oh, I am. My résumé is going to look amazing: Bachelor’s degree, three years of work experience, embarrassed myself in front of 18,000 people and an entire NHL team.”
He laughed—really laughed—and the sound was unfairly nice, like warm sunlight breaking through clouds.
“Okay, but honestly,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “did you bring that sign as a joke, or were you actually serious?”
I almost choked on my latte. “Excuse me?”
His expression was innocent enough, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Marry me?” he repeated, quoting the sign. “Just kidding… unless?”
I groaned again, pressing my forehead to the table. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Probably not.”
When I looked up, he was smirking at me, but it wasn’t mean—it was playful. Teasing. And God help me, it was kind of attractive.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Yes, it was a joke. My friend dared me. I didn’t expect the entire arena to broadcast my humiliation. Or for you to notice. Or for you to—” I waved a hand at him, “—show up in line at my coffee shop like some kind of cosmic punishment.”
“Not punishment,” he said. “Coincidence.”
“Sure. A coincidence that ruined my dignity.”
“You still have some left,” he said, lips twitching.
“Where? Show me, because I think it’s gone.”
He grinned again, and for a moment, silence fell between us. Not the awkward kind—surprisingly, the comfortable kind.
We ended up talking for almost an hour.
He told me about growing up in Michigan, about his brothers, about how his mom texts him critiques after every game. I told him about my job in marketing, how I wasn’t even a Canucks fan until Maddie shoved those tickets into my hands.
“You’re not a fan?” he asked, mock-offended.
“I didn’t say I’m not a fan,” I clarified. “I just… never got into hockey. Too cold. Too many penalties I don’t understand. And the announcers sound like auctioneers.”
His jaw dropped dramatically. “Auctioneers?”
“You can’t tell me icing, offside, delayed penalty, five-on-three doesn’t sound like gibberish shouted at lightning speed.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, fair. But still… you came to a game with a sign. That’s commitment.”
“Commitment to chaos,” I corrected.
“Chaos is good sometimes.”
His tone was so casual, but there was something in the way he said it that made my chest feel strangely warm.
Eventually, he glanced at his watch and sighed. “I should go. Practice.”
I nodded, trying not to look disappointed. “Right. Hockey stuff. Important.”
He stood, pulling his cap lower on his head. Then he hesitated. “Hey, uh… can I get your number?”
I blinked. “My number?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less confident. “You’re funny. And it’s… nice, talking to someone who doesn’t just want to, you know…”
“Talk about hockey?” I offered.
“Exactly.” He smiled, sheepish.
My heart thudded. Was Quinn Hughes—actual NHL defenseman, Vancouver heartthrob—asking for my number?
I tried to play it cool, even as my insides combusted. “Sure. But if I give it to you, you have to promise one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Never, ever bring up the jumbotron again.”
He grinned, pulling out his phone. “No promises.”
—
Later that night, Maddie nearly burst my eardrums when I told her.
“He asked for your number?!” she shrieked over the phone.
“Yes.” I paced my apartment, clutching my phone like it might explode. “He asked. Me. For my number.”
“Oh my God, this is insane. You’re living a rom-com. You’re literally a Netflix original.”
“Or a cautionary tale,” I muttered.
“No, no—this is fate. You danced like a weirdo on the jumbotron, he laughed, and now he’s into you. This is peak romantic comedy.”
“Maddie, he’s Quinn Hughes. I’m just—me.”
“Yeah, you. The girl who made him laugh. Clearly that counts for something.”
I sank onto my couch, heart still racing. “What if he was just being polite? What if he never texts me?”
“Then you had coffee with a hot hockey player and lived to tell the tale. But if he does text…” Maddie’s voice rose in pitch, “Y/N, this could be something.”
I didn’t reply. Because part of me—the rational, self-protective part—was screaming not to get my hopes up.
But another part of me replayed his grin, his laugh, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long when I teased him.
And maybe, just maybe, Maddie was right.
Two Days Later
I didn’t hear from him immediately.
Every time my phone buzzed, my stomach flipped. But it was never him—just spam texts, group chats, or my mom asking if I’d “met any nice boys lately.”
By the second night, I’d convinced myself it was over. He probably forgot. Or decided against it. Or maybe his teammates had roasted him too hard about the jumbotron girl, and he wanted to avoid the ridicule.
Then, at 11:23 p.m., my phone lit up.
Unknown Number: Hey. It’s Quinn. Took me forever to save your number because I wasn’t sure what to put you as. “Y/N”? Or “Sign Girl”?
I stared at the screen, heart hammering. Then I typed back:
Me: Please don’t save me as “Sign Girl.” I beg you.
Quinn: Too late.
Me: Unbelievable. Already breaking promises.
Quinn: You’ll live. So… want to grab dinner sometime?
My jaw dropped.
Dinner. With Quinn Hughes.
This was either the best or worst decision of my life.
Me: Depends. Will there be a jumbotron involved?
Quinn: Only if you bring another sign.
Me: You’re impossible.
Quinn: Friday night?
I bit my lip, staring at the glowing screen. Maddie’s voice echoed in my head: You’re living a rom-com.
Maybe she was right.
Me: Friday works.
—
By Friday night, I’d worked myself into a nervous breakdown.
Maddie came over an hour before I was supposed to leave, claiming she needed to “supervise.” In reality, she sprawled across my bed eating popcorn while I tried on six different outfits.
“You’re overthinking this,” she said, mouth full.
“Of course I’m overthinking this!” I snapped, tugging off another sweater. “It’s a date with Quinn Hughes.”
“Exactly,” she said. “He’s just a guy.”
I whirled on her. “He’s not just a guy. He’s Quinn Hughes. He has a Wikipedia page. He has his own hockey card. He’s—”
“Human,” Maddie interrupted. “And clearly into you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked you out. Wear the black dress. It makes your butt look great.”
I groaned but complied.
—
Quinn picked me up at seven.
I’d half expected him to roll up in some flashy sports car, but instead, he drove a modest black SUV that looked suspiciously normal. When I slid into the passenger seat, he gave me a smile that made my stomach swoop.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thanks,” I managed, trying not to sound like a middle schooler with a crush. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He chuckled, pulling into traffic. “Did you think I was going to show up in full gear or something?”
“Maybe,” I teased. “Helmet, skates, the whole thing.”
“I’ll save that for date two.”
I laughed, the tension easing just a little.
The restaurant was cozy, not overly fancy but definitely nicer than anywhere I usually went. Dim lighting, candles on the tables, the faint clink of glasses and cutlery.
When the hostess led us to a booth, I slid in across from him, my nerves humming like live wires.
“Do you come here a lot?” I asked, scanning the menu.
“Sometimes,” he said. “The owner’s a big Canucks fan, so… perks.”
“Ah. Celebrity treatment.”
He rolled his eyes, smiling. “Something like that.”
We ordered, and while waiting, the conversation flowed easier than I expected. We talked about everything from movies to embarrassing childhood stories to the weird quirks of Vancouver weather.
At one point, I asked, “So what’s it actually like—being, you know…” I gestured vaguely, “you?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Being me?”
“Yeah. Hockey star. Public figure. Guy who can’t buy groceries without someone asking for a selfie.”
He leaned back, thoughtful. “It’s… weird sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, I love playing. But the rest of it—people watching, the attention—it gets a lot. That’s why I liked talking to you the other day. You didn’t treat me like… that guy.”
His gaze held mine, steady, warm.
I swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the way my pulse picked up. “Well, if it helps, I still don’t understand icing. So you’re safe.”
He laughed, tension breaking, and I exhaled.
Things were going perfectly—until the bread basket arrived.
I was mid-story about Maddie’s disastrous attempt at making lasagna when I reached for a piece of bread, miscalculated my grip, and launched the roll directly into Quinn’s lap.
“Oh my God!” I gasped, clapping a hand over my mouth.
Quinn froze, staring down at the rogue bread like it was a puck he hadn’t been prepared to block. Then, slowly, he looked up at me.
“Did you just—”
“Yes!” I buried my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry!”
For a moment, there was silence. Then he started laughing. Not a polite chuckle—full-on laughter, head tilted back, shoulders shaking.
“It’s not funny!” I protested, though I was laughing too. “I assaulted you with carbs!”
“I’ve had worse hits on the ice,” he managed between laughs. “At least this one’s edible.”
The couple at the next table glanced over, curious, but I was too busy trying to stop giggling.
“Great,” I muttered. “First the jumbotron, now this. My legacy is pure humiliation.”
“Your legacy,” he corrected, still grinning, “is keeping me entertained.”
The bread incident set the tone for the rest of the evening.
When the waiter brought my pasta, I accidentally splashed sauce on the tablecloth. When Quinn reached for his water, he nearly knocked it over. We were a mess—but a surprisingly compatible one. Every little mistake just made us laugh harder, the awkwardness melting into something easy.
At one point, I leaned forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Confession: I was convinced you weren’t going to text me.”
“Really?” His eyebrows lifted.
“Really. I thought you forgot. Or changed your mind. Or, I don’t know, got amnesia.”
He smirked. “Guess I proved you wrong.”
“Guess so.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “So… are you glad?”
The question caught me off guard. My stomach flipped.
“I… yeah,” I admitted softly. “I’m glad.”
His smile in response was small but genuine, and it did dangerous things to my heart.
—
After dinner, we stepped out into the cool night air. The streets buzzed with weekend energy—laughter spilling from bars, headlights flashing, the distant wail of a siren.
“Want to walk for a bit?” he asked.
“Sure.”
We strolled down the sidewalk, our hands brushing occasionally. Each time, sparks shot up my arm like static, and I silently willed myself not to overthink it.
At one point, we paused outside a little bakery that was closing up. The display still had a few pastries left, and I pressed my face to the glass.
“Do you always stalk baked goods?” Quinn teased.
“Only when they look this good,” I said. “That croissant is calling to me.”
He shook his head, amused. “You and carbs.”
“Hey, you should be grateful I didn’t throw that one at your face.”
“True,” he conceded, chuckling.
We kept walking until we reached the waterfront. The city lights shimmered against the dark water, reflections rippling like liquid gold.
For a moment, we stood in silence, side by side. Then he shifted closer, his arm brushing mine.
“This was fun,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” I agreed, my voice softer than I intended.
He glanced at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then, slowly, his hand found mine.
I froze. Not in panic—more like disbelief.
His fingers laced with mine, warm, steady.
“Is this okay?” he asked, almost shyly.
My heart did somersaults. “Yeah. It’s… definitely okay.”
We lingered there, hand in hand, watching the lights dance on the water. My brain screamed: This is the moment. He’s going to kiss you.
And he leaned in—just slightly, enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath.
Then—
“HEY, HUGHESY!”
A group of guys on scooters zoomed past, hollering and laughing. Quinn pulled back instantly, expression flickering with annoyance.
I couldn’t help laughing. “Guess you’re popular even at midnight.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. That was… bad timing.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m patient.”
He looked at me then, eyes soft, like my words caught him off guard.
On the drive back, the mood shifted—quieter, more thoughtful. My hand still tingled from where he’d held it.
When he pulled up outside my apartment, I hesitated, not wanting the night to end.
“Thanks,” I said finally. “For dinner. And, you know… not laughing too hard at the bread incident.”
“Anytime,” he said, smile tugging at his lips.
For a second, the silence stretched, charged. Then he added, “I’d like to see you again.”
My pulse quickened. “I’d like that too.”
He grinned, and I knew—without a doubt—that this wasn’t the end of my ridiculous rom-com saga.
This was just the beginning.
As soon as I got inside, my phone buzzed.
Quinn: Had a good time tonight.
Me: Even with the bread assault?
Quinn: Especially with the bread assault.
Me: You’re never going to let that go, are you?
Quinn: Not a chance.
I smiled down at my screen, heart full, realizing that maybe—just maybe—public humiliation had been worth it.
—
If you had told me two weeks ago that I’d be dating Quinn Hughes, I would’ve laughed until I cried.
But now, it was starting to feel… normal.
Normal, but not in a bad way.
Quinn wasn’t the intimidating, larger-than-life hockey star I’d expected. He was quieter, softer, with a dry sense of humor that only slipped out when he was comfortable. He was thoughtful too—always letting me pick the music in the car, always making sure I got home safe.
And he looked at me in this way—like he was trying to figure out a puzzle, but the puzzle was me.
It was terrifying. And wonderful.
Of course, Maddie wasn’t about to let me live in bliss without stirring the pot.
“You have to go to another game,” she insisted over FaceTime one afternoon. “You know how many girlfriends would kill to sit rinkside and watch their guy play?”
I flopped back onto my bed, groaning. “One: I am not his girlfriend. Two: I barely understand hockey. Three: the jumbotron still gives me PTSD.”
“You are his girlfriend,” Maddie argued. “You just don’t want to admit it. And the jumbotron thing? That’s your origin story! Superheroes don’t run from their beginnings.”
I threw a pillow at my phone screen. “You’re impossible.”
“Text him,” she said. “Ask about tickets.”
I bit my lip. The idea of showing up again—of reliving that humiliation—made my stomach churn. But the thought of watching him play, of seeing that focused look on his face in person… yeah, that made my stomach churn for an entirely different reason.
So I texted him.
Me: Hypothetically, if someone wanted to watch you play again without becoming jumbotron meme material, how would they do that?
Quinn: Someone?
Me: Yes. A friend. Totally hypothetical. Definitely not me.
Quinn: Mhm. Well, “someone” could come Friday. I’ll leave tickets at will call.
Me: And the jumbotron?
Quinn: I’ll tell them to avoid you.
Me: Promise?
Quinn: No promises.
—
When I showed up at Rogers Arena that Friday, clutching my ticket, my heart thudded so hard I thought the ushers might hear it.
The seat was perfect—close enough to see the players clearly, but not so close I risked becoming the night’s comedy act. I kept my head down anyway, just in case.
The game itself was electric. The crowd roared, lights flashed, and there was Quinn—skating like the ice belonged to him. Focused, sharp, in his element. Watching him was mesmerizing.
I found myself cheering, clapping, even shouting things like “Nice pass!” despite having no idea if it actually was. At one point, the guy next to me leaned over and said, “You’re really into this, huh?”
I blushed. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
By the time the Canucks won, my throat was sore from yelling.
After the game, I waited by the designated area for friends and family until Quinn finally appeared, hair damp, suit jacket slung casually over his arm.
The second he spotted me, his tired expression melted into a grin.
“Hey,” he said, walking over.
“Hi,” I echoed, suddenly shy.
He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek—something he’d only just started doing in public. My skin tingled.
“You were loud tonight,” he teased.
“Loud?”
“Could hear you from the bench.”
I gasped. “You could not!”
He smirked. “Maybe.”
We started walking toward the parking lot, his hand brushing mine until I slipped my fingers into his.
“That was…” I hesitated, searching for the right word. “Actually fun. Don’t get used to it, but I might be turning into a hockey fan.”
“I’ll try not to let it go to my head,” he said, though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.
When we reached his car, the night air crisp around us, he leaned against the door and looked at me with that same unreadable softness.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Why’d you bring that sign to the first game?”
I groaned, hiding my face. “I told you—it was a dare. Maddie made me.”
“Yeah, but you could’ve said no.”
I peeked at him through my fingers. “Because… I thought it’d be funny. I never thought you’d actually see it.”
He tilted his head. “So you weren’t secretly hoping I would?”
My throat went dry. “I… maybe a little?”
His smile widened, and before I could die of embarrassment, he leaned closer. Our faces were inches apart, breath mingling in the cool night air.
Finally, I thought. Finally, he’s going to—
HONK!
A car screeched past, its driver yelling something incoherent.
We jumped apart, startled, and Quinn let out a frustrated laugh. “Seriously? Again?”
I couldn’t stop laughing either. “The universe really doesn’t want us to kiss, huh?”
“Guess we’ll have to prove it wrong.”
—
The following week, Quinn texted me out of the blue:
Quinn: Coming to Friday’s game?
Me: Depends. Am I safe from the jumbotron?
Quinn: Safer than me.
I frowned at my screen, confused, but he wouldn’t elaborate.
So Friday, I showed up again, heart pounding as usual.
Halfway through the second period, during a TV timeout, the announcer’s voice boomed:
“Hey fans, remember a few weeks ago when someone made quite the proposal on our jumbotron?”
My stomach dropped. Oh no.
The jumbotron flickered to life—and there I was. The clip. Me with the neon sign. My panic dance. The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.
I wanted to crawl under my seat.
But then the screen cut—to Quinn. On the bench.
He was holding a sign.
A sign that said:
“Y/N… Dinner with me again? (Not kidding.)”
My jaw hit the floor. The arena went wild, laughter and cheers echoing through the rafters. My face burned, but for once, it wasn’t humiliation I felt—it was… something else.
Something warm.
The camera zoomed back to me, and though I wanted to disappear, I couldn’t stop grinning. I stood, cupped my hands around my mouth, and yelled, “YES!”
The crowd cheered louder.
Quinn’s smile from the bench was huge, unguarded, and aimed directly at me.
When I saw him after the game, he was still grinning like an idiot.
“Really subtle,” I teased. “You had to drag the entire arena into it?”
“You started it,” he shot back.
“Fair.”
We were quiet for a moment, standing close, the electricity between us humming louder than ever.
Then, finally, he leaned down and kissed me.
Soft, careful at first, like he was testing the waters. But when I kissed him back, his hand slid to my waist, pulling me closer, and the world around us blurred into nothing.
When we pulled away, breathless, I whispered, “Took you long enough.”
He smirked. “Worth the wait.”
Six Weeks Later
Maddie was insufferable.
“You’re literally living in a rom-com,” she squealed when I told her about the kiss. “The jumbotron girl and the hockey star. Netflix is shaking.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide my smile.
Because she was right.
What started as a joke sign and the most humiliating moment of my life had somehow turned into this—a boy who made me laugh, who made me feel seen, who held my hand like it meant something.
And maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was improbable.
"Mikko Rantanen, essentially served divorce papers by his former team, showed up with his hot new girlfriend to flaunt in front of the Avalanche brass,"
Introduction:
It began as a game.
One meant for siblings, laughter, and lemon tarts.
But somewhere between the hiding and the seeking…
Something else was found.
And if anyone asks, no—your heart did not skip a beat in the dark.
The Bridgerton house was rarely ever quiet, but tonight, it was alive with a different kind of energy—mischief, anticipation, and the thrill of a game that had been a childhood favourite: hide and seek.
It started with Gregory’s challenge, one meant for Hyacinth, but Eloise had eagerly joined, which led to Colin insisting he would best them all. Before long, even Daphne had declared herself the reigning champion, and somehow, you had been swept up in their playful war.
“We must raise the stakes,” Colin had grinned, rubbing his hands together. “The winner gets the last slice of Cook’s lemon tart.”
That, of course, had solidified the game’s importance.
Anthony had scoffed at first, arms crossed as he watched his younger siblings debate over rules, but then Benedict had looked at him with an all-too-knowing smirk.
“What is it, dear brother? Afraid you’ll lose?”
Anthony had exhaled sharply through his nose and rolled up his sleeves, the glint in his eye unmistakable. “Afraid? Hardly. But if I must participate to prove a point, then so be it.”
And now, here you were, heart racing as you darted through the halls, the candlelit sconces flickering as you sought out the perfect hiding place. The house was grand, but you knew better than to stay in the more obvious rooms.
You turned a corner sharply, only to collide—rather unceremoniously—into a broad, solid chest.
Strong hands caught your arms before you could stumble back, a steadying touch firm yet careful. You barely had time to lift your gaze before Anthony was ushering you into a space behind one of the great bookcases, his hand pressed lightly to your back, urging you forward.
“Quickly,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath.
The moment the panel shut behind you, enclosing the two of you in the small, dim alcove, you became acutely aware of just how little space there was.
The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, leather-bound books, and something unmistakably Anthony—clean, warm, and laced with a faint trace of bergamot.
You turned your head, only to find his face closer than you anticipated. Much closer.
Your breath hitched as the tips of your noses nearly brushed, the shared darkness amplifying every sensation, every shift in movement. His breath was warm against your lips, and though you could not quite see him, you could feel the way he tensed, the way he held himself impossibly still.
“Brilliant plan,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to ignore the way his fingers had settled lightly at your waist, a mere ghost of contact.
Anthony exhaled a quiet chuckle, his lips curving into the softest smirk. “Would you rather have been caught?”
The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall beyond, growing closer.
You both tensed, pressing further into the shadows, and in doing so, Anthony shifted—just enough for his thigh to brush against yours, for his breath to warm the shell of your ear.
Your pulse stuttered, betraying you entirely.
It was unbearable, this proximity.
Every shallow breath, every brush of fabric, every slight movement—it was all too much. And yet, neither of you moved away.
“You’re breathing rather heavily,” he murmured, his tone teasing yet strained, as if he, too, was not entirely unaffected.
You swallowed, tilting your head the slightest bit, lips parting as your own words threatened to betray you. “And you’re entirely too close.”
A pause.
“Am I?”
He had shifted just barely, just enough that his lips were a whisper away from your cheek.
Your chest rose and fell too quickly, and you had half a mind to press a hand against his chest, to push him back—to do something, anything—but your fingers barely twitched before his breath ghosted across your skin once more.
“Tell me to step away,” he murmured.
The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.
It would have been easy. The words were simple.
And yet, you hesitated.
Because part of you—a very foolish, reckless part—did not want him to move away.
His fingers flexed ever so slightly where they rested at your waist, as if testing the space between you, waiting.
You looked up and found him already watching you. His gaze was dark, unreadable—yet undeniably drawn to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the barely-there space between you.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and twitched as you tried to steady yourself, but the effort only pulled you closer, your knuckles brushing the firm plane of his chest.
Anthony inhaled sharply—so softly you would have missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him. To the way his body tensed, to the way his lips parted ever so slightly as if he, too, was caught in the moment, teetering on the edge of something neither of you meant to fall into.
You saw the exact second he warred with himself.
The flicker of restraint in his eyes. The slight clench of his jaw.
Then—so imperceptibly that it could have been imagined—he tilted his head just a fraction lower, as if testing how much closer he could get before the point of no return.
And in that agonizing moment, neither of you moved.
Neither of you dared to break whatever fragile thing had woven itself between you.
But your breath stuttered, and his lips parted just enough for his exhale to brush against your own.
And for one reckless second, you wondered if he was waiting for you to close the space entirely.
And just like that, the spell shattered…
A voice–high and exasperated—echoed through the corridor.
“Gregory! You ate the lemon tart? The game is over!”
Anthony flinched first, jerking back so suddenly that the back of his head knocked against the wooden paneling of your hiding spot. You, startled, released your grip on his shirt, but not before your fingertips accidentally dragged against the heat of his skin where the fabric had loosened.
For a fraction of a second, you swore he sucked in a breath at the touch, but then he was gone—straightening too quickly, stepping away as if the walls weren’t already confining enough.
You, still pressed against the narrow space, took a moment longer to gather yourself.
Anthony wouldn’t look at you.
His hands flexed at his sides, his jaw tight as he exhaled through his nose before forcing himself into nonchalance. “It appears the game is over,” he murmured, voice lower than usual.
You bit back a breathless laugh, still feeling the phantom press of him against you, the warmth of his breath on your skin. “Indeed,” you murmured, voice lighter than you felt.
Neither of you acknowledge what had just happened.
But as he stepped aside to let you out first, you caught his way his fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for something he shouldn’t.
Later that night
The night stretched long and restless.
You tossed and turned, eyes staring up at the ceiling, the ghost of Anthony’s presence still clinging to your skin. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt the press of him, the warmth of his breath against your temple, the weight of his body so close, too close.
Anthony, somewhere down the hall, suffered the same fate.
He lied rigid in bed, staring at the dark canopy above him, scowling at the memory of your fingers gripping his shirt, the whisper of your breath against his lips, the impossible temptation of you.
With an exasperated sigh, you threw off your covers and slipped out of your room. Unbeknownst to you, Anthony had done the same.
And like two moths drawn to the same flame, you both found yourselves in the garden.
The swing set—the place that had been yours and Anthony’s sanctuary since childhood—sat under the moonlight, its wooden seat swaying slightly in the night breeze.
Anthony paused when he saw you, his brows raising in mild surprise before he huffed a quiet laugh. “Let me guess—couldn’t sleep?”
You smirked, stepping toward the swings. “What gave it away?”
He watched you sit, crossing his arms over his chest. “The look of someone who has been tormented all night by a certain game of hide and seek,” he teased, his voice smooth but laced with something deeper, something unsaid.
You tilted your head at him, your own tone light but pointed. “Is that so? And here I thought you would have put such a trivial game behind you by now.”
Anthony’s lips twitched, his gaze unwavering. “Oh, believe me, I tried.”
You chuckled, kicking off the ground slightly to set the swing in motion. “What was it, then? The part where we were practically tangled together? Or the part where I could feel your heartbeat?”
Anthony scoffed, though a flicker of something passed through his expression—an almost imperceptible hesitation. “I believe you were the one clutching my shirt, dearest.”
You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense. “I was trying to keep my balance!”
“Oh, is that what you call it?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, swinging lazily. “And you? You didn’t seem too eager to move away, Lord Bridgerton.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened for a split second before he smirked, stepping closer. “Perhaps I was merely being a gentleman. Making sure you did not fall.”
“Mmm,” you hummed, unconvinced. “Or perhaps you enjoyed it more than you care to admit.”
Anthony exhaled through his nose, stepping even closer, his hands settling on the roped of the swing as he loomed slightly over you.
“And what if I did?” his voice dipping slightly.
The words hung between you, wrapped in moonlight and unspoken truths.
Your heart stuttered—but you won’t let him win so easily. Instead, you tilted your head, feigning nonchalance. “Then I would say…that’s a very dangerous admission, my lord.”
Anthony’s eyes flickered, his grip on the ropes tightening slightly. “Why?”
You smiled slowly, leaning just the slightest bit forward. “Because if you did enjoy it…it means you’ve been thinking about it just as much as I have.”
Anthony’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, something unreadable flashing in his gaze. Then, just as quickly, he regained control, his lips curling again.
“You presume a lot, dearest.”
You shrugged, your foot pushing off the ground once more, causing the swing to move back and forth between you. “Do I?”
Anthony huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head before stepping back. “Good night, troublemaker.”
You watched him retreat, the tension easing only slightly as he disappeared back into the house. But as you sat there, swaying gently in the night air, you smiled to yourself.
Because for all his teasing, for all his denials…
Anthony Bridgerton had not denied thinking about it.
I have decided to write fanfiction, after over a decade of reading them voraciously. This will be my first one; and I have put in all my effort to make it a fanfic that I would have fallen in love with.
This will be a very long, multi-chapter fic. Slow burn would be an understatement. But it will be worth it.
Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader
Synopsis: A childhood spent under the same roof forged bonds of laughter, comfort, and camaraderie—but never anything more. Or so you told yourself. But when Anthony announces his intent to marry this season, and you find yourself pursued by a suitor of your own, the unspoken begins to unravel.
Now, amidst courtships, stolen glances, and a meddlesome family with a penchant for chaos, you must navigate the delicate line between duty and desire.
You are not his choice.
And yet…he cannot look away.
Dearest Gentle reader, as another season starts so do the surprises. It has been said that we are to welcome the Queen and King of Genovia for the first half of this season, and not only that but to witness the very first public appearance of their eldest, Princess Y/N Devereaux.
I'm sure the Queen will want us to be the most gracious hosts, even if this family of royals have a reputation for enjoying scandal.
Isn't it exciting when life becomes a fairytale of sorts?
(Bridgerton x Princess Diaries crossover)
Chapter 1. Fun Times & Potty Rooms
Chapter 2. The Botanist
Chapter 3. Faux Pas
Chapter 4. The Artist
Chapter 5. Drawing Lessons
Chapter 6. Thoughts & Ink
Chapter 7. A Moment of Enlightenment
Chapter 8. An Offer From a Gentleman
Chapter 9. Wallflowers
This WILL be an 18+ story (Minors DNI!) so yes it's mostly smut with a lot of plot
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