summary: You went to a meet-and-greet for an autograph—and somehow left with Jack Hughes’s number instead.
pairing: jack hughes/reader
word count: 1,660
The line for the meet-and-greet wraps halfway around the arena concourse, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll forget how to speak by the time it’s your turn.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, clutching the edge of the jersey draped over your arm. It’s slightly too big—technically a men’s small—but you like the way it feels, soft and broken-in from the number of times you’ve worn it while watching games.
Number 86.
Jack Hughes.
You peek around the shoulder of the person in front of you.
The table is set up under a giant banner with his face on it, and somehow the real thing looks even better. Dark hair a little messy, sleeves pushed up, that half-smile that shows up whenever he’s laughing at something a fan says. Every few seconds he leans forward, signing something, taking a photo, saying something that makes the fan in front of him beam like they’ve just won the lottery.
Which, in a way, they kind of have.
Your stomach flips.
“Next!” one of the event staff calls.
The line moves forward another few steps.
You swallow.
Okay. You can do this. You’ve met people before. You are, in fact, a functioning human being who has conversations with other humans on a daily basis.
Just maybe not extremely attractive NHL stars.
“Hey, relax,” the girl behind you whispers with a grin. “He’s not gonna bite.”
You laugh nervously. “That’s… good to know.”
The line moves again.
Now you can actually hear him.
“Who should I make it out to?” Jack asks the guy at the table.
His voice is warm and casual, the kind that sounds like he’s genuinely happy to be here instead of trapped at another obligation. He signs the guy’s stick in a quick, practiced motion and slides it back across the table.
“Nice jersey,” he adds.
The guy practically floats away.
Your heartbeat picks up.
There are only two people ahead of you now.
Your palms are getting sweaty.
You wipe them on your jeans.
The woman in front of you finishes her photo, and suddenly it’s just one more person between you and the table.
Jack glances up for a moment, scanning the line.
For half a second, his eyes land on you.
And then—maybe you’re imagining it—his smile widens just slightly.
Your brain immediately stops working.
The last person steps away.
The staff member gestures toward you. “You’re up.”
Your feet move before your thoughts can catch up.
You walk to the table like you’re approaching the front of a classroom presentation, except this presentation involves an NHL superstar and your rapidly evaporating ability to form sentences.
Up close, Jack Hughes is… unfairly attractive.
That’s the only word for it.
His hair falls across his forehead in that effortless way that people definitely spend time trying to achieve. His eyes are bright and curious, and when he smiles at you it’s like someone turned the arena lights up another notch.
“Hey,” he says easily.
Your brain: Say something normal.
Your mouth: “Hi.”
Great start.
He glances at the jersey draped over your arm.
“Want me to sign that?”
“Yes,” you say immediately, maybe a little too fast.
You slide the jersey across the table toward him.
He picks it up, flipping it slightly so the number faces him.
“Good choice,” he says, tapping the 86 with the marker. “This guy’s pretty good.”
You huff out a small laugh.
“I’ve heard that.”
He grins.
“So what’s your name?” he asks, uncapping the marker.
You tell him.
He repeats it as he writes, careful with the letters.
Your name looks surreal next to his signature.
You’re watching the motion of his hand when he suddenly asks, “So how long have you been a fan?”
The question catches you off guard.
“Oh—uh. A few years,” you say. “Since you got drafted, actually.”
He glances up at that.
“Since the draft?” he says, sounding mildly impressed. “That’s some loyalty.”
You shrug, trying to ignore the fact that he’s still looking at you.
“Well, you made it easy.”
“Did I?”
There’s a teasing note in his voice.
You realize too late how that sounded.
Your face warms. “I meant—like—your playing. Obviously.”
He laughs softly.
“Obviously.”
He finishes signing the jersey and slides it back to you, but his hand lingers on the fabric for a moment like he’s not quite done with the conversation.
“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “did you come here just for this, or were you already at the game?”
“I came for the game,” you say. “But this was definitely a bonus.”
“Good answer.”
There’s that smile again.
You clutch the jersey a little tighter, trying not to think about how close you are to him.
“You nervous?” he asks suddenly.
You blink.
“A little,” you admit.
He tilts his head, amused.
“Why?”
You stare at him.
“Because you’re Jack Hughes.”
He laughs again, the sound warm and genuine.
“Fair,” he says.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
The staff member a few feet away clears their throat lightly, reminding you that there is, in fact, a line behind you.
You shift awkwardly.
“Sorry,” you say. “I should probably let the next person—”
“Wait.”
The word comes out quickly enough that you pause.
Jack glances at the staff member and then back at you.
“You got time for a quick picture?” he asks.
Your brain short-circuits again.
“Uh. Yeah. Definitely.”
He stands up from behind the table.
He’s taller than you expected.
Or maybe he just seems taller because you’re suddenly standing right next to him.
The staff member takes your phone, and Jack steps closer so your shoulders brush.
Your entire nervous system becomes aware of this fact.
“Ready?” the staff member asks.
Jack leans in slightly.
“Smile,” he murmurs.
You do.
The photo is taken.
You retrieve your phone, trying not to look at the picture immediately because you’re pretty sure you look like someone who just got struck by lightning.
“Well,” you say, awkward again. “Thanks. This was really cool.”
“Hey,” he says softly.
You look up.
There’s something different in his expression now—still friendly, but more curious.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you live around here?”
Your eyebrows lift a little.
“Not exactly,” you say. “Couple hours away.”
He nods slowly.
“Huh.”
You wait.
He taps the marker against the table like he’s thinking.
Then he glances at the staff member again, who is now very obviously pretending not to listen.
When he looks back at you, there’s a small, slightly mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Okay, this might sound weird,” he says.
You instantly become very alert.
“But… would it be alright if I got your number?”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
“You—what?”
His smile grows.
“Your number,” he repeats. “So I can text you.”
You stare at him like he’s just suggested the moon is made of hockey pucks.
“Why?” you blurt.
He laughs softly.
“Because you seem cool,” he says simply. “And you didn’t completely lose it when you met me.”
You snort.
“That’s debatable.”
“Hey,” he says, pointing lightly at you with the marker, “you’re doing great.”
Your heart is pounding now.
The staff member clears their throat again.
The line behind you shifts impatiently.
Jack lowers his voice slightly.
“So?” he asks.
You hesitate for about half a second.
Then you pull your phone out.
“I mean,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “it would be rude to say no.”
His grin flashes bright.
“Exactly.”
You unlock your phone and open the contacts app.
He takes the phone gently from your hand, his fingers brushing yours for a split second.
Your stomach flips.
He types something quickly, then hands it back.
You glance down.
There’s a new contact saved.
Jack.
With a number underneath it.
You look up, stunned.
“You just—”
“Now you have mine too,” he says with a shrug.
Your brain takes a moment to process that.
“That feels like cheating,” you say.
“Work smarter, not harder.”
You laugh.
The staff member gestures for the next person.
Jack takes a small step backward toward the table, but his eyes stay on you.
“I’ll text you later,” he says.
You clutch your signed jersey like it’s suddenly the most valuable object on earth.
“Okay,” you say.
You start to step away, then pause.
“Hey, Jack?”
“Yeah?”
You grin.
“Good choice,” you say, tapping your own chest lightly.
He laughs as you walk away, shaking his head.
And as you disappear back into the crowd, your phone buzzes in your hand.
You glance down.
A new message appears on the screen.
Unknown Number:
Hey. It’s Jack. Just making sure you didn’t give me a fake number. 😄
ellievsbear
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
gracieabrams
germansingergirl
2087
yousharknotpass
titsay
