ella ⟢ @l8tedoll - Tumblr Blog

ELLA .ᐟ.ᐟ she/her

about me . nineteen — full-time student — canadian canucks, devils, penguins & habs fan ༝༚༝༚

disclaimer . everything i write is purely for entertainment purposes. my works are not meant to reflect the real lives, personalities, or relationships of the players involved

MASTERLIST — GUIDELINES

#navigation #hockey fic

⋆.˚ THE UNEXPECTED ASSIGNMENT | chapter ii

— pair : jack hughes x reader

— au setting : college au genre : fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

— warnings : no warnings for this chapter !

— fic’s theme song : built that way - emotional oranges

SEPTEMBER 2025, YOST ICE ARENA

The locker room always smelled like old tape, detergent, and the faint sharpness of ice left melting in the treads of everyone’s skates. Jack slumped onto the wooden bench in front of his stall and toed off his runners, one heel hooked behind the other. Practice had ended half an hour ago, but no one was in a rush; a pre-weekend buzz hummed under the banter like a bass line

“Alright, Hughes,” Dylan called from across the aisle, still in compression shorts, hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re coming to Beta Delta tomorrow or not?”

“Why’s it always Beta Delta?” Rutger asked, lacing his shoes with his usual fast, neat rhythm. “Didn’t they get put on probation for the couch fire thing?”

“That was two years ago,” Dylan said. “Ancient history. Also it wasn’t ‘fire’, it was… a smolder.”

Jack snorted. “You can’t put a couch out on the lawn, douse it in lighter fluid, and call it a smolder.”

“Thank you, Captain Safety,” Seamus said, tossing a roll of tape at Jack’s head. “Party starts at ten. Theme is ‘Back to School, Back to Sin.’”

“That’s not a theme,” Rutger said. “That’s a cry for help.”

Jack rolled the tape between his palms. He knew the drill: the first Friday after classes kicked off, the Greek houses tried to outdo each other’s sound systems and RSVP lists. Photos ended up everywhere by morning, people in letterman jackets and too-white sneakers leaning over beer pong tables. Normally, Jack liked the clatter and the loudness, the easy way people smiled at him just because he walked in. It was fun to be the center of gravity.

This week, though, an extra thought kept flicking in the back of his head like a malfunctioning light.

Dylan noticed his quiet. “What’s with the face? You got calculus homework now? Want me to tutor you in counting to five?”

“Counting to twenty is his real challenge,” Seamus said. “You know, for goals this season.”

“Cute,” Jack said, smirking. He let the teasing settle before he shrugged, casual. “Coach pulled me in three days ago. Student Media’s doing a semester-long feature on the team. On me, specifically.”

A chorus: “Oooooh.” “King Hughes in print.” “Did we get a stylist in the budget?”

Jack leaned back against the stall and hooked his arms along the top edge. “It’s some girl. An exchange student. Journalism. Shadowing me. Practices, games, whatever.”

“Shadowing?” Rutger raised a brow. “Like a ghost?”

“Like a mosquito,” Jack said. He meant it to come out with edge, but the truth was, the idea wasn’t purely bad. Scouts cared about how you handled attention. He knew that. He’d learned media polish somewhere between Peewee and the draft combines he’d fantasized about since he could pronounce the word ‘draft.’ Still—being followed was different than dropping a canned answer into a postgame scrum.

“Exchange student?” Dylan grinned. “What country? Does she have an accent? I’m a big fan of accents.”

Seamus rolled his eyes. “You’re a big fan of anything that texts back.”

“Coach said her name, I forget it,” Jack lied a little; he remembered it, how the consonants felt steady in his head. “Anyway, I meet her next week at the rink.”

Rutger slung his duffel over a shoulder. “You going to be nice?”

Jack smirked. “I’m always nice.”

Dylan coughed. “You’re charming. Not the same thing.”

“They overlap,” Jack said. “And relax. I’ll smile. I’ll carry a stack of textbooks and pretend I can read. I’ll say something profound about leadership. Boom, cover shot.”

Seamus laughed. “You do love a camera.”

Jack did. Or maybe he loved winning the moment the camera represented—proof he had it handled. “Look,” he said, softer, so the sentence didn’t snag on pride. “Coach thinks it helps the pro thing. I’m not going to mess that up.”

The room went a shade quieter. Everyone understood the pro thing. You could feel it humming in decisions big and small: extra reps, skipped parties, the way guys nursed injuries in the dark and insisted they were fine.

“Alright,” Rutger said, nudging Jack’s knee. “Then come to Beta Delta and let people adore you for two hours. Work on your media skills. Shake hands. Sign a Solo cup.”

“Two hours,” Dylan echoed. “Then we cherry-pick you out before the freshmen start inventing new jungle juice recipes.”

Jack tipped his head. “Two hours,” he agreed, and he meant it. He could do both—show up, then disappear before the photos got sloppy. The sweet spot between being seen and being smart.

“Bring your shadow,” Seamus said.

Jack shot him a look. “I’m not inviting a journalist to a frat party.”

“Exchange student journalist,” Dylan corrected. “International flair.”

“I’ll meet her next week,” Jack said, pushing to his feet and grabbing his backpack. “Tomorrow is for sin, not for stories.”

Seamus saluted. “Captain’s orders.”

As Jack headed toward the tunnel, the noises softened behind him: laughter collapsing into chatter, the swish of showers, someone’s music leaking tinny through a phone speaker. He walked the narrow corridor where the posters of past captains hung in a line—smiling in their perfect moments. He didn’t slow down to look, but he felt their presence like a line he’d promised to join. The pro thing pulled at him from the future, steady as gravity.

A journalist could help. A party wouldn’t hurt. He could juggle both, he told himself. He always did.

Outside, late afternoon bowed into evening. The September sky wore that washed-out denim color that meant the first true chill wasn’t far behind. Jack tugged his hoodie up and headed toward the athletes’ lot, already tasting the stupidly sweet punch someone would mix tomorrow, already hearing the bass against the windows, the chorus of “Hughes!” when he walked in.

Charming. He could live with that. The soft side stayed where it belonged: under armor, under jokes, under the practiced smirk that made everything look easy.

For two hours, anyway.

── .

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN CAMPUS

The Student Media office sat on the second floor of the Union, wedged between a tutoring center and a club that claimed to organize “ethical hackathons.” The door had a corkboard freckled with flyers—pitch meetings, deadlines, the word “copyeditors!” in three different fonts. Inside, it smelled like toner and old coffee, and the carpet had that industrial gray that never looked clean, only washed of color.

You left the meeting with a press lanyard, a stack of forms, and a stapled packet labeled Hockey Feature Access Guidelines. The editor—a second-year with a nasal voice and a T-shirt that said AP Style or Die—had laid out the plan: attend practices, pre-approve interview slots with the Athletics liaison, coordinate with the captain for day-in-the-life angles, submit weekly drafts for feedback. He’d said “captain” like you should already know the name, which, of course, you did. Hearing it in person had made it feel slightly more real, like the campus myth had weight.

You tucked the packet under your arm and walked back across the Diag. Campus was a swirl: handlebars ringing from a cyclist who didn’t slow down, an a cappella group rehearsing near the steps, flyers pressed into your hands for everything from a vintage-clothing swap to a student senate debate. By the time you reached South Quad, your head felt like it had too many tabs open.

Emily looked up from her desk when you pushed into the room. She had a pen twisted into the bun on top of her head and a law textbook open like a tent, pages bristling with sticky notes. At the sight of your lanyard, she squealed. “Credentials!”

“It’s just laminated paper,” you said, but you couldn’t stop the smile. You dropped the packet on your bed and sank down beside it. “They want me at the rink next week. There’s an Athletics liaison. There are guidelines.”

“Guidelines,” Emily repeated, delighted. “So official. Tell me everything.”

You gave her the quick version: the calendar invites, the editor’s insistence on weekly drafts, the way the whiteboard in the office listed who was covering “City Council,” “New Vegan Dining,” and—underlined twice—“Hockey Feature.” You didn’t tell her about the sudden wobble in your stomach when the editor had added, “We want Jack front and center,” because wobble implied nerves and you’d decided to be above that.

Emily listened, chin propped on her hand, eyes bright. “So when do you meet him?”

“Early next week,” you said. “I email the liaison; she loops him in; we pretend this is effortless and not deeply intrusive.”

“You’re not intrusive. You’re the press.”

“Tell that to a guy who just wants to live in peace,” you said, softer than you meant to. You pictured his face from the posters—smiling like he’d practiced, like the smile was a piece of equipment he wore easily. Golden boy. This campus was built to love him. “Also, they want day-in-the-life. That means following him pretty much everywhere.” You groaned.

“Well, it’s only one time, right?” Emily said, practical. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She closed her book with a thump and grinned. “More important: tomorrow night is the first Friday party.”

You raised your eyebrows. “The what?”

“Beta Delta’s back-to-school throwdown,” Emily announced, clasping her hands together. “It’s tradition. People go, they drink questionably colored liquids, they regret it by brunch. You’re coming.”

“I don’t know,” you said, already bracing the reasons like a shield. “I start this feature next week, I still need to figure out the bus to the rink, and I don’t even have a real winter coat yet. Also, i heard that frat houses are… loud.”

“Loud is half the fun,” she said. “And we don’t have to stay long. An hour. Two, if the music’s good and the floor doesn’t feel sticky. You need to meet people.”

“I met the editor,” you said, deadpan.

“Meeting someone who says ‘AP Style or Die’ doesn’t count.”

You looked at the packet on your bed, at the bolded words Access Guidelines, at the lanyard shining under your lamp. Parties weren’t a bad thing; they were a slice of the campus you hadn’t seen yet, different from emails and floor meetings and room assignments printed in official fonts. Still, your stomach made that unsure flip again. “What if it’s not my thing?”

“Then we leave,” Emily said simply. “I will personally extract you. No questions asked.”

“You’re going to be a very good lawyer,” you said.

“I know,” she said cheerfully. “Also, you can treat it like journalism. Observe. Take mental notes. What do Americans wear to parties? Why is the beer always lukewarm? Why are there string lights in every room like we’re all starring in a low-budget music video?”

You laughed, the tension loosening a notch. “You’re persuasive.”

“I’m persuasive because I know you. Even if it’s only been four days,” she said, gentler now. “You’re going to get swallowed by your feature if you don’t build something that isn’t the feature. A party is a scaffolding for a social life. It’s not the whole building.”

You stared at her for a beat, surprised at the metaphor and how right it felt. “Did you just compare Beta Delta to scaffolding?”

“I did, and my mother would be so proud,” Emily said. “Look, we’ll go late. We’ll wear jeans and pretend we own the place. You can even carry your little notebook if it makes you feel powerful.”

“I am not bringing a notebook to a frat party,” you said, scandalized—and a little tempted.

“Okay, then just bring lip balm and a fake American swagger.”

“I’ll bring chapstick and my student ID,” you said, cracking. “Fine. An hour.”

“An hour,” she agreed, victorious. She hopped up and opened her closet, fluttering through hangers. “Do you want my black top? The square-neck one? It does things for shoulders.”

You watched in fond disbelief as she spun around like a personal stylist on a mission. “You’ve had this entire pep talk primed, haven’t you?”

“Please,” Emily said. “I prepped it this morning. I had a hunch you’d spend your day with laminated things and come home allergic to joy.”

You rolled your eyes and tugged your laptop toward you, the lanyard’s plastic edge cool against your wrist. In your inbox sat the Athletics liaison’s brief email: Welcome! Looping in our captain, Jack Hughes, next week to coordinate access. Happy to help you get what you need. Under it, a string of logistics. It was all so tidy, so adult on paper. The part where your life overlapped with someone else’s was the messy part. It always was.

“What if he hates me?” you asked suddenly, the worry slipping free before you could smooth it down. “What if he thinks I’m in the way?”

Emily stuck her head out of the closet. “Then he’s wrong,” she said, no nonsense. “And he’ll get over it when he realizes you’re good at what you do. Also, if he’s the golden boy I’ve heard about, he’ll be charming about it while secretly spiraling. That’s their brand.”

You huffed a laugh. “The Golden Boy Brand: Spiraling, but make it pretty.”

“Exactly,” she said, tossing the black top onto your bed. “Also, the party will be a good pre-test. You’ll hear how people talk about him when they’re not in an interview. What they expect. What image he wears when he thinks no one’s grading him.”

You blinked. “You really could be in journalism.”

“I’m in law because I like to win,” she said. “Now try that on and tell me if we need to borrow my neighbor’s steamer.”

You stood, kicked off your shoes, and held the square-neck top up to your chest in the mirror on the closet door. The neckline framed your collarbones; the sleeves skimmed your arms. You looked like someone who could walk into a party and pretend it wasn’t a foreign language.

“Okay,” you said, softer. “An hour. Maybe two, if the floor isn’t sticky.”

Emily beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

Later, after you showered and the room went quiet, you slid into your desk chair and opened a fresh document. Hockey Feature — Notes. You typed: Access: next week. Introduce self to captain. Questions to start: balance of pressure and normal life, team rituals, what ‘leadership’ actually means when you’re twenty and everyone expects you to glow in the dark. You paused. What people think they know about him vs. what’s true. Where the performance ends. Where the person starts.

From the hallway came the clatter of someone sprinting to the bathroom and a shout of “I swear I had my key!” The dorm’s nightly orchestra tuning up.

You saved the document, lowered the screen, and lay back on your bed. Above you, the fairy lights Emily had strung traced a gentle line. Your lanyard sat on your desk like a passport. Across campus, somewhere near the river, you imagined the rink with its bright lights and haunted chill. You imagined a boy who wore charm like a shield and a joke like a bridge. You would meet him next week. Tomorrow, you would meet the party.

You smiled, let your eyes close, and felt the campus press its hum against the windows. Friday was a breath away. And beyond that, a story you hadn’t yet learned how to write—a story that would, for better or worse, include both of you.

to be continued…

word count : ~1490

#hockey fic #fanfic #hockey #hockey fanfiction #jack hughes #jack hughes angst #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes fic #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes x reader #nhl x you #nhl x reader #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl #jack hughes x you

⋆.˚ THE UNEXPECTED ASSIGNMENT | chapter i

— pair : jack hughes x reader

— au setting : college au genre : fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

— warnings : no warnings for this chapter !

— fic’s theme song : built that way - emotional oranges

— author’s note : really excited to start this au, i hope that you will like it too ᢉ𐭩

SEPTEMBER 2025

The library was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of pages and the muted hum of the air conditioner overhead. You’d claimed a corner table beneath a tall window, sunlight spilling across the open laptop in front of you. Back home, your university library had been crowded and chaotic, but here, on the leafy campus of the University of Michigan, it felt almost sacred — like the building itself demanded silence.

You tugged at the hem of your sweater and tried to focus on the paper in front of you, but your phone buzzed against the wood of the desk. One new email. You leaned closer, heart quickening when you saw the subject line: “Congratulations — Hockey Feature Confirmation”

You clicked it open.

Dear Y/N, We are pleased to confirm that your semester-long feature assignment will focus on the Michigan Wolverines hockey program. You will be shadowing the team and its captain, Jack Hughes. This opportunity will not only contribute to the university’s journal but also count toward your journalism coursework requirements. Please report to the Student Media Office by Thursday morning to receive credentials and access. Best regards, Student Media Department

You blinked, rereading the words twice. Jack Hughes. You’d heard the name before. He wasn’t just a hockey player here — he was the hockey player. His face was everywhere: posters in the student union, smiling confidently in the campus newsletter, even splashed across social media whenever the Wolverines pulled off another victory.

You let out a low groan, drawing a glance from the student two tables over. Of course they’d assign you to the golden boy of the campus. This wasn’t going to be journalism: it was going to be PR with a prettier headline. Still, you couldn’t deny the thrill that flickered in your chest. This was big. Bigger than you’d expected when you signed up for the exchange semester.

Sliding your phone aside, you packed up your laptop and notebooks, determined to face the rest of the day. You still had to pick up your dorm assignment and class schedule. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you walked out of the library and into the early-fall sun.

── .

The administration building buzzed with activity. Students lined up at the front desk, juggling papers and IDs, their voices carrying across the marble floor. You joined the queue, fiddling with the strap of your tote until it was your turn.

The woman at the desk gave you a polite smile. “Exchange student?”

You nodded. “Yes, first semester here. Journalism.”

“Perfect.” She rifled through a stack of envelopes until she found one with your name printed neatly across the front. She handed it over. “Inside you’ll find your dorm key, your class schedule, and a pamphlet about student life. If you have any questions, the advisors’ office is down the hall.”

You thanked her and stepped aside, tearing the envelope open as you walked. The schedule listed your core journalism classes and a few electives, and you traced the names with your finger: Media Ethics, Feature Writing, American Literature. It felt strange seeing them in English, so different from the courses back in Germany, but exciting all the same.

The pamphlet detailed everything from meal plans to laundry facilities. More importantly, it listed your dorm address: South Quad, Room 317.

You headed there next, weaving through the bustling campus, students lugging suitcases, parents hugging their kids goodbye, laughter echoing between red-brick buildings. Everything smelled faintly of cut grass and new beginnings.

Your dorm room was on the third floor, tucked away at the end of a hallway where music played faintly from behind closed doors. You unlocked 317 and pushed it open to find half the space already decorated: fairy lights strung across the wall, a throw blanket draped neatly over the bed, and a small stack of textbooks arranged on the desk.

A girl with chestnut hair glanced up from where she was kneeling by a suitcase. Her eyes lit up. “You must be my roommate! I’m Emily.”

“Hi.” You smiled, stepping inside with your bag. “I’m Y/N. Exchange student from abroad.”

Emily grinned. “I was hoping you’d get here today. I read your file on the roommate portal — journalism, right? That’s so cool. I’m in pre-law, which basically means i’ll be buried in case studies while you’re out interviewing people.”

You laughed, setting your bag on the unclaimed bed. “Interviewing hockey players, apparently.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Wait — don’t tell me you’re the one covering Jack Hughes this semester?”

You groaned. “Yes. You’ve heard of him too?”

“Heard of him? Half the girls in this building have his poster on their wall.” She flopped onto her bed, dramatic. “Good luck surviving that, roommate. You’re either going to hate him… or fall hopelessly in love with him.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t here to fall in love with the golden boy. You were here to write.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

── .

YOST ICE ARENA

The ice still clung to Jack’s hair as he tugged off his helmet, sweat dripping down his temples. Practice had run long, the team scattered across the locker room in various stages of exhaustion. Someone cracked a joke about Friday night parties, laughter bouncing off the concrete walls, but Jack barely heard it. His head was still in the drills, the plays, the constant push for perfection.

“Good work today,” Coach Pearson called as the last pucks were collected. “Hughes, a word.”

Jack felt a flicker of nerves. He grabbed a towel, slung it around his neck, and followed the coach into his office. The room smelled faintly of coffee and old playbooks, the walls lined with framed jerseys and clippings from past championships. Coach gestured for him to sit.

Jack lowered himself into the chair, heart steady but expectant.

Coach folded his hands on the desk. “You’re doing good work as captain. You’ve got the boys in line, you’re leading on the ice. That’s not the only thing we need from you, though.”

Jack leaned back. “What do you mean?”

“I got a call from the Student Media Department. They’re putting together a feature on the program — semester-long, in-depth coverage. And they want you to be the centerpiece.”

Jack blinked. “Like… interviews?”

“Interviews. Shadowing. They’ll be following you to practices. It’s not optional, Hughes. It’s good for your image. Scouts will eat it up — a captain who can handle media attention, who looks polished on and off the ice.”

Jack resisted the urge to groan. He knew image mattered. He knew every little thing he did was being measured against the dream of going pro. But the thought of some journalism student trailing him all semester, scribbling notes about every move, made his stomach twist.

“Who is it?” he asked finally

Coach rifled through a folder. “Exchange student. Journalism major. Y/N.”

An exchange student? That was new. Jack pictured someone wide-eyed, clutching a notebook, with no idea how hockey even worked. Great. Just what he needed.

Still, Coach’s voice cut through his irritation. “This is a chance to show maturity. To prove you’re more than talent on the ice. Don’t screw it up.”

Jack nodded slowly, swallowing down his reluctance. “Yeah. I get it.”

Coach leaned back, satisfied. “Good. Now hit the showers. And Hughes—” His eyes softened just a little. “You’ve got the talent. Don’t let anything — not pressure, not distractions — keep you from showing it.”

Jack stood, towel clutched tight in his hands. He left the office with the weight of the words pressing against him.

Talent, image, scouts, reputation.

And now? A journalist.

Jack wasn’t sure if this was the start of an opportunity… or the start of a headache.

to be continued…

word count : ~1525

#hockey #nhl #fanfic #jack hughes angst #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes fic #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic #nhl x you #nhl fanfiction #nhl x reader #nhl fic #nhl hockey

⋆.˚ THE UNEXPECTED ASSIGNMENT | a jack hughes au fic

— pair : jack hughes x reader

— au setting : college au genre : fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

— warnings : can contain mature themes, sensitive content, swearing and alcohol

— theme song : built that way - emotional oranges

summary : as an exchanged student majoring in journalism, you’re assigned to shadow Jack Hughes — the golden boy of campus and beloved hockey star. what begins as a reluctant article soon turns into late-night talks, stolen smiles, and the quiet discovery that sometimes the best story is the one you never meant to write

main characters description ₊⊹