Line Change
✰ Part One
Sidney Crosby x Quinn Hughes’ Ex!Reader
Summary: you don’t realize how much you’ve been shrinking yourself to fit into someone else’s life until you’re forced to look at the pieces. It starts with an Olympic gold medal and a boyfriend who laughs when your entire sport is treated like a political punchline. But it shifts with Sidney Crosby in the Milan cold, pointing out the devastating difference between a boy you have to make excuses for and a man who actually respects you. Sometimes, moving on isn’t just a breakup … it’s an absolute upgrade
Divided into five parts because this is 56k words long and tumblr text box limits hate me: read part two here
→ Masterlist
You never thought you’d be the kind of person who made excuses for someone you loved. But here you are.
It starts three years earlier, in a way that feels almost too perfect to be real. You’re twenty-one, tearing up the NCAA with Boston University, putting up numbers that have scouts whispering about generational talent. The PWHL is in its second year, and everyone knows you’re going first overall in the 2024 draft. You’re focused, driven, living and breathing hockey in a way that leaves little room for anything else.
Then Ellen Weinberg-Hughes walks into the rink.
She’s just taken a position as a player development consultant for the US Women’s National Team, and you’re on the roster for an upcoming tournament. You’ve heard the stories — legendary player, hockey royalty, mother of three NHL players. You expect her to be intimidating, but she’s warm and sharp and funny in a way that immediately puts you at ease.
“You remind me of someone,” she says after practice one day, watching you work through shooting drills with a precision that borders on obsessive.
You glance over, breathing hard. “Yeah? Who?”
“My son Quinn.” She grins. “Same work ethic. Same intensity about getting things right.”
You laugh, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Is that a compliment?”
“From me? Always.” She pauses, and there’s something calculating in her expression that you can’t quite read. “He’s in Vancouver right now. Plays for the Canucks. Captain, actually.”
“I know who he is.” Everyone in hockey knows who the Hughes brothers are.
“He’s coming home for a few days next month,” Ellen says, casual but deliberate. “You should meet him.”
You’re about to deflect — you don’t really date, don’t have time for it — but something in her expression stops you. She’s not just making conversation. She’s matchmaking.
“Mrs. Hughes-”
“Ellen,” she corrects.
“Ellen. I don’t really … I mean, I’m pretty focused on hockey right now.”
“So is he.” She shrugs. “Maybe that’s exactly why it would work.”
***
You meet Quinn Hughes on a random Tuesday in March 2023, at a coffee shop in Ann Arbor. Ellen has somehow convinced both of you that this is a casual, no-pressure thing. It is not casual. It is terrifying.
He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in the corner with a baseball cap pulled low, scrolling through his phone. When you approach, he looks up and smiles, and it’s shy and genuine in a way that immediately disarms you.
“Hey,” he says, standing up. “You must be-”
“Yeah.” You shake his hand, feeling awkward. “Your mom is not subtle.”
He laughs, and it’s a good laugh, easy and self-deprecating. “No, she’s really not. I’m sorry if this is weird.”
“It’s definitely weird,” you admit, sitting down across from him. “But I’ve done weirder things.”
“Like what?”
“Like agree to this?”
He grins. “Fair point.”
The thing is, it’s not weird for long. Quinn is quiet at first, but once he starts talking, really talking, you realize why Ellen thought you’d click. He gets it — the pressure, the scrutiny, the weight of being exceptional at something before you’re old enough to know what that means. He asks about your game, and not in the patronizing way some guys do, but like he genuinely wants to understand how you see the ice, how you think through plays.
“My mom won’t shut up about you,” he says at one point, and there’s pride in his voice. “She says you’re going to change the game.”
You feel your cheeks heat. “She’s biased.”
“She’s not wrong though.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I watched some of your highlights. That goal against Minnesota last month? The one where you went backhand, top shelf, with like two defensemen draped all over you?”
“You watched my highlights?”
“My mom made me,” he says quickly, then grins. “But also, yeah. I wanted to.”
You talk for three hours. About hockey, about pressure, about what it’s like to have your every move dissected. He tells you about captaining the Canucks at twenty-four, about the weight of expectations in Vancouver. You tell him about being the future of women’s hockey before you’ve even been drafted professionally, about the constant comparisons to players who came before you.
“It’s lonely sometimes,” you admit. “Being the person everyone expects everything from.”
Quinn nods, and something passes between you — recognition, understanding. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It really is.”
When you leave, he asks if he can text you. You say yes.
***
The draft comes in June 2024. New York selects you first overall, and you cry on national television because you’ve worked your entire life for this moment. Your phone explodes with messages, and buried in there, between congratulations from teammates and coaches and family, is one from Quinn.
Knew it. Congratulations. You’re going to be incredible.
You start dating officially that summer. It’s long distance and complicated — he’s in Vancouver, you’re in New York — but somehow it works. He flies in when he can, you visit during breaks. You FaceTime at weird hours, falling asleep with your phone propped on the pillow so you can see each other.
In November 2024, you score your first professional goal, and Quinn is there. He flew in without telling you, and when you see him in the stands after the game, you almost cry again.
“You came,” you say, still in your gear, sweaty and exhausted and so stupidly happy.
“Of course I came.” He pulls you into a hug, not caring that you’re disgusting. “I wouldn’t have missed this.”
Ellen is there too, beaming, and you realize that this — this strange, unexpected thing — is becoming real.
***
Your rookie season is everything you hoped for and more. The Sirens are building something special, and you’re at the center of it. The media attention is intense, but you handle it the way you handle everything: head down, work hard, let your game speak for itself.
Quinn’s season is harder. The Canucks are struggling, and the pressure in Vancouver is suffocating. You talk him through bad games, through media scrums that feel like interrogations, through the weight of wearing the C on a team that can’t quite find its footing.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m good enough for this,” he admits one night, voice small through the phone.
“You are,” you say firmly. “Quinn, you are. This isn’t on you.”
“Feels like it is.”
“I know.” You wish you were there, wish you could hold him. “But it’s not.”
In December 2025, the Canucks trade him to Minnesota. He calls you first, before it’s announced, and you can hear the devastation in his voice.
“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he says.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes teams are just stupid.”
“I was supposed to—I wanted to-” He breaks off, and you think he might be crying. “I wanted to win there.”
“You’ll win somewhere else,” you tell him. “Minnesota’s lucky to have you.”
The trade is brutal for him, but there’s a silver lining: he’s closer now. Minnesota to New York is a much easier trip than Vancouver to New York. You let yourself imagine weekends together, lazy mornings, a life that feels less like a constant negotiation of flights and time zones.
***
Then January comes, and everything shifts.
You’re scrolling through Twitter when you first see the videos. ICE raids in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Families torn apart. People dragged from their homes, their workplaces, their schools. The videos are horrifying — agents in tactical gear, people screaming, children crying.
You can’t look away.
Quinn is living in Minneapolis now. Playing there. This is his community, even if he’s only been there a month.
You start posting immediately. Resources for people who need help. Donation links. Threads explaining what’s happening, why it matters, why people should care. Your agent calls, nervous, warning you that this is controversial, that you might lose sponsors.
“I don’t care,” you tell her. “This is people’s lives.”
Your teammates support you. The Sirens organization releases a statement. You donate a significant portion of your salary to immigrant advocacy organizations.
And Quinn … doesn’t say anything.
You notice it slowly, then all at once. He doesn’t like your posts. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t share any resources. When you bring it up on FaceTime, he’s vague.
“I just think I need to be careful,” he says, not quite meeting your eyes even through the screen. “You know how it is in hockey. I can’t … I don’t want to alienate anyone.”
“Alienate anyone?” You stare at him. “Quinn, people are being deported. Families are being destroyed. This is happening in your city.”
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. “I know it’s bad. But I also have to think about the team, about-”
“About what? Your image?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
The conversation ends badly, tension thick between you. You tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s just being cautious, that hockey culture is different for men, more conservative, less forgiving of players who speak out. You’ve seen it your whole career — how men’s hockey stays silent on everything that matters.
You tell yourself Quinn is a good person. That he cares. That he’s just scared.
But then you’re scrolling Instagram one day and you see it: Quinn liked a post from Matthew Tkachuk from last summer. A pro-Trump post. Something about making America great again, with an American flag and a caption about strong leadership.
Your stomach drops.
You stare at the like, at the timestamp. July 2025. You’d been dating for nearly a year when he liked that.
“The Tkachuks are childhood friends,” you say out loud, to your empty apartment. “He probably just liked it without thinking. He probably-”
But the excuses feel hollow now.
You don’t bring it up. You don’t know how to. Every time you start to type out a message, you delete it. Every time you’re on FaceTime and the words are on the tip of your tongue, you swallow them down.
You tell yourself you’re being understanding. That relationships require compromise. That you can’t expect him to be as outspoken as you are.
You tell yourself he’s still a good person.
You almost believe it.
***
February arrives with the Olympics.
You’ve been preparing for this your entire life. Team USA. The gold medal game. Everything you’ve worked for culminating in Milan.
Quinn is there too, on the men’s team. It should feel romantic, both of you chasing gold together, but there’s a distance between you now that wasn’t there before. You feel it in the way he kisses you goodbye before games, in the way conversations feel more careful, more curated.
Ellen is part of the women’s team staff, and she watches you with knowing eyes. You wonder what she sees, if she can sense the hairline fractures spreading through something she helped build.
The women’s tournament is everything you dreamed. You dominate, racking up points, playing with a fire that borders on reckless. In the semifinals against Sweden, you score twice and add three assists. People start talking about you the way they talk about legends.
The gold medal game is against Canada. Of course it is. It’s always Canada.
You’re tied 1-1 with two minutes left in regulation. The game is brutal, physical, everything a gold medal game should be. You can feel history pressing down on you, can feel the weight of every woman who played before you, who fought for this moment to exist.
Overtime.
The puck finds your stick at center ice. You’re moving before you can think, before you can doubt. Two Canadian defenders converge on you, and time slows down. You see the angle, see the microscopic window between the goalie’s glove and the post.
You deke left, then right, so fast it looks like the puck is on a string. The goalie bites, her glove drops, and you go backhand, top shelf, bar down.
Goal.
Gold.
The arena explodes. Your teammates mob you, everyone screaming, crying, disbelieving. You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Can’t-
When you finally surface from the celebration, when the medals are around your necks and the anthem is playing, you’re crying so hard you can barely see.
Quinn finds you after. He’s in the stands with Ellen, and when you see them, still in your gear, gold medal heavy against your chest, he’s smiling so wide it almost hurts to look at.
“That was incredible,” he says, pulling you into a hug. “Oh my god, that goal. Everyone’s calling it the goal of the decade. You’re unbelievable.”
Ellen hugs you next, and she’s crying too. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers. “So, so proud.”
You’re surrounded by people — teammates, media, coaches — but in this moment, with Quinn’s arms around you and Ellen beaming, you let yourself feel it. The joy. The accomplishment. The sheer impossible reality that you’re an Olympic gold medalist.
“I love you,” Quinn says into your hair. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I love you too,” you say automatically.
And you do. You think you do.
But standing there, gold medal around your neck, cameras flashing, the weight of everything you’ve achieved settling into your bones, you feel something else too. Something uncomfortable and undeniable.
You feel the distance. The unspoken. The things he won’t say and the posts he won’t like and the silence that speaks louder than any words.
You feel the fracture widening.
But not tonight. Tonight, you’re golden. Tonight, you’re everything you’ve worked your entire life to become.
Tonight, you let yourself have this.
Tomorrow can wait.
***
Three days after your gold medal game, you’re back in the arena. This time, you’re in the stands with your teammates, wearing your Team USA gear, faces still flushed with the glow of victory that hasn’t quite faded.
“Think they can pull it off?” Kendall asks, leaning over. She’s got her gold medal tucked under her jacket — all of you do, wearing them like talismans.
“Against Canada?” You grin. “God, I hope so. Would be poetic, wouldn’t it?”
“Your boyfriend’s on the ice,” Hannah says, nudging you. “No pressure or anything.”
You watch Quinn during warmups, the way he moves with that effortless precision you’ve always loved. Jack is out there too, talking to someone, gesturing wildly the way he always does. The Hughes brothers, both chasing gold on the same team.
“Luke must be losing his mind back in Jersey,” you say.
“Are you kidding? He’s probably throwing a watch party.” Kendall grins. “Did you talk to Quinn this morning?”
“Briefly.” You met up for breakfast at 6 AM, both of you too nervous to sleep. “He was trying to pretend he wasn’t freaking out.”
“And you?”
“I told him to go win me another gold medal to match mine.”
The game is everything a gold medal game should be. Physical, intense, back and forth. Canada scores first, and your stomach drops. Then Matt Boldy ties it up, and the arena shakes with the noise.
In the second period, you watch Sam Bennett’s stick come up high, catching Jack directly in the mouth. There’s blood on the ice immediately.
“Oh shit,” Hannah breathes.
Jack goes to the bench, comes back minutes later with gauze stuffed in his mouth. You can see from here that he’s missing teeth.
“That’s going to be a great story,” Kendall says, wincing.
“That’s going to be an expensive dental bill,” you correct.
The game stays tied through regulation. 1-1. Everything coming down to overtime, just like your game did.
You’re gripping Kendall’s hand so hard your knuckles are white. Every time Quinn touches the puck, your heart stops. Every time Jack skates, you think about those missing teeth and the fact that he’s still out there, still playing through it.
Three minutes into overtime, Jack Hughes gets the puck just outside the crease.
“Come on,” you whisper. “Come on, come on-”
He dekes past one defender, then another. The whole arena is on its feet. He’s got a shooting lane, and he takes it — a wrist shot that beats Binnington blocker side, top corner.
Goal.
Gold.
The arena erupts. You’re screaming, jumping, hugging everyone around you. Your teammates are crying, and you realize you are too. Team USA men’s hockey hasn’t won gold since the Miracle on Ice in 1980. Forty-six years.
And Quinn is part of it.
You watch him on the ice, watch the team mob Jack, watch them pile on top of each other in pure, unfiltered joy. When they finally separate, Quinn finds Jack first, grabbing his face, saying something you can’t hear but can read in his expression. You did it. You actually did it.
“Your boyfriend’s an Olympic gold medalist,” Hannah says, grinning through tears.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, he is.”
The medal ceremony is beautiful. You watch Quinn stand on that podium, gold medal around his neck, American flag draped over his shoulders, and something swells in your chest that’s almost painful. Pride, yes, but something more. Something like hope that maybe, maybe, everything is going to be okay.
He’s glowing. They all are. Jack keeps touching his mouth, probably checking if more teeth fell out, but he’s smiling so wide it doesn’t matter. Quinn catches your eye in the stands and points at you, mouthing something that looks like we did it.
You blow him a kiss.
“God, you two are disgustingly cute,” Kendall says, but she’s smiling.
***
The celebration is immediate and chaotic. The men’s team takes forever in the locker room — press obligations, drug testing, the usual post-gold-medal circus. You wait with the WAGs and family members in a designated area, energy fizzing through all of you.
“I can’t believe they pulled it off,” you say to Ellen, who’s practically vibrating with joy.
“Both my boys with gold medals,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”
“You created them,” you point out. “That’s a pretty good start.”
When the men finally emerge, they’re already drunk. Someone had champagne in the locker room, and they’re passing bottles back and forth, cheering every time someone takes a swig.
Quinn finds you immediately, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like champagne and victory.
“Olympic champion,” you murmur against his mouth.
“You too.” He’s grinning so wide his face must hurt. “We’re both Olympic champions. How insane is that?”
“Pretty insane.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I scored the game winner!” Jack appears, shoving himself between you two, medal swinging. “Did you see that? Did you see it?”
“We saw it, Jack.” You laugh, hugging him. “That was incredible. Also, your mouth-”
“I know!” He opens wide, showing the gaps where teeth used to be. “How badass is this?”
“So badass,” you assure him. “Your dentist is going to love you.”
The team has arranged a celebration at a venue near the Olympic Village. As you all make your way through the Milan streets, the energy is electric. People are cheering, taking photos, chanting “U-S-A!” The men are at the center of it all, arms linked, singing off-key, completely wasted.
You walk with the other women, with Ellen and the other mothers and girlfriends and wives, on the periphery of it all. It’s fine. It’s their moment. They deserve this.
But something feels off.
“They’re going hard,” Kendall observes, watching as Matthews nearly trips over his own feet.
“Can you blame them?” Hannah shrugs. “They just won Olympic gold.”
“No, I know.” You’re watching Quinn, the way he’s laughing at something one of the guys said, the way he’s completely in his element. “It’s just …”
“Just what?”
You don’t know how to explain it. That you feel outside of this, somehow. That when you won gold, Quinn was there, but the celebration felt different. Smaller, maybe. Less explosive.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just tired.”
The venue is packed with Team USA staff, coaches, families. Someone sets up a speaker, and music blasts through the space. The men are dancing — if you can call it that — spraying champagne like they’re in a nightclub.
You find a quieter corner with your teammates. Ellen joins you, and you’re swapping stories about your respective gold medal games when Quinn appears, clearly several drinks past coherent.
“There she is!” He drapes himself over you. “My gold medalist girlfriend.”
“Hey, champion.” You steady him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Amazing.” He kisses your neck. “Best day of my life. And all it took was Jack sacrificing some teeth.”
“Hey!” Jack appears again, because apparently he’s omnipresent tonight. “My teeth got us a double minor.”
“That we didn’t score on,” Quinn counters.
“Who’s fault is that?”
You laugh, letting them bicker, letting yourself enjoy this moment. Quinn with gold around his neck, happy and loose and proud. This is good. This is what you wanted.
Isn’t it?
The night wears on. It’s past two AM when you check your phone, scrolling through the hundreds of notifications. Congratulations messages for both you and Quinn, articles about both gold medal games, photos of you both with your medals.
You’re about to put your phone away when Kendall appears at your elbow, her face pale.
“Have you seen this?”
“Seen what?”
She shows you her phone. It’s a video, clearly taken from inside a locker room. The quality is shaky, like someone filmed it on their phone trying to be discreet.
“What is this?”
“Just watch.”
You press play.
The men’s locker room. You can see Jack in the frame, still bleeding from the mouth, medal around his neck. Other players are celebrating, champagne everywhere.
Then you hear the voice. Unmistakable, even through a phone speaker.
Trump.
Your stomach turns to ice.
“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” Trump’s voice crackles through someone’s speakerphone. “Congratulations, gentlemen! What a game! What a victory!”
Someone is holding the phone up. “Mr. President, the team is here. They’re excited to talk to you.”
“Fantastic, fantastic. This is incredible. The first gold since 1980! You’ve made history, gentlemen. Made America proud.”
The players are cheering, raising their bottles. You can see Quinn in the background, smiling.
“Now, I want to invite you all to the White House,” Trump continues. “We’re going to have a proper celebration. The State of the Union is in two days — perfect timing! You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Absolutely, sir!” Someone shouts. You think it’s Matthews.
Then Trump’s voice shifts, that particular tone he gets when he thinks he’s being funny. “I must tell you, we’re going to have to bring the women’s team, you do know that.”
Your breath catches.
“If I didn’t invite the women’s team,” Trump continues, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “I do believe I probably would be impeached.”
The locker room erupts in laughter.
The men — all of them, every single one — laugh.
Quinn laughs.
You watch his face in the video, watch him throw his head back, watch him think this is funny.
“What do you say, gentlemen?” Trump asks. “White House? State of the Union? Make America proud?”
“Hell yeah!” Multiple voices, overlapping, enthusiastic.
The video cuts off.
You’re frozen, phone still in your hand, Kendall’s face swimming in your peripheral vision.
“I’m going to be sick,” you whisper.
“There’s a bathroom-”
You’re moving before she finishes, shoving through the crowd, past celebrating players and oblivious family members. You make it to the bathroom just in time, barely getting the stall door closed before you’re throwing up everything in your stomach.
You won’t cry. You won’t.
(You do.)
There’s a knock on the stall door. “Hey, you okay in there?” It’s Hannah’s voice.
“Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Can I come in?”
You unlock the door. Hannah squeezes into the stall with you, which would be funny in any other circumstance.
“I saw the video,” she says quietly.
“Everyone saw the video.” You laugh, and it sounds hysterical even to your own ears. “It’s probably everywhere by now.”
“It’s trending on Twitter.”
Of course it is.
“They laughed, Hannah. They all laughed.” You press your palms against your eyes. “He said we’re only being invited so he won’t be impeached, and they thought that was hilarious.”
“I know.”
“We won gold three days ago. Three days. We dominated that entire tournament. I scored a golden goal too, and we’re an afterthought. A political obligation. A punchline.”
“I know,” Hannah says again, and she sounds as angry as you feel.
“And Quinn-” Your voice breaks. “Quinn laughed. He laughed and then he accepted. He’s going to go to the White House for Trump.”
“Maybe he didn’t understand what Trump was saying. Maybe-”
“Don’t.” You look at her. “Don’t make excuses for him. I’ve been making excuses for weeks. The Minneapolis thing, the Tkachuk post, all of it. I kept telling myself he was just being careful, that hockey culture was different, that he was still a good person underneath.” You laugh again, bitter. “But good people don’t laugh at that joke. Good people don’t accept invitations from someone who’s literally in the Epstein files and probably a pedophile himself.”
Hannah is quiet for a moment. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
But you do know. You’ve known since you saw Quinn’s face in that video, since you heard him laugh at your expense, at your team’s expense.
You just don’t want to admit it yet.
There’s another knock on the bathroom door, then Kendall’s voice. “Quinn is looking for you.”
Your stomach lurches again. “Tell him I’m sick.”
“I don’t think he’s going to accept that.”
“Then tell him I went back to my room.”
“Did you?”
“I will.” You stand up, legs shaky, and move to the sink to rinse your mouth. Your reflection in the mirror looks wrong — gold medal still around your neck, mascara smudged, face pale.
You look like someone whose world just shattered.
When you emerge from the bathroom, Quinn is right there, concern cutting through his drunken haze.
“Hey, are you okay? Kendall said you were sick.”
You can’t look at him. Can’t look at his face without seeing him in that video, laughing.
“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going back to my room.”
“I’ll come with you-”
“No.” It comes out sharper than you intended. “No, you should stay. Celebrate. This is your night.”
“But-”
“Quinn, I’m fine. Really.” You force yourself to meet his eyes. “Congratulations again. You were amazing out there.”
You kiss his cheek — muscle memory, automatic — and leave before he can argue.
Your teammates follow you out. No one says anything as you walk through the Milan streets back to the Olympic Village. The celebration continues behind you, music and laughter fading with distance.
In your room, you pull out your phone. The video has been shared thousands of times already. The comments are exactly what you’d expect — some defending the men, some outraged on the women’s behalf, some making jokes about how “woke” women’s sports are.
You think about Quinn, probably still celebrating, probably still drunk, probably with no idea that this video exists or what it means.
You think about Minneapolis, about the posts you made that he wouldn’t engage with, about the Tkachuk like you pretended didn’t matter.
You think about all the times you told yourself he was good underneath, that he just needed to be careful, that you couldn’t expect him to be as outspoken as you.
You think about his laugh in that video.
You’re tired of making excuses.
Your phone buzzes. A text from Quinn.
Are you sure you’re ok? I can leave if you need me
You stare at the message for a long time. Part of you wants to tell him to come over, wants to hear his explanation, wants him to somehow make this okay.
But the larger part — the part that scored the game-winning goal, that won Olympic gold, that refuses to be anyone’s afterthought — knows that there’s no explanation that will be good enough.
I’m fine. Go celebrate with your team. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Then you turn off your phone, take off your gold medal, and finally let yourself fall apart.
***
You can’t sleep.
The tears stopped around four AM, leaving you hollow and headachy, but sleep won’t come. You’ve tried everything — lying on your back, your side, your stomach. Counting backwards from a thousand. Deep breathing exercises your sports psychologist taught you. Nothing works.
Every time you close your eyes, you see that video. Quinn’s face. His laugh.
Your roommate is snoring softly in the other bed. At least one of you should get some rest.
At 4:53 AM, you give up. You pull on sweatpants and a hoodie, slide your feet into sneakers, and slip out of the room as quietly as possible.
The Olympic Village is eerily quiet. The closing ceremony was earlier tonight — last night, technically — and most athletes have already cleared out. The ones remaining are probably passed out from celebrating or commiserating, depending on how their events went. You wander past the USA buildings, not looking where you’re going, not really caring.
Your feet carry you on autopilot. Left, then right, then straight. You’re not trying to go anywhere. You just need to move, need to be somewhere that isn’t that room with its walls pressing in.
You end up against the side of another building — you don’t even look to see which country’s — and let your body weight fall against it. The concrete is cold through your hoodie, but you don’t move. You tip your head back, staring up at the dark sky.
You wish you were a smoker. That’s stupid, you know it’s stupid, but at least then you’d have something to do with your hands, some excuse for standing out here in the cold at nearly five in the morning looking like your life just fell apart.
Which it did.
The cold is starting to seep through your clothes now, making you shiver. It’s winter in Milan, and in your turmoil, you completely forgot to grab a coat. Just a hoodie against February air.
Perfect. You can’t even fall apart properly.
“Excuse me, are you okay?”
The voice makes you jump. It’s male, concerned, and unmistakably Canadian to your hockey-trained ears. That particular accent you’ve heard a thousand times across the ice, in media scrums, in arenas across North America.
You look up.
Sidney Crosby is standing about ten feet away, looking at you with the kind of concern usually reserved for injured players or lost children.
For a moment, you can’t process it. Sidney fucking Crosby. Three Stanley Cups. Two Olympic golds. Multiple scoring titles. The face of hockey for the last two decades. The Sidney Crosby is standing in front of you at five in the morning in the Olympic Village.
And you look like absolute shit.
You try to wipe at your face, knowing full well your eyes are red and swollen, that your hair is a disaster, that you probably have dried tear tracks on your cheeks.
“Yeah,” you say, voice rough from crying. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”
He doesn’t look convinced. He’s wearing a Team Canada jacket and walking with a noticeable limp — the knee injury from the quarterfinals against Czechia. It kept him out of the semifinals and the gold medal game. These were probably his last Olympics, Canada lost, and he didn’t even get to play in the deciding games.
And yet he’s here, at five AM, checking on you.
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t-” You gesture vaguely. “I was just walking. I’ll go.”
“No, it’s-” He takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “I couldn’t sleep either. Knee’s bothering me.” He pauses. “But I don’t think that’s why you’re out here.”
The pity in his eyes makes it clear. He knows. He knows what happened with the US men’s team.
If Sidney Crosby, who’s notoriously offline, who barely uses social media, who once admitted he didn’t know what TikTok was — if he knows, then everyone knows.
“I’m really fine,” you try again, but your voice cracks on the last word.
Sidney is quiet for a moment. Then he moves closer, still limping, and leans against the wall next to you. Not too close, respecting your space, but close enough that you’re not alone anymore.
“I saw the video,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
You laugh, and it sounds bitter even to your own ears. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything. Your team didn’t do anything. It was my-” You stop. “It was our men.”
“Still.” He’s looking straight ahead, not at you, and somehow that makes it easier. “It’s not right. What they did. What he said.”
“Trump, you mean.”
“Yeah. And-” Sidney pauses. “The laughing. That part was worse, I think.”
You close your eyes. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Everyone’s angry about it,” he corrects. “A lot of us, anyway. You guys-” He shakes his head. “That was some of the best hockey I’ve seen. Not just at these Olympics. Ever.”
You look at him sharply. “You watched?”
“Of course I watched.” He sounds almost offended. “The gold medal game especially. That goal you scored-” He lets out a low whistle. “That was incredible. The hands, the patience, the finish. That was world-class.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“Don’t tell Marie-Philip I said that, though.” There’s the ghost of a smile on his face. “She’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Sidney is quiet for a moment. “You deserved better than that. Your whole team did. The disrespect-” He stops, and you can hear the anger in his voice, carefully controlled. “You’re Olympic champions. You won gold. And they made you into a punchline.”
“We’re used to it,” you say, and god, how sad is that? “Women’s hockey, we’re always an afterthought. We’re always fighting for ice time, for funding, for people to take us seriously. This is just-” You gesture helplessly. “This is just more of the same.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“No,” you agree. “It shouldn’t be.”
You’re shivering now, really shivering, your teeth starting to chatter. Sidney notices.
“Jesus, you’re freezing. Where’s your coat?”
“I forgot it.”
“You forgot-” He’s already shrugging out of his jacket, a clearly Team Canada-branded Lululemon Sherpa thing that probably costs more than your monthly grocery budget. “Here.”
“I can’t—that’s yours-”
“Take it.” He holds it out. “Please. You’re shaking.”
You take the jacket, wrapping it around yourself. It’s warm from his body heat and smells like expensive detergent and faintly of the medicated cream athletes use for sore muscles. The Canadian flag and logo are prominent on the chest and sleeves.
“Won’t you be cold?” You ask.
“I’m from Nova Scotia. This is shorts weather.” He’s definitely lying — you can see the goosebumps on his arms — but you’re too cold to argue.
“Thank you,” you say. “For the jacket. And for-” You gesture vaguely. “This. Talking to me. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
There’s something in his voice that makes you look at him properly. He’s older than you expected up close — thirty-eight now, you think — with lines around his eyes and that particular weariness that comes from carrying a sport on your shoulders for two decades. His knee is clearly bothering him, he keeps shifting his weight off it.
“I’m sorry about your injury,” you say. “And the gold medal game. That you couldn’t play.”
He shrugs. “It happens. Part of the game.”
“Still sucks though.”
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah, it really does.”
You stand there in silence, two Olympic athletes who just had very different but equally shitty experiences, watching the sky start to lighten at the edges.
“Can I ask you something?” Sidney says eventually.
“Sure.”
“Why are you out here alone? Where’s-” He stops, seeming to think better of it.
“My boyfriend?” You laugh humorlessly. “Probably still celebrating. Or passed out drunk somewhere. I don’t know. I turned off my phone.”
Sidney nods slowly, like this confirms something he was thinking.
“The thing is,” you continue, not sure why you’re telling him this but unable to stop, “I knew. Not about the video, obviously, but other things. Red flags. Things I made excuses for because I wanted to believe he was better than that.”
“What kind of things?”
You tell him about Minneapolis. About the ICE raids and the deportations and how Quinn wouldn’t engage with any of it. About the Tkachuk post from last summer that you convinced yourself meant nothing. About how you kept telling yourself that hockey culture was different for men, more conservative, that you couldn’t expect him to be as outspoken as you.
“I told myself I was being understanding,” you say. “That relationships require compromise. But I think I was just scared. Of being alone. Of losing him. Of admitting that maybe he wasn’t who I thought he was.”
Sidney listens without interrupting. When you finish, he’s quiet for a long moment.
“My parents have been married for forty years,” he says finally. “You know what my dad told me once? He said a real partner lifts you up. They’re proud of you. They defend you. They’d never let anyone — especially themselves — make you feel small.”
You feel tears prickling at your eyes again.
“That video,” Sidney continues, voice gentle but firm. “That wasn’t just Trump being Trump. That was your boyfriend and his teammates laughing at the expense of your accomplishment. Your gold medal. Your team. And then accepting an invitation from someone-” He stops, jaw tight. “From someone who represents everything wrong with how women are treated.”
“I know,” you whisper.
“You deserved better than that.” He’s looking at you now, direct and serious. “Not just from Trump or the media or hockey culture. From him. From your boyfriend.”
The words hit you like a physical blow, because he’s right. God, he’s so right, and you’ve known it for hours but hearing someone else say it makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.
“You deserve someone who would never do that to you,” Sidney says. “Someone who would fight any man who tried to put you down like that, not join in on the laughter. Someone who’s proud to be with you, not just when it’s convenient or when you’re winning, but always. Especially when it’s hard.”
You’re crying again, silently, tears running down your face. Sidney notices and looks away, giving you privacy in the way you process this.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “That was probably overstepping. It’s none of my business.”
“No.” You wipe at your face with the sleeve of his jacket. “No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I just-” Your voice breaks. “I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to believe that he was good underneath all the silence and the excuses. That he loved me enough to be better.”
“Love isn’t enough if there’s no respect,” Sidney says quietly. “And respect means standing up for your partner. Defending them. Being proud of them publicly, not just privately. If he can’t do that — if he won’t do that — then it doesn’t matter how much he says he loves you.”
You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.
Sidney pushes off the wall, wincing slightly as his knee protests. “I should let you go. Get some sleep. Or try to, anyway.”
“Wait, your jacket-”
“Keep it. Return it later if you want, but-” He shrugs. “You need it more than I do right now.”
“Sidney-”
“Congratulations,” he says, and his smile is genuine and warm. “On the gold medal. On that goal. On everything. You earned it. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”
He starts to limp away, back toward what you assume is the Canadian building. Then he stops and turns around.
“One more thing,” he says. “I know it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re going to be okay. You’re tough. You scored the goal of the decade with two defenders draped all over you. You can handle this too.”
“How do you know?” Your voice is small.
“Because you’re out here at five in the morning, in the freezing cold, processing it instead of pretending it didn’t happen. That takes courage. And courage like that?” He smiles. “That doesn’t go away just because your heart’s broken.”
Then he’s limping away into the early morning darkness, leaving you wrapped in his Team Canada jacket with tears on your face and something that feels almost like hope flickering in your chest.
You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, watching the sky lighten, feeling the cold seep through even with the jacket. Your phone is still off. Quinn is probably awake by now, probably looking for you, probably worried.
Or maybe not. Maybe he’s still celebrating. Maybe he hasn’t even seen the video yet. Maybe he doesn’t understand what he did, what it meant, how it broke something fundamental between you.
You pull Sidney’s jacket tighter around yourself. The Canadian flag on the sleeve catches the early morning light.
You think about what he said. About deserving better. About real partners lifting you up, defending you, being proud of you publicly. About how love isn’t enough without respect.
You think about Quinn laughing in that locker room. About Trump’s joke and the invitation to the White House. About Minneapolis and the Tkachuk post and all the times you made excuses.
You think about your gold medal, sitting in your room, and how for one perfect moment you were the best in the world at what you do, and that should have been enough. That should have been everything.
It still is everything.
Quinn’s laughter doesn’t diminish your gold medal. Trump’s joke doesn’t make your goal less spectacular. The men’s team accepting that invitation doesn’t erase the fact that you won.
You’re an Olympic champion. You scored the golden goal. You’re one of the best hockey players in the world, male or female.
And you deserve someone who sees that. Who celebrates it. Who would never, ever laugh at your expense.
Sidney Crosby, of all people, saw that. A rival player from a rival country who had every reason to be drowning in his own disappointment tonight saw that and took the time to tell you.
Quinn should have seen it first.
The sky is fully light now, pink and gold at the edges. You’re exhausted but awake, heartbroken but somehow clearer than you’ve been in weeks.
You turn your phone back on.
Seventeen missed calls from Quinn. Twenty-three texts. The most recent one from six minutes ago.
Where are you? I’m really worried. Please just let me know you’re okay.
You stare at the message for a long time.
We need to talk.
And finally, finally, you head back inside.
***
You get maybe two hours of sleep before your alarm goes off at eight. The dining hall opens at eight-thirty, and you need to eat before the long travel day ahead. Commercial flights back to the States for the women’s team. The NHL players get a charter, naturally.
You shower, trying to wash away the exhaustion and the residue of last night. Sidney’s Team Canada jacket is folded carefully in your suitcase — you’ll figure out how to return it later. Right now, you need to get through breakfast, get through seeing Quinn, get through whatever conversation is waiting for you.
Your reflection in the mirror looks almost normal. The redness is gone from your eyes. Your gold medal hangs around your neck — you haven’t taken it off except to shower since the ceremony. Armor, maybe. A reminder.
The dining hall is already packed when you arrive. Athletes loading up on carbs before travel, coaches reviewing schedules, families saying goodbye. You spot your teammates at a table in the corner and make your way over with a tray of eggs, toast, and fruit you’re not sure you can actually eat.
“Hey,” Kendall says softly as you sit down. “How are you?”
“Tired.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
“A little.” You pick at your eggs. “Have you guys seen-”
“The video’s everywhere,” Hannah interrupts quietly. “People are pissed. Like, really pissed. There’s a whole movement on Twitter about the women’s team refusing the White House invitation.”
“Good,” you say.
“Have you talked to Quinn?” Kendall asks.
“Not yet. He texted like twenty times last night, but I-” You shrug. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Are you ready now?”
You’re about to answer when you feel someone sit down in the empty chair next to you. You don’t need to look to know who it is. You can smell his cologne, feel the familiar presence.
Quinn.
He’s clearly hungover — hair messy, eyes slightly bloodshot, moving carefully like his head hurts. But he sits down like it’s any other day. Like nothing happened. Like the world didn’t shift on its axis last night.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Where’d you disappear to last night?”
You keep eating. Don’t look at him. Fork to mouth, chew, swallow. Mechanical.
“Babe?” He touches your arm. “You okay?”
You move your arm away, still not looking at him.
Across the table, you see Kendall and Hannah exchange glances. Other teammates are watching now too.
“Why are you being weird?” Quinn asks, and there’s confusion in his voice. Genuine confusion, like he has no idea why you might be upset.
You set down your fork very carefully. Take a breath. Then another.
“Why am I being weird,” you repeat, still not looking at him.
“Yeah. You left last night without saying goodbye, you’ve been ignoring my texts, and now you won’t even look at me-”
You turn to face him then, and something in your expression makes him stop talking.
“Have you checked your phone this morning?” Your voice is level, controlled.
“I mean, yeah, but-”
“So you’ve seen the video.”
Quinn’s face does something complicated. “What video?”
“Don’t.” You shake your head. “Don’t play dumb. The video from your locker room. Trump on speakerphone. The invitation to the White House. Any of this ringing a bell?”
“Oh.” He has the grace to look uncomfortable. “That. Yeah, I saw something about that this morning. People are kind of overreacting-”
“Overreacting,” you repeat flatly.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s not that big of a deal. He was just congratulating us-”
“Stop.” You hold up a hand. “Stop talking.”
Quinn blinks. “What?”
“I need you to stop talking for a second because if you keep going, I’m going to lose it.” You take another breath. Your teammates are fully watching now. You can feel other people at nearby tables starting to pay attention too. “Do you know what Trump said in that video?”
“He congratulated us on winning gold-”
“He said-” Your voice is rising now, you can’t help it. “He said that he’d have to invite the women’s team or he’d probably be impeached. And then he laughed. And you know what you did, Quinn? What you and every single one of your teammates did?”
Quinn is starting to look defensive. “It was just-”
“You laughed.” Your voice cracks. “You laughed at the idea that the my team is such an afterthought, such a political obligation, that not inviting us would be an impeachable offense. You thought that was funny.”
“It was just a joke-”
“It wasn’t a joke!” You’re standing now, you don’t remember standing. “We won gold three days before you did. Three days. We dominated that entire tournament. I scored what people are calling the goal of the decade. We made history. And to him we’re nothing. We’re a punchline. An obligation. And you laughed.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you-”
“Yes, you were!” Tears are threatening now but you push them back. “Maybe not consciously, maybe you didn’t think about it that way, but that’s exactly what you were doing. You were laughing at the idea that women’s hockey matters so little that inviting us is just a political move. That we’re not worth celebrating on our own merit.”
Quinn’s face is flushing. “You’re twisting this-”
“Am I?” You laugh, and it’s not a kind sound. “Then explain to me, Quinn, why you accepted that invitation.”
“What?”
“You heard Trump invite you to the White House. To the State of the Union. And what did you say? What did you and your teammates say?”
“We said yes, but-”
“You said yes.” You shake your head. “You said yes to an invitation from a man who just disrespected your girlfriend and her entire team. From a man who’s forcing the DOJ to cover up his connections to Jeffrey Epstein. From a man who’s probably a pedophile. From a man whose administration is terrorizing Minneapolis — your city now — deporting people, separating families, killing innocents. And you said yes.”
“It’s not-” Quinn stands too now, defensive. “You’re making this political-”
“It IS political!” Your voice echoes through the dining hall. You’re dimly aware that everyone is staring now, that conversations have stopped, but you can’t stop. “You think you can just stay neutral, just focus on hockey, just not rock the boat? That’s a luxury, Quinn. That’s privilege. But silence is a choice. Inaction is a choice. And you’ve made your choice.”
“I just don’t think hockey should be political-”
“Everything is political!” You’re almost shouting now. “The fact that you get to fly charter back to the States while we fly commercial is political. The fact that your minimum salary is higher than our maximum is political. The fact that you get national TV coverage and we have to fight for streaming is political. The fact that Trump felt comfortable making that joke in the first place is political. You don’t get to opt out just because it’s convenient.”
“I just think-”
“And Minneapolis!” You cut him off. “You’re living in Minneapolis now. You’re playing there. And ICE is terrorizing that city. People are being dragged from their homes. Families are being destroyed. And I posted about it. I shared resources. I donated. I used my platform to try to help. And you know what you did?”
Quinn is quiet.
“Nothing,” you answer for him. “You did nothing. You didn’t like a single post. Didn’t share a single resource. Didn’t say a single word. But you did like Matthew Tkachuk’s pro-Trump post last summer. You liked that just fine.”
“The Tkachuks are family friends-”
“I don’t care!” The tears are coming now and you don’t try to stop them. “I don’t care if they’re your family friends. I don’t care if it’s awkward. I don’t care if hockey culture tells you to stay quiet. I care that you’re willing to laugh at my team’s expense. I care that you’re willing to accept invitations from fascists. I care that you stayed silent while people in your city were being terrorized. I care that you claimed to love me but you couldn’t be bothered to support the things I care about.”
“That’s not fair-”
“What’s not fair is that I made excuses for you!” Your voice breaks. “For weeks, Quinn. Weeks. I told myself you were just being careful. That hockey culture was different for men. That you were still a good person underneath. I told myself that the Tkachuk like didn’t mean anything. That your silence on Minneapolis was just you being cautious. I made excuse after excuse because I wanted to believe you were better than this.”
“I am better than this-”
“No.” You shake your head. “No, you’re not. Because someone who was better than this wouldn’t have laughed at that joke. Wouldn’t have accepted that invitation. Wouldn’t have stayed silent while people suffered. Someone who was better than this would have defended me. Would have defended my team. Would have been proud of us publicly, not just privately when it was convenient.”
“I am proud of you-”
“Then where was that pride when Trump made us into a punchline?” You’re crying fully now, but your voice is steady. “Where was that pride when he said inviting us was just political? Where was it, Quinn?”
He doesn’t have an answer.
“You know what the worst part is?” You wipe at your face. “I really believed you loved me. I really thought that underneath all the silence and the caution and the fear of rocking the boat, you were someone who respected me. Who saw me as an equal. Who thought what I did mattered.”
“I do think-”
“But you don’t.” You’re shaking your head. “Because if you did, you never would have laughed. You never would have accepted. You would have been furious on my behalf. You would have defended me. Instead, you joined in.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“I don’t care what you meant!” Your voice rises again. “I care what you did. And what you did was show me exactly who you are. Someone who values fitting in with hockey culture more than standing up for what’s right. Someone who’ll laugh at women’s hockey to be one of the boys. Someone who’ll cozy up to fascists if it means avoiding controversy.”
Quinn’s face is red now, whether from anger or shame you can’t tell. “You don’t understand the pressure-”
“The pressure?” You laugh incredulously. “The pressure? Quinn, I’m a woman in professional hockey. I’ve dealt with pressure my entire life. I’ve dealt with being paid less, respected less, covered less. I’ve dealt with people questioning whether women’s hockey should even exist. I’ve dealt with sponsors dropping me for being too outspoken, with fans telling me to shut up and play, with teammates worrying that speaking out will hurt their careers. Don’t talk to me about pressure.”
“That’s different-”
“It’s not different!” You’re almost screaming now. “It’s the exact same thing! The only difference is that I decided that doing the right thing was more important than being comfortable. And you decided the opposite.”
The dining hall is completely silent. You can see your teammates, your coaches, athletes from other countries all watching. Some of them look shocked. Some look angry. Some look like they want to applaud.
Quinn seems to realize for the first time that this is happening publicly. He lowers his voice. “Can we talk about this in private?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No, because you made this public when you laughed at my team in that locker room. When you accepted that invitation. When you stayed silent about Minneapolis. You made this public, Quinn. I’m just finishing what you started.”
“I don’t-” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this.”
And that’s it. That’s the moment you know it’s really over.
“Because it is a big deal,” you say quietly, tiredly. “That’s the point, Quinn. This is a big deal. The fact that you don’t see that — that you think I’m overreacting, that you think this is all just political correctness gone too far — that tells me everything I need to know.”
“So what are you saying?”
You look at him, really look at him. The boy you met in a coffee shop two years ago. The boy who seemed to understand the pressure, the loneliness, the weight of expectations. The boy you fell in love with.
The boy who laughed when Trump made you and your team into a joke.
“I’m saying we’re done,” you say simply. “I’m breaking up with you.”
Quinn’s face goes pale. “What? No. You can’t—we can work through this-”
“There’s nothing to work through.” You’re already gathering your tray, your phone, your gold medal. “You made your choices. You laughed, you accepted, you stayed silent. And I’m making mine. I choose to be with someone who would never do any of those things. Someone who respects me enough to stand up for me. Someone who thinks women’s hockey matters.”
“I do think-”
“Goodbye, Quinn.” You start to walk away, then turn back. “Oh, and I’m not going to the White House either. None of us are. We’re making a statement declining the invitation. So when you’re there with Trump, taking photos, pretending this is all normal, remember that. Remember that the women’s team — the team he had to invite so he wouldn’t get impeached — has more integrity than you and your entire team combined.”
You walk away before he can respond. Your teammates stand as you approach, and Kendall pulls you into a hug immediately.
“Holy shit,” Hannah breathes.
Behind you, you hear it start. A slow clap. Then another. Then another.
You turn. Athletes from other tables are applauding. Your teammates join in. Then more people. Within seconds, half the dining hall is clapping.
You see some of the women’s hockey teams from other countries standing and clapping. You see athletes from other sports. You even see some of the US figure skating team, who apparently witnessed the whole thing, nodding in approval.
Quinn is still standing at your table, looking shell-shocked and humiliated, as the applause continues.
You catch Sidney’s eye across the dining hall. He’s sitting with some of the Canadian men’s team, and he gives you a small nod.
The applause finally dies down. You turn back to your teammates.
“Can we get out of here?” Your voice is shaking now that the adrenaline is fading.
“Absolutely,” Kendall says, already moving. “Let’s go pack.”
You leave the dining hall, your teammates surrounding you like a protective barrier. The February air hits your face, cold and clean.
Your phone is already exploding with notifications. The video of your confrontation is probably already online. By tonight, it’ll be everywhere.
You should care. You should worry about sponsors, about your image, about backlash.
But you don’t.
Because for the first time in weeks — maybe months — you feel light. Unburdened. Free.
You’re an Olympic gold medalist. You scored the goal of the decade. You just stood up to your boyfriend and hockey culture and the pressure to stay silent in front of an entire dining hall full of Olympic athletes.
And you’d do it again.
“You okay?” Kendall asks as you walk back to your room.
You think about it. Think about Quinn’s face. Think about the applause. Think about Sidney’s nod and your teammates’ support and the weight of your gold medal against your chest.
“Yeah,” you say, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it. “Yeah, I think I am.”
***
Economy class on a transatlantic flight is miserable under the best circumstances. After breaking up with your boyfriend in front of half the Olympic Village, it’s torture.
You’re squeezed into a middle seat between Hannah and a Minnesotan curler who’s taking up more than her fair share of the armrest. Your knees are jammed against the seat in front of you. The WiFi is spotty at best. And you’ve been awake for twenty-two hours.
The NHL players are flying charter, naturally. Probably in reclining seats with actual legroom, drinking champagne, celebrating their gold medals in comfort.
You try not to think about it.
Your phone keeps buzzing despite the terrible WiFi. Notifications you’re afraid to look at. The video from breakfast has definitely made the rounds by now. You’re either a hero or a villain depending on which corner of the internet you’re in.
“You should eat something,” Hannah says, gesturing to the sad airplane sandwich on your tray table.
“Not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
“I need people to stop telling me what I need.”
Hannah holds up her hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”
You manage to connect to the WiFi long enough to check your messages. Your agent has called four times. Your mom has sent a dozen texts of support. Your college coach wants to talk. And there are approximately eight hundred DMs from people you don’t know.
You ignore all of it and open Twitter, which is probably a mistake.
The video is everywhere. Olympic Gold Medalist Ends Relationship Over Trump Call reads one headline. Women’s Hockey Star Confronts Boyfriend in Viral Breakup says another. The comments are exactly what you’d expect — half supporting you, half calling you dramatic.
Then you see it. Posted two hours ago.
A clip from TODAY. Ellen being interviewed via satellite.
Your stomach drops.
You tap the video with shaking hands.
Ellen looks composed, professional. She’s wearing a Team USA jacket. Behind her, you can see what looks like a ski slope.
“Ellen, there’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the video that leaked from the men’s locker room after their gold medal win,” the interviewer says. “The president’s comments about the women’s team, the laughter that followed. As someone who works with both teams, what’s your response?”
Ellen smiles. It’s the smile you’ve seen a thousand times — warm, diplomatic, carefully constructed.
“Well, you know, at the end of the day, it’s just about the country,” she says.
You feel something cold settle in your chest.
“The moment that these players, both the men and women, can bring so much unity to a group and to a country,” Ellen continues. “People that cheered on that don’t watch hockey, people that have politics on one side or on the other side, and that’s all both the men’s team and the women’s team care about.”
“She did not just both-sides this,” Aerin hisses from the row behind you. She’s leaning over her seat, watching your screen.
“Shh,” you say, turning up the volume as much as you dare.
“If you could see what we see from the inside,” Ellen is saying, “and the men and women sharing, you know, dorm rooms and halls and flex floors and the camaraderie and the synergy and the way the women cheered on the men and the way the men cheered on the women — that’s what it’s all about.”
Your hands are shaking. You can feel Hannah watching you, concerned.
“And the other things they cannot control,” Ellen continues, and her voice is so earnest, so genuine. “They care about humanity. They care about unity and they care about the country.”
The video ends.
You stare at your phone screen, not breathing.
“Did she just-” Hannah starts.
“Dismiss everything,” you finish. “Yeah. Yeah, she did.”
“The other things they cannot control?” Aerin’s voice is rising. “They could have controlled not laughing. They could have controlled not accepting the invitation. What the fuck does she mean they can’t control it?”
“She means,” you say slowly, “that politics are messy and uncomfortable and it’s easier to pretend that unity and patriotism are more important than taking a stand.”
“But she works with women’s hockey!” Hannah looks genuinely baffled. “She was there when we won gold. She saw what that moment meant. How can she-”
“Because at the end of the day,” you interrupt, voice flat, “a boy mom is always going to be a boy mom. Her sons come first. Women’s hockey comes second. Actually standing up for something comes last.”
You feel sick. This is worse than Quinn’s silence. Worse than the video. Because Ellen knows better. She’s spent years in women’s hockey. She knows the struggles, the inequality, the constant fight for respect. And she just threw all of it aside to defend her sons.
“I can’t believe her,” Aerin says. “After everything-”
“I can.” You’re already scrolling, looking for reactions. The comments under the TODAY clip are brutal.
So disappointed in Ellen Hughes
Way to throw women’s hockey under the bus
“Both sides” really? One side laughed at women’s hockey and the other side won gold
This is peak white feminism
She really said “they care about humanity” while defending them going to meet Trump. I’m done.
Then another notification. A new video.
Jack Hughes. Outside a nightclub. Miami, based on the palm trees in the background.
“Oh no,” Hannah breathes, seeing your face. “What now?”
You click play.
Jack is clearly already drunk, stumbling slightly, that manic post-gold-medal energy radiating off him. Someone is asking him about the controversy.
“People are so negative out there,” Jack says, grinning that cocky grin you’ve seen a hundred times at family dinners. “And they are trying to find a reason to put people down and make something out of almost nothing.”
Almost nothing.
“I think everyone in that locker room knows how much we support them, how proud we are of them,” Jack continues.
“Then why didn’t you defend them when Trump made that joke?” Someone off-camera yells.
Jack’s grin falters for a second, then returns. “Everything is so political, we’re athletes, we’re so proud to represent the U.S. And when you get the chance to go to the White House and meet the president …” He spreads his arms wide. “That’s so patriotic.”
Someone else asks a question you can’t quite hear.
“It’s something you don’t get to do every Tuesday,” a different voice says, and your heart sinks as you realize it’s Quinn. He’s there too, just off-camera. “It’s going to be special for us.”
The video cuts off.
You’re shaking. Full-body shaking, rage and hurt and disbelief coursing through you.
“Almost nothing,” you repeat. “He said it’s almost nothing.”
“That fucking asshole,” Aerin says.
“They’re in Miami.” Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. “At a nightclub. E11EVEN. That’s a strip club, isn’t it?”
“Technically a nightclub,” Hannah says carefully. “But yeah, also kind of a strip club.”
“They’re celebrating their gold medal at a strip club in Miami.” You laugh, and it sounds unhinged. “While we’re flying economy back to New York in the middle of a snow storm. And Jack thinks this is almost nothing. And Quinn thinks going to the White House for Trump is special.”
“Hey.” Hannah grabs your hand. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I can’t.” You’re gasping now. “I can’t breathe. They—Ellen just—and Jack said—and Quinn-”
The Minnesotan curler is looking at you with concern. Behind you, more of your teammates are leaning over seats, watching.
“What happened?” Someone asks.
“Ellen did an interview,” Aerin explains, voice tight with anger. “Basically said both sides, unity and patriotism, the men couldn’t control it, blah blah blah. And then Jack and Quinn gave quotes outside a Miami strip club calling critics negative and saying this whole thing is almost nothing and that going to Trump’s White House is patriotic.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” That’s Megan. “Almost nothing?”
“Show me,” demands Hilary. She’s thirty-six and has been fighting for women’s hockey her entire career. You pass your phone back.
The plane fills with angry whispers as your teammates watch the videos, passing your phone from row to row.
“This is gaslighting,” Hilary says when she passes your phone back. “Classic DARVO. Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender. They did something wrong, but somehow we’re the negative ones for calling it out.”
“They’re doubling down,” you say numbly. “They’re not apologizing or trying to understand. They’re just doubling down.”
“Of course they are,” Hilary says. “Because apologizing would mean admitting they were wrong. And admitting they were wrong would mean acknowledging that women’s hockey matters as much as men’s. And they can’t do that because their entire worldview is built on the assumption that it doesn’t.”
You stare at your phone. At Ellen’s careful smile. At Jack’s drunk dismissiveness. At the knowledge that Quinn is right there with him, in Miami, at a strip club, thinking this is all just political drama he can ignore.
“I need to do something,” you say.
“What?” Hannah asks.
You open Instagram. Your profile still shows your relationship with Quinn. Photos of you two together. His comments on your posts. Your comments on his. Two years of a relationship that you thought meant something.
“I’m going to unfollow them,” you say.
“Who?”
“All of them.” Your fingers are moving before you can second-guess it. “Quinn. Jack. Luke-”
You unfollow Luke Hughes. Then Jack. Then Quinn.
Then, heart pounding, you unfollow Ellen.
“Damn,” someone whispers from behind you.
You’re not done. You go to your photos. Every picture of you and Quinn. Two years of memories. His arm around you after your first professional goal. You kissing after a win. That photo from Thanksgiving with his family where Ellen is beaming at both of you.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
“Are you sure?” Hannah asks gently. “Once you delete those-”
“I’m sure.” Delete. Delete. Delete. “I don’t want any reminders. I don’t want to look back in a year and see his face and remember that I let this slide. That I made excuses. That I stayed with someone who thinks my accomplishments are almost nothing.”
The photos disappear one by one. Two years erased in minutes.
Your last post with Quinn is from the Olympics. You’re both wearing your Team USA gear, smiling at the camera. The caption reads chasing gold with my favorite person 🥇❤️
You delete it.
The next post is just you with your gold medal. That one stays.
“Holy shit,” Aerin breathes. “You really did it.”
“Yeah.” You put your phone face-down on your tray table. “Yeah, I really did.”
Your agent is going to kill you. This is going to be a whole thing. Sponsors will probably have questions. The media will have a field day.
You don’t care.
“You know what the worst part is?” You say after a moment.
“What?” Hannah asks.
“I really thought Ellen understood. She spent all that time with women’s hockey. She saw what we go through. She knew about the inequality, the lack of respect, all of it. And I thought she was on our side.”
“She was on her sons’ side,” Hilary says bluntly. “And when it came down to it, that mattered more.”
“The other things they cannot control,” you quote bitterly. “Like they had no choice but to laugh. No choice but to accept. Like they’re just helpless victims of circumstance instead of grown men who made active choices.”
“It’s always the same,” Hilary says. “Women are expected to be understanding. To not make waves. To accept the scraps we’re given and be grateful. And when we demand more, when we call out disrespect, we’re negative. We’re political. We’re making something out of nothing.”
“Except it’s not nothing,” you say fiercely. “It’s everything. It’s the difference between being respected and being tolerated. Between being valued and being an afterthought. Between partners who lift you up and partners who laugh when someone tears you down.”
“What are you going to do when we land?” Aerin asks.
“I don’t know.” You lean your head back against the seat. “Face the music, I guess. Talk to my agent. Probably do some damage control.”
“Or,” Hilary suggests, “you double down. You make a statement. You explain why you unfollowed them, why you deleted the photos. You control the narrative instead of letting them control it.”
“They’ll say I’m being dramatic.”
“They already say that,” Hilary points out. “Might as well be dramatic on your own terms.”
Your phone buzzes again. Your agent. We need to talk ASAP when you land. Ellen’s interview is making waves. So are Jack’s comments. And people noticed you unfollowed the Hughes family.
Of course they did. Hockey Twitter misses nothing.
“This is going to be a whole thing,” you say.
“Good,” Hilary says. “Let it be a whole thing. Let the world see how women athletes are treated when we dare to expect respect. Let them see how we’re gaslit and dismissed and told we’re making mountains out of molehills. Let them see all of it.”
She’s right. You know she’s right.
But god, you’re tired.
You’re an Olympic gold medalist, and you’re flying economy while the men fly charter. You scored the goal of the decade, and Jack Hughes thinks the fallout is “almost nothing.” You won for your country, and Ellen Hughes thinks unity with people who disrespect you is more important than demanding better.
You think about Sidney’s words. About deserving someone who would defend you, who would be proud of you publicly, who would never let anyone tear you down.
You think about Quinn in Miami, at a strip club, calling the White House invitation “special.”
You think about Ellen’s smile on that TODAY segment, carefully crafted, diplomatically worded, ultimately hollow.
You think about how you felt on that podium with gold around your neck and how no one — not Quinn, not his family, not his teammates — can take that away from you.
“Okay,” you say finally. “Okay. I’ll make a statement. I’ll explain. I’ll be dramatic on my own terms.”
“Hell yes,” Hilary says.
The plane hits turbulence, jolting everyone. The seatbelt light dings on. Around you, your teammates are muttering, reading the reactions online, getting angrier by the minute.
“You know what I hope?” Aerin says suddenly.
“What?”
“I hope Ellen sees what you did. I hope Quinn sees it. I hope they realize that you’re not some quiet girlfriend who’ll stand by while they dismiss and gaslight and minimize. I hope they realize they lost someone incredible because they couldn’t be bothered to respect her.”
“They won’t,” you say quietly. “They’ll tell themselves I overreacted. That I was too sensitive. That politics ruined a good thing. They’ll make it my fault.”
“Probably,” Hilary agrees. “But that says everything about them and nothing about you.”
“We’re going to be okay,” Hannah says, squeezing your hand. “All of us. We’re going to get through this.”
“I know,” you say.
And you do know. Because you’ve been through worse. You’ve fought for respect your entire career. You’ve dealt with inequality and dismissiveness and being told to be grateful for scraps.
This is just one more fight.
The difference is, this time, you’re not making excuses. You’re not staying quiet. You’re not protecting people who won’t protect you.
This time, you’re choosing yourself.
The plane descends toward New York. You’re exhausted, heartbroken, angry, and somehow, underneath it all, relieved.
You’re free.
And soon, the world is going to know exactly why.
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