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Feb 5

Prove It

⟡ Part I

Jack Hughes x Rozanov!Reader

Summary: you told Jack his backhand was weak and walked away. Two months later, he scores twice on the backhand just to prove you wrong. (Your brother raised you to have standards. Flowers on random Tuesdays. Doors held open. Men who worship the ground you walk on. Jack Hughes is about to learn exactly what it takes to date a Rozanov.)

Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part II here ❤️

You’ve been spoiled rotten since you were eleven years old, and you’re not ashamed to admit it.

Most people don’t understand what it means to have Ilya Rozanov as a brother. They see the highlight reels, the contract extensions, the Instagram posts of him and Shane living their best life in Ottawa. What they don’t see is how Ilya showed up in that shit apartment in Moscow when you were barely old enough to understand why Mama wasn’t coming back, why Papa’s voice got louder every night, why your older brother had the same cruel set to his mouth as your father.

Ilya got you out. The second his entry-level contract converted to real money, he got you out.

Boston was cold that first winter, but Ilya bought you the warmest coat you’d ever touched. Took you to get hot chocolate every Sunday. Taught you English by watching cooking shows and making you repeat everything the hosts said until you stopped thinking in Russian first. He never missed a school event, not one, even when the Bears were on the road — he’d fly back, show up, fly out again.

And the flowers. God, the flowers.

“Why?” You’d asked him once, maybe thirteen, holding another bouquet he’d brought home for no reason at all. “It’s not my birthday.”

“You think you only deserve flowers on your birthday?” Ilya had looked genuinely offended. “Solnyshko, no. You deserve flowers because it’s Tuesday. Because you made me laugh. Because you exist.”

It set a standard. You know it did.

Then came Shane and Ilya trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t completely gone for his rival. You saw through it immediately. Shane was different — quieter than Ilya, steadier, with the kind of smile that made you understand why your brother was willing to risk everything.

When they finally got together, when Ilya moved to Ottawa and you went with him because you were still in high school and he refused to let you stay in Boston alone, Shane slotted into your life like he’d always been there.

“Does she like roses or peonies?” You’d overheard Shane ask Ilya once.

“Both. Get both.”

“That’s excessive.”

“She’s my sister. Excessive is the baseline.”

Shane had laughed, but he’d come home with both anyway. And a new laptop because he’d noticed yours was running slow. And tickets to see your favorite band because “Ilya mentioned you liked them.”

So yeah. You have standards. Sue you.

The Hoboken bar is trendy in that trying-too-hard way that makes you miss the hole-in-the-wall spots in Ottawa where nobody bothers you because they’re too busy watching the game. But the shoot ran long, Yuna’s already on a flight back to Ottawa, and you need a drink before you deal with the drive back to the city and then the early flight home.

You’re on your second vodka — top shelf, because Ilya would be horrified if you drank anything else — when you feel someone slide into the space next to you at the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

You don’t even look over. “No thanks.”

“Come on, I haven’t even introduced myself yet.”

Now you do look, and oh. Okay. You know exactly who this is.

Jack Hughes is even prettier in person than he is on your TV screen, which is annoying. He’s got that cocky tilt to his smile that probably works on most people, and he’s leaning against the bar like he owns it, like he’s never been rejected in his life.

“I know who you are,” you say, turning back to your drink.

That makes him pause. You can see it in your peripheral vision, the way he recalibrates. “Yeah? You a fan?”

You almost laugh. “Not particularly.”

“Ouch.” But he’s grinning wider now, like you’re a challenge. “So if you know who I am, and you’re not a fan, why are you in a bar in Hoboken?”

“Work,” you say simply, signaling the bartender. You slide your black card across the bar and point to the top shelf. “Another vodka, please.”

The bartender nods and moves away. Jack is still standing there.

“Let me get that,” he tries.

“I’ve got it.”

“I can see that, but-”

“But what?” You finally turn to face him properly, eyebrows raised. “You think I can’t afford my own drinks?”

His eyes are very blue. It’s distracting. “No, I just—it’s polite?”

“It’s unnecessary.”

The bartender returns with your vodka. You take it, sip it, let the burn ground you. Jack is still watching you like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

“You’re not making this easy,” he says.

“I’m not trying to make it anything.”

“Most people would be excited to-”

“To what?” You cut him off, and your voice is sharper than you intended. “To have Jack Hughes, star of the New Jersey Devils, buy them a drink? To feel special because an NHL player noticed them?”

He blinks. “I mean … yeah?”

You drain half your vodka in one go. “I don’t sleep with players who have a weak backhand.”

For a second, he just stares at you. Then he laughs — actually laughs, throwing his head back. “Did you just chirp my backhand?”

“Is it inaccurate?”

“It’s-” He’s still laughing, and now some of his teammates are looking over from their table in the corner. “Okay, that’s actually pretty funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“That makes it funnier.” He leans closer, and you can smell his cologne—something expensive and cedar-warm. “Come on. One drink. I promise my backhand isn’t that bad.”

You look at him, really look at him. He’s all sharp edges and easy confidence, the kind of guy who’s never had to work for attention a day in his life. The kind of guy Ilya would take one look at and say “absolutely not, solnyshko.”

The kind of guy Shane would passive-aggressively destroy in practice if he even thought about approaching you.

“No,” you say, turning back to your drink.

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

“Can I at least get your name?”

“No.”

“Okay, this is-” He runs a hand through his hair, and you can feel his frustration like static in the air. “You’re really not going to give me anything?”

You finish your vodka, set the glass down with a decisive click. “I’m really not.”

“Why?”

Because Ilya taught you that you’re worth more than whoever offers first. Because Shane showed you that the right person doesn’t make you feel like you should be grateful for basic attention. Because Yuna shaped you to know your value and never apologize for it.

Because you’ve seen what real devotion looks like, and it’s not a hockey player in a Hoboken bar trying his well-worn moves.

But you don’t say any of that. Instead, you collect your card from the bartender, leave a generous tip, and slide off your barstool.

“Enjoy your night,” you say, and you walk away without looking back.

***

Jack watches you go, completely dumbfounded.

“Dude.” Nico appears at his elbow, beer in hand, grinning like Christmas came early. “Did she just reject you?”

“Shut up.”

“She definitely just rejected you.” Dawson has materialized on his other side, because apparently his entire team is invested in his humiliation. “What did you say to her?”

“I offered to buy her a drink!”

“And?”

“And she said no!” Jack turns back to the bar, but she’s already gone, disappeared into the crowd near the exit. “She said I have a weak backhand.”

Nico chokes on his beer. “She what?”

“You heard me.”

“Did she know who you are?” Dawson asks.

“She said she did.”

“And she still said no?” Nico is laughing now, the traitor. “Jack, that’s—I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone turn you down.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

It’s not funny. It’s frustrating. Confusing. She was gorgeous, absolutely stunning, with windswept hair and eyes that looked right through him like she could see every play he’d ever botched, every shortcut he’d ever taken. She dressed like money — not flashy, but the kind of expensive that whispers instead of shouts.

And she looked at him like he was nothing special.

Jack has been treated like he’s special since he was eighteen years old. First overall pick, franchise center, the future of the Devils. People want his autograph, his picture, his attention.

You wanted him to go away.

“Maybe she has a husband,” Dawson offers.

“She wasn’t wearing a ring.”

“Not everyone wears rings.”

“She paid with a black card,” Jack says, mostly to himself. “Like it was nothing.”

Nico raises his eyebrows. “A black card?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Nico takes another sip of his beer, eyes scanning the bar. “Think she’s from around here?”

“No idea. She said she was here for work.” Jack flags down the bartender, orders a beer he doesn’t really want. “She knew hockey. The chirp wasn’t just a lucky guess.”

“Maybe she’s a scout,” Dawson suggests. “Or a journalist?”

“Journalists don’t usually have black cards.”

“Rich daddy?” Nico offers.

Maybe. Probably. Jack doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, why he can’t stop thinking about the way you dismissed him without a second thought, like he was an annoyance instead of a catch.

Like he was ordinary.

“Forget about her,” Nico says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Plenty of other people here.”

But Jack doesn’t want plenty of other people. He wants to know who she is, why she looked at him like that, why her voice went sharp and cold when he suggested she should be excited about his attention.

He wants a rematch.

***

You’re in an Uber back to the hotel when your phone buzzes.

Ilya: How was the shoot?

You: Fine. Long. Yuna says the photos will be good.

Ilya: Of course they will. You’re beautiful.

You: You’re biased.

Ilya: I’m correct.

Ilya: I’ll pick you up from the airport.

You: You have practice.

Ilya: I’ll pick you up from the airport.

You smile down at your phone, feeling the familiar warmth that comes with Ilya’s particular brand of overprotective affection. Some people might find it suffocating, but you know where it comes from. You know what he saved you from.

You: Fine. But I’m buying you coffee.

Ilya: You’re not buying me anything. See you soon.

You: Love you.

Ilya: Love you more.

You’re putting your phone away when it buzzes again. This time it’s your brother-in-law.

Shane: Want me to make breakfast for tomorrow?

You: You don’t have to do that.

Shane: That’s not what I asked.

You: Pancakes?

Shane: Pancakes it is. Safe flight, kiddo.

You lean back in your seat, watching New Jersey blur past the window. Somewhere in Hoboken, Jack Hughes is probably still at that bar, probably already chatting up someone else who actually appreciates the attention.

You don’t spare him another thought.

You have a flight to catch and a brother who taught you that you deserve the world, and nothing less.

***

Jack has had a good two months. Great, even.

There was the blonde in Manhattan who laughed at all his jokes. The brunette in Philadelphia who knew an impressive amount about hockey analytics. The redhead in Boston who kissed him in the rain like they were in a movie.

All of them were fun. All of them were into him. All of them were perfectly nice.

None of them were you.

Which is insane, because Jack doesn’t even know your name. Doesn’t know anything about you except that you have devastating eyes, a black card, and the ability to make him feel like an idiot with a single sentence about his backhand.

(He’s been working on his backhand. Not because of you. Obviously not because of you. Just … in general.)

“You’re distracted,” Nico says on the flight to Ottawa.

“I’m not distracted.”

“You’ve been staring at your phone for twenty minutes and you haven’t looked at a single thing on it.”

Jack locks his phone and shoves it in his pocket. “I’m focused on the game.”

“We’re playing the Cens,” Mercer chimes in from across the aisle. “Rozanov and Hollander. Should be a good one.”

It should be. Ottawa is (annoyingly) really good now. Two cups in three years, and they’re currently sitting second in the division. Ilya Rozanov is playing like he’s twenty-five instead of thirty-four, and Shane Hollander is right there with him, the two of them forming one of the most lethal one-two punches in the league.

Jack respects the hell out of their game. Doesn’t mean he’s not planning to light them up tonight.

The Canadian Tire Centre is packed when they arrive for morning skate. Jack can feel the energy already, that specific buzz that comes with a rivalry game, even if Devils-Centaurs isn’t a traditional one. But anything involving Rozanov gets the crowd going, and Hollander’s become just as beloved since he got here.

“Think Rozanov’s going to try to kill you?” Dawson asks, grinning.

“Why would he try to kill me?”

“Because you exist? Because you’re young and fast and he’s old?”

“Thirty-four isn’t old,” Jack says, even though he absolutely plans to use his speed against them tonight.

Morning skate is routine. Afternoon nap is restless — he keeps seeing curly hair and dismissive eyes, which is ridiculous. Evening pre-game meal sits heavy in his stomach, nerves coiling tighter than usual.

It’s just a game. Just hockey. He’s played hundreds of games.

He’s fine.

***

You’re running late, which never happens, but your shoot in Toronto went long and traffic getting back to Ottawa was a nightmare.

“Solnyshko, breathe,” Ilya says over the phone, because apparently he can hear your stress through the cellular network. “You don’t have to come if you’re tired.”

“Are you insane? Miss your game?” You’re speed-walking through the arena now, Yuna keeping pace beside you in heels that should make that impossible. “I’ll be there. I’m here. We’re parking now.”

“The game doesn’t start without you anyway.”

“That’s not how hockey works.”

“It’s how my hockey works.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Shane made sure the caterers brought your favorite cookies. They’re in the box.”

“Tell him I love him.”

“Tell him yourself. Now go. Yuna is giving you that look, I can sense it.”

He’s right. Yuna is giving you a look.

You make it to the family box just as the players are being introduced. The box is full — spouses, girlfriends, kids running around with too much sugar in their systems. You’ve known most of these people for years, since you were seventeen and following Ilya to a new city, a new team, a new family.

“There she is!” Cassie Boodram pulls you into a hug. “We were starting to think you’d miss it.”

“Never,” you say, accepting the Centaurs jersey that Yuna hands you — your jersey, Rozanov 81 across the back because you’re his sister and everyone in this arena knows it.

You pull it on over your sweater just as the lights go down and the introductions start.

The roar for Ilya is deafening. Captain, three-time cup champion, franchise player. He skates out with that easy confidence that made you feel safe when you were eleven and terrified in a new country.

Shane’s introduction is just as loud. The crowd loves him, loves them, loves what they’ve built here.

You cheer until your throat hurts, and beside you, Yuna is doing the same, pride written all over her face for both her boys.

***

Jack is trying to focus on the game plan, on his matchups, on anything other than the noise of the crowd, when the TV timeout hits halfway through the first period.

The game is scoreless so far. He’s had two good chances, Nico hit the post, and Rozanov has been everywhere, breaking up plays before they develop. Hollander nearly scored on a wraparound that Jack had to hustle back to prevent.

They’re good. Frustratingly good.

The arena is doing some kind of kiss cam or dance cam or whatever — Jack isn’t paying attention until the crowd’s energy shifts, gets louder, more excited.

He glances up at the jumbotron.

The camera is panning across the Centaurs’ family box, showing the WAGs cheering and waving. It’s standard arena entertainment, the kind of thing that happens at every game.

Then the camera moves.

And Jack’s heart stops.

Because there you are.

Same curly hair, same devastating face, same aura of being too good for whatever room you’re in. You’re sitting next to an older Asian woman — beautiful, elegant, clearly saying something that makes you laugh.

You’re here. In Ottawa. In the Centaurs’ family box.

“What the fuck,” Jack breathes.

The crowd is going absolutely insane now, cheering and chanting something he can’t make out over the noise. The camera zooms in slightly, and you’re smiling — actually smiling, warm and genuine in a way you definitely didn’t smile at him — and waving at the crowd like this is normal, like you belong here.

“Dude, you okay?” Dawson asks from the bench beside him.

“That’s her,” Jack says.

“Her who?”

“The girl. From Hoboken. That’s-”

But then you turn around.

The camera catches it perfectly, zooms in on the back of your jersey for the whole arena to see.

ROZANOV 81.

The number fills the jumbotron. The crowd somehow gets even louder.

Jack’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body.

“Oh shit,” Dawson says, because he remembers Hoboken, remembers Jack’s humiliation. “Is she with Rozanov?”

“I don’t-” Jack’s brain is short-circuiting. “He’s married. To Hollander. Everyone knows that.”

“Throuples exist, man.”

“Hollander is super gay though, right? Like, very publicly gay?”

“Maybe she’s just a fan?” But even Dawson sounds doubtful.

The camera has moved on now, but Jack is still staring at the box, at you, at the way you’re wearing Rozanov’s number like it means something.

Like you belong to him.

“Hughes!” Keefe’s voice cuts through his spiral. “You’re up next shift. Get your head in the game.”

Right. The game. Hockey. He can have an existential crisis about this later.

Except he can’t focus because every time he’s on the ice, every time there’s a stoppage, his eyes drift to that box. To you. And you’re not even watching him — you’re watching Ilya, watching Shane, leaning over to say something to the woman beside you that makes you both laugh.

You look happy. Comfortable. Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And Jack is trying really, really hard not to think about the fact that he hit on Ilya Rozanov’s … whatever you are. Girlfriend? It has to be girlfriend, right? Why else would you be wearing his jersey in the family box?

But Rozanov is married. Very publicly married. There are magazine covers. Instagram posts. That whole emotional interview Shane did after they won the cup last year about what Ilya means to him.

Jack’s pretty sure you don’t give that interview if you’re in a throuple, but what does he know?

The first period ends 0-0. Jack has barely registered any of it.

***

“Jack seems off,” Nico says in the locker room during intermission.

“He’s been weird since we got here,” Dawson adds.

“I’m not weird,” Jack protests. “I’m fine.”

“You missed an empty net.”

“It wasn’t empty, you were in the way-”

“I was not in the way!”

“Enough,” Keefe cuts in. “I don’t care if you’re distracted by the crowd, the noise, or what you had for breakfast. Second period, we need to be sharper. Rozanov and Hollander are carving us up out there. Hughes, you need to match Rozanov’s speed. Hischier, stay with Hollander. And someone needs to crash the net more — they’re playing too comfortable.”

Jack nods along, trying to absorb the game plan, trying not to think about coy eyes and a black card and the name Rozanov across shoulders that are apparently in the family box for a reason.

The second period is better. Jack manages to actually focus, gets a good chance that Hayes robs him on. Nico scores on a power play to put them up 1-0, and the Devils’ bench goes crazy.

But then Rozanov happens.

He picks up the puck in his own zone, dangles through two Devils defenders like they’re not even there, and feeds Shane a perfect pass for a one-timer that beats Markstrom clean.

1-1.

The arena erupts. Rozanov and Hollander celebrate like they’ve done this a thousand times — which they have — with an efficiency that speaks to years of chemistry.

And Jack looks up at the box without meaning to.

You’re on your feet, screaming, hands cupped around her mouth. The woman next to her — definitely Hollander’s mom, Jack realizes now, he’s seen her in interviews — is doing the same.

You look so happy. So proud.

Jack wants to know why. Wants to know everything. Wants to know what the hell he stumbled into in that Hoboken bar and why the universe is currently laughing at him.

“You’re staring,” Luke hisses as they line up for the next faceoff.

“Shut up.”

“You know Rozanov is going to murder you if he finds out you hit on his girl, right?”

“I didn’t know she was his girl!”

“Do you think that’s going to matter to a six-foot-three Russian with a mean streak?”

It probably won’t. Ilya Rozanov is known for being protective of his people. There are compilations on YouTube of him fighting anyone who touches Shane wrong. If he’s dating someone — even while married, apparently, which Jack’s brain still can’t process — he’s definitely not going to appreciate Jack’s attempt at buying her a drink.

The second period ends 1-1. Jack has one shot on goal and a growing sense of doom.

***

“They look nervous,” you observe during the second intermission.

Yuna hums in agreement, delicately eating one of Shane’s cookies. “The young one keeps staring up here.”

“Which young one?”

“Number 86. Hughes.”

Your stomach does something weird. “He’s probably just looking at the crowd.”

“Darling, he’s looking at you.”

You glance at Yuna, who’s watching you with those all-seeing eyes that have managed your career and your life for six years now. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” She’s smiling now, that cat-like smile that means she knows something you don’t. “Lisa noticed it too. Said he’s been distracted all game.”

“I’ve never met Jack Hughes,” you lie.

“Mm-hmm.”

You have, technically, met Jack Hughes. Briefly. In a Hoboken bar where you told him his backhand was weak and walked away. But that was two months ago, and he definitely didn’t know who you were, and there’s no way he’d remember-

Except he keeps looking up here. At you.

Fuck.

“I need another drink,” you mutter.

Yuna laughs, light and knowing. “There’s wine in the back.”

You’re refilling your glass when Lisa Hayes joins you. “So. Jack Hughes.”

“What about him?”

“He’s cute.”

“He’s twelve.”

“He’s two months younger than you. That’s not exactly scandalous.” Lisa leans against the counter, grinning. “And he’s been staring at you all game.”

“Maybe he’s intimidated by Ilya.”

“Or maybe he thinks you’re gorgeous and is trying to figure out how to approach you without your brother murdering him.”

You take a long sip of wine. “Ilya would absolutely murder him.”

“Which is half the fun, isn’t it?” Lisa waggles her eyebrows. “Forbidden romance. Star-crossed lovers. Brothers and teammates as obstacles-”

“You need to stop reading romance novels.”

“You need to start! Live a little! When’s the last time you went on a date?”

Never, really. Not a real one. Not one that met Ilya’s standards or yours or the impossible benchmark of how you’ve been treated your entire life.

“I’m fine,” you say.

“You’re twenty-four and gorgeous and single.”

“By choice.”

“Is it though?”

You don’t answer that. Can’t answer that. Because the truth is complicated — you’re single because no one has ever made you feel like they were worth lowering your standards for. You’re single because Ilya and Shane have shown you what love actually looks like, and you refuse to settle for anything less.

You’re single because a hockey player in a Hoboken bar tried to buy you a drink like it was a favor, and you’ve had enough of that particular brand of arrogance to last a lifetime.

“The third period is starting,” you say instead, and you escape back to your seat.

***

The third period is when Jack’s night officially becomes a disaster.

It’s 2-2 now — Devils scored early, Cens answered back on another Rozanov assist. Jack is playing out of his mind, trying to prove something to himself or the crowd or maybe to you, sitting up there in a jersey that isn’t his.

He’s carrying the puck through the neutral zone, sees an opening, tries to thread a pass to Dawson-

And Rozanov picks it off.

Not just picks it off. Rozanov reads the play before Jack even makes it, steps into the passing lane like he’s been waiting for it, and suddenly he’s gone, skating the other direction with that effortless speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone his age.

Jack chases. Of course he chases. But Rozanov is already crossing the blue line, already pulling the goalie one way and sliding the puck to Haas for an easy tap-in.

3-2 Cens.

The arena explodes. Rozanov and Haas crash into each other in celebration, and their teammates mob them, and Jack is bent over at center ice trying to catch his breath and his dignity.

When he finally looks up, he sees you again.

You’re jumping up and down, hugging Shane’s mom and screaming something he can’t hear. You look radiant. Happy. Like this is the best moment of you life.

And Jack feels … he doesn’t know what he feels. Frustrated, definitely. Embarrassed, absolutely.

But also something else. Something that feels dangerously like wanting.

The game ends 4-2 Centaurs. Rozanov gets a goal in the final minutes, and the arena goes absolutely insane.

Jack has one goal, two assists, and a growing certainty that he’s completely screwed.

***

You’re still buzzing with adrenaline when you make your way down to the family waiting area after the game. Ilya and Shane always take forever with media, but you don’t mind waiting. The win was spectacular, and Ilya’s goal in the last two minutes was pure poetry.

“There’s my beautiful sister,” Ilya says when he finally emerges, hair wet from the shower, dressed in a suit that probably costs more than most people’s rent.

You throw yourself at him, and he catches you easily, lifting you off your feet. “You were incredible!”

“We were lucky.”

“You were brilliant,” Shane corrects, appearing beside Ilya and pulling you into a hug next. “And you made it. How was Toronto?”

“Long. Worth it. Yuna says the photos are going to be incredible.”

“Of course they are,” Yuna says, joining your little circle. “You could wear a paper bag and make it look couture.”

This is your family. This strange, wonderful, unconventional family that chose you and keeps choosing you.

You’re about to suggest dinner when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“Rozanov. Hollander. Good game.”

You turn.

Jack is standing there, still in his suit, hair product failing to control whatever’s happening on his head. He looks young and earnest and-

His eyes land on you and go very, very wide.

“Hughes,” Ilya says, shaking his hand. “You played well. That goal in the second was nice.”

“Thanks, I-” Jack is still staring at you. “I didn’t know you had a-”

“Sister,” you supply, because watching him short-circuit is oddly satisfying. “He has a sister.”

The color drains from Jack’s face.

“Sister,” he repeats faintly.

“Solnyshko, this is Jack Hughes,” Ilya says, because he’s apparently decided to be polite tonight. “Hughes, this is my baby sister.”

“Your sister,” Jack says again, like he’s testing the words.

“Is there a problem?” Shane asks, and his voice has that edge it gets when he’s being protective.

“No! No problem. I just-” Jack swallows hard. “We’ve met. Actually. In Hoboken. A couple months ago.”

The temperature in the hallway drops about forty degrees.

Ilya’s smile doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does. “Have you.”

“It was nothing,” you say quickly. “He tried to buy me a drink. I said no.”

“You said no,” Ilya repeats.

“Then she said I had a weak backhand,” Jack offers, and then immediately looks like he regrets speaking.

Shane makes a sound that might be a laugh. Yuna is definitely smiling.

“Did she,” Ilya says, and now he’s looking at you with that expression that means he’s trying very hard not to be amused.

“It was an accurate assessment,” you say.

“I’ve been working on it!” Jack protests.

“That’s good,” you tell him. “You needed to.”

He laughs, surprised and genuine. “You’re Rozanov’s sister.”

“I thought we established that.”

“I thought you were his-” He cuts himself off, eyes darting to Ilya and Shane. “Never mind.”

“His what?” Ilya asks, dangerous and soft.

“Nothing! I thought nothing!” Jack is backing away now. “It was good to see you again. Great game. Gotta go. Team bus. Bye!”

And he flees.

Actually flees down the hallway like Ilya might chase him, which — to be fair — Ilya looks like he might.

“I like him,” Shane announces.

“Absolutely not,” Ilya says.

“What just happened?” You ask.

Yuna pats your arm, eyes twinkling. “I think, darling, you just made a very interesting impression on Jack Hughes.”

You look down the hallway where Jack disappeared, then back at your brother, who’s glowering like Jack personally offended him.

“Can we get dinner now?” You ask. “I’m starving.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “And we’re going to talk about Hoboken.”

You groan. This is going to be a long night.

But when you glance back down the hallway one more time, you’re smiling.

Just a little.

***

The steakhouse is one of those upscale places that Jack normally loves — dark wood, leather booths, the kind of menu where nothing has a price listed. Tonight, though, he can barely taste his perfectly cooked ribeye.

“So,” Nico says, cutting into his own steak with surgical precision. “Rozanov’s sister.”

Jack groans and drops his head into his hands.

“That’s so much worse,” Dawson says cheerfully. “Like, infinitely worse than a throuple situation.”

“How is it worse?” Jack demands, looking up. “At least she’s single!”

“Is she though?” Dawson asks. “Because Rozanov looked like he wanted to murder you, and that was before he knew you hit on her.”

“I didn’t hit on her-”

“You tried to buy her a drink,” Luke cuts in, grinning like this is the best dinner he’s had all season. “That’s literally hitting on someone.”

“It was polite!”

“It was doomed from the start,” Nico says. “Also, can I just say, the backhand comment? Brutal.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Timo adds. “Your backhand does need work.”

“I’ve been working on it!”

“Because she told you to,” Luke says, and he’s definitely enjoying this too much. “Oh my god, you’ve been working on your backhand because some girl told you it was weak.”

“She’s not some girl, she’s-” Jack cuts himself off, but it’s too late.

Everyone is staring at him now.

“She’s what?” Dawson asks, leaning forward.

“Nothing. She’s nothing.”

“Jack has a crush,” Luke announces to the entire table. “Jack has a crush on Ilya Rozanov’s baby sister.”

“I don’t have a crush.”

“You’ve been thinking about her for two months,” Nico points out. “You didn’t even know her name and you’ve been thinking about her.”

“That’s not-”

“And now you know she’s related to one of the most protective players in the league,” Dawson continues. “A player who is six-foot-three, Russian, and has literally fought people for looking at Hollander wrong.”

Jack’s ribeye suddenly tastes like ash. “Maybe he won’t find out.”

The entire table laughs.

“Won’t find out?” Luke is practically cackling now. “Dude, she’s definitely going to tell him.”

“She might not.”

“She’s his baby sister. Of course she’s going to tell him.” Luke pauses, takes a sip of his beer, and adds casually, “Can I have your car when you die?”

“Why the fuck would I die?”

Luke blinks at him slowly, like Jack is being deliberately obtuse. “Because Rozanov is obviously going to kill you. Duh.”

“He’s not going to kill me!”

“He might not kill you,” Nico says thoughtfully. “He might just maim you. Break a leg. End your career. Send a message.”

“You’re all insane.”

“We’re realistic,” Dawson corrects. “You hit on the sister of a notoriously overprotective Russian hockey player. This is literally the plot of a horror movie.”

“It was one drink offer! Two months ago! Before I knew who she was!”

“Do you think that’s going to matter?” Timo asks.

Honestly, probably not.

Jack looks down the table to where Evgenii Dadonov and Arseni Gritsyuk are sitting, the Devils’ two Russian players. Arseni is a rookie, but Evgenii is a veteran who’s been around the league for years.

And Evgenii played in Ottawa. In 2020, before he came to New Jersey.

“Daddy,” Jack says, and the whole table goes quiet. “You played with Rozanov, right?”

Evgenii looks up from his salmon, expression carefully neutral. “Yes.”

“Is he … I mean, how protective is he? Really?”

Evgenii and Arseni exchange a look.

“I don’t know anything,” Arseni says immediately, raising his hands. “I’m a rookie. I know nothing.”

“Gritsy,” Jack pleads.

“Nope. Not getting involved. This is between you and God now.”

Jack turns to Evgenii, who sighs deeply, the sigh of a man who knows he’s about to make everything worse.

“I only know rumors,” Evgenii starts.

“That’s fine! Rumors are fine!”

“There was a guy in Toronto. Trust fund baby, worked at some hedge fund, very rich, very entitled.” Evgenii takes a sip of his wine like he needs it for this story. “He met Rozanov’s sister at some charity event. Started pursuing her. She said no. He didn’t take no for an answer.”

Jack’s stomach sinks. “And?”

“And he ended up fired from his very prestigious job.” Evgenii pauses. “And rumor has it his leg never quite bent properly again.”

The table is dead silent.

“His leg,” Jack repeats faintly.

“Never bent properly,” Evgenii confirms. “Again, this is rumor. I don’t know details. But the guy left Toronto very quickly after that.”

“How did-” Jack swallows. “How did Rozanov even find out?”

“Y/N told him,” Evgenii says, like this should be obvious. “From what I understand, she tells him everything. They’re very close. He raised her, essentially, after he got her out of Russia.”

Oh god.

Jack has to fight back a whimper.

“So you’re definitely going to die,” Luke says, sounding genuinely sympathetic now. “That sucks, man. You had a good life while it lasted.”

“I’m not going to die!”

“You might not die,” Nico allows. “But you’re definitely going to wish you were dead when Rozanov catches you alone.”

“He’s not going to catch me alone. I’m going to avoid him. Forever. For the rest of my career.”

“You play him three times a year,” Mercer points out.

“Then I’ll request a trade.”

“To where? The KHL?”

“Maybe!” Jack is spiraling now, he knows he’s spiraling, but the image of his leg never bending properly again is seared into his brain. “I hear Siberia is nice!”

“Calm down,” Evgenii says, though he’s smiling now. “Rozanov is protective, yes, but he’s not unreasonable. If his sister liked you, if she wanted to see you, he would … adjust.”

“Adjust,” Jack repeats.

“He would only break one leg instead of two,” Arseni offers helpfully.

“Not helping,” Evgenii says. “What I mean is, Rozanov loves his sister more than anything. If she was happy, he would find a way to accept it. Eventually.”

“After the leg breaking?” Luke asks.

“Probably after the leg breaking, yes.”

Jack drops his head back into his hands. “I’m going to die in Ottawa.”

“At least it’s a nice city,” Timo says. “Good poutine.”

“Very multicultural,” Nico adds.

“Great museums,” Dawson contributes.

“You’re all the worst,” Jack mutters.

But under the table, his phone buzzes with a notification. Instagram. Someone new followed him.

He shouldn’t check. He should leave it alone, finish his dinner, accept his fate.

He checks anyway.

The profile is private, but the username is there @y/nrozanov.

His heart does something complicated in his chest.

“Oh no,” Luke says, clearly reading Jack’s expression. “What happened? What did you do?”

“She followed me on Instagram,” Jack says faintly.

The table erupts.

“She followed you?”

“Rozanov’s sister followed you?”

“That’s either really good or really, really bad!”

“It’s a trap,” Arseni says seriously. “Definitely a trap. Rozanov is tracking you now.”

“It’s not a trap,” Jack says, but he’s not entirely sure. “She probably just … wanted to see who I was?”

“Or Rozanov told her to follow you so he could monitor your stories and know where to find you,” Luke suggests.

“You watch too many crime shows.”

“Do I though? Do I really?”

Jack stares at his phone. At that follow notification. At the name Rozanov attached to the gorgeous girl who told him his backhand was weak and walked away like he was nothing.

He should not follow you back. That would be stupid. Suicidal, even.

His thumb hovers over the follow button.

“Don’t do it,” Nico warns.

“It would be rude not to follow back,” Jack argues.

“It would be rude to your future self who still wants working legs,” Mercer counters.

“I’m just going to-”

“Jack, no-”

He follows you back.

The table groans collectively.

“Well,” Evgenii says, raising his wine glass. “It was nice knowing you, Hughes.”

“To Jack,” Luke says, lifting his water. “May his death be quick and his funeral well-attended.”

“I hate all of you,” Jack says.

But he’s smiling. Just a little.

Because you followed him first.

***

You’re pretending to sleep in the back of Shane’s Jeep, head resting against the window, eyes closed, breathing slow and even.

It’s a skill you perfected when you were younger, when Ilya would carry you from the car to your bed and you wanted to hear him talk to whatever teammate or friend had driven you both home. People say things they don’t think you can hear, things that are softer and truer and more honest.

Tonight is no different.

“We might be too overbearing,” Shane says quietly, his voice barely audible over the engine.

You keep your breathing steady. Even. Asleep.

“We’re not overbearing,” Ilya argues, but his voice is just as soft. “We’re appropriately protective.”

“Ilya, she’s twenty-four.”

“So?”

“So maybe it’s time to ease up a little. Let her make her own choices. Even if those choices include hockey players who hit on her in bars.”

There’s a long pause. You can imagine Ilya’s expression — that stubborn set to his jaw that appears whenever someone suggests he’s being unreasonable about you.

“Maybe she could be a nun,” Ilya says finally.

You have to fight very hard not to laugh.

“You’re not even religious,” Shane points out, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Semantics.”

Another pause. The Jeep turns left, which means you’re only a few minutes from home.

“I don’t expect her to be single forever,” Ilya says, and his voice is different now. Serious. “I just never want her to settle for anything less than a man who worships her. Who makes her feel like …” He trails off.

“Like we make each other feel?” Shane finishes gently.

“Yes.”

You hear the sound of a kiss. Soft, sweet, the kind of kiss that speaks to years of love and understanding and partnership.

“She deserves that,” Ilya continues. “She deserves someone who brings her flowers on Wednesdays. Who never makes her pay for dinner. Who treats her like she’s the most precious thing in the world. Because she is.”

“She is,” Shane agrees. “But Ilya, you’ve set an impossible standard. You and me, we’re-”

“We’re what she should expect as the baseline,” Ilya interrupts. “Not the exception. I won’t let her settle for less just because some boy has nice eyes and plays hockey.”

“Hughes does have nice eyes though,” Shane says, and you can hear the teasing in it.

“I’ll break his legs.”

“You will not break his legs.”

“I’ll think about breaking his legs very hard.”

“That’s more reasonable.”

You feel the Jeep slow, turn into your driveway. Your apartment is technically separate from Ilya and Shane’s house — a converted garage studio that Ilya insisted on building when you turned twenty-one and wanted some independence — but it’s on their property. You’re never far from them.

You’re never far from home.

“Do you think she liked him?” Shane asks as he puts the Jeep in park. “Hughes, I mean.”

“I think she’s been checking her phone all night,” Ilya says. “And I think she followed him on Instagram in the car while she thought we couldn’t see.”

Fuck. You thought you were being subtle.

“So maybe we should give her space,” Shane suggests. “Let her figure this out.”

“While I investigate Hughes thoroughly and make sure he’s worthy.”

“Ilya.”

“What? I’m allowed to investigate. I’m her brother.”

“You’re going to scare him off.”

“If he scares easily, he’s not good enough for her anyway.”

You hear Shane sigh, but it’s fond, the kind of exasperated affection that comes with years of loving Ilya Rozanov and all his protective instincts.

“Come on,” Shane says. “Let’s get our girl inside.”

The car door opens. You feel Ilya’s hands on you, gentle and careful, lifting you like you weigh nothing even though you’re twenty-four years old and perfectly capable of walking.

You keep your eyes closed. Keep pretending.

Because some things are worth hearing, even if you’re not supposed to.

Ilya carries you to your studio, Shane presumably getting the door, and you feel the familiar comfort of your own bed as Ilya sets you down. He pulls the blanket over you, tucks it around your shoulders the way he’s done since you were eleven.

“Sleep well, solnyshko,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Even if you are faking.”

Your eyes fly open.

Ilya is smiling down at you, knowing and amused. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“You didn’t say anything in the car.”

“Because I wanted you to hear.” He sits on the edge of your bed, brushing hair back from your face. “I mean it, you know. About deserving the best.”

“I know.”

“And if Hughes wants to pursue you, he’s going to have to prove himself worthy.”

“Ilya-”

“I won’t break his legs,” Ilya concedes. “Probably. But I will make sure he understands what it means to date a Rozanov.”

You sit up, pulling the blanket around yourself. “What if I don’t want to date him? What if I just want to see what happens?”

“Then you see what happens. I’m not going to stop you from living your life, solnyshko. I just want to make sure anyone who enters it knows how precious you are.”

Shane appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Also, for the record, I do think Hughes has nice eyes. And he’s respectful on the ice. Plays skilled but clean.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Ilya says.

“I’m not encouraging anything. I’m just stating facts.” Shane winks at you. “But if you do decide to talk to him, maybe warn him first. Set proper expectations.”

“Warn him about what?” You ask innocently, like you don’t know exactly what they’re talking about.

Ilya and Shane exchange a look.

“There was a guy who didn’t understand what no meant,” Ilya says carefully. “And who learned a valuable lesson about respecting boundaries.”

“Did his leg really never bend properly again?”

“That’s hearsay and I have a very good lawyer,” Ilya says primly.

You laugh, and Shane laughs, and even Ilya cracks a smile.

“Get some sleep,” Shane says. “Big day tomorrow. Mom wants to go over the photos from Toronto.”

“And we have practice,” Ilya adds, standing and pressing another kiss to your forehead. “But we’ll be home for lunch. I’m making tuna melts.”

“I love you,” you tell them both.

“We love you more,” Ilya says. “Even when you fake sleep to eavesdrop.”

They leave, closing the door softly behind them, and you’re alone in your studio with your thoughts and your phone and a new Instagram follower who has nice eyes and probably no idea what he’s getting himself into.

You open Instagram. Stare at Jack Hughes’ profile — public, full of hockey photos and pictures with his brothers and the occasional collaboration with Ralph Lauren.

He followed you back. While you were fake-sleeping in the car, he followed you back.

Your finger hovers over the message button.

This is stupid. This is so stupid. You don’t even know him. You rejected him in a bar, told him his backhand was weak, walked away without a second thought.

You close Instagram without sending a message.

If Jack Hughes wants to talk to you, he can make the first move. Again.

You’ve been spoiled by Ilya your whole life. You’ve been taught that the right person will put in the effort, will show up, will prove they’re worth your time.

If Jack Hughes is that person, he’ll figure it out.

If he’s not, well.

You’ve lived twenty-four years without him just fine.

You can live the rest just the same.

But as you drift off to sleep, you’re smiling.

Just a little.

Because he followed you back.

And maybe that’s a start.

***

Jack has been staring at your Instagram profile for three weeks.

Not in a creepy way. Just in a … frequent way. A checking-to-see-if-you’ve-posted way. A wondering-what-you’re-doing-and-if-you’re-thinking-about-him way.

Which is probably still creepy, now that he thinks about it.

He’s in his apartment, sprawled on the couch with his phone, pretending to watch game film but actually refreshing your profile for the dozenth time today, when the notification pops up.

y/nrozanov added to their story

Jack clicks it so fast he almost drops his phone.

The first slide is a behind-the-scenes shot — ring lights, cameras, some photographer adjusting a lens. Professional. High-end. The kind of shoot that probably costs more than Jack’s first NHL paycheck.

The second slide is you, caught mid-laugh, wearing something that looks expensive and editorial and completely effortless.

The third slide is a boomerang of you drinking coffee, and in the corner, tagged clear as day: SoHo, New York.

Jack sits up so fast he actually does drop his phone.

You’re in New York. Right now. You’re across the river, maybe forty minutes away, in Manhattan doing a photoshoot.

And the Devils have a home game tonight.

“This is a sign,” Jack says to his empty apartment. “This is definitely a sign.”

His phone buzzes. It’s Luke.

Luke: Did you see Rozanov’s sister is in New York?

Jack: How do you know that?

Luke: I follow her on Instagram. Everyone on the team follows her on Instagram. Dawson thinks she’s hot.

Jack: Dawson needs to mind his business.

Luke: So you’re going to do something about it?

Jack: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Luke: Jack. She’s like an hour away. We have a game tonight. This is literally the universe giving you an opportunity.

Jack: An opportunity to get murdered by her brother, yeah.

Luke: Only if you fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up.

Jack stares at his phone. At your story still open on his screen. At the location tag that feels like a dare.

He opens his DMs before he can talk himself out of it.

***

You’re in hair and makeup, getting your third outfit of the day adjusted, when your phone buzzes.

The makeup artist is doing something complicated with highlighter, so you can’t check it immediately, but when you finally get a break, you see the notification.

jackhuges: hey

Your heart does something stupid.

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s been three weeks since Ottawa. Three weeks of him liking your posts within minutes of you posting them. Three weeks of wondering if he’d actually make a move or if that follow was just politeness.

y/nrozanov: hey yourself

The typing bubbles appear immediately.

jackhuges: saw you’re in soho

jackhuges: we have a home game tonight

jackhuges: you should come

You bite back a smile. The makeup artist tells you to stop moving your face.

y/nrozanov: should i?

jackhuges: yes

jackhuges: i’ll leave you a ticket at will call

jackhuges: best seat in the house

y/nrozanov: confident

jackhuges: i’ve been working on my backhand

You actually laugh at that, and the makeup artist sighs dramatically.

y/nrozanov: have you now?

jackhuges: come to the game and find out

jackhuges: please?

That please does something to you. It’s not demanding. Not entitled. Just honest.

You shouldn’t. You should finish your shoot, get dinner with the other models, take the first flight back to Ottawa tomorrow like you planned. You should not go to a hockey game to watch a boy who your brother will probably murder.

y/nrozanov: what time does it start?

***

Jack actually fist pumps in the middle of the locker room.

“Did you just fist pump?” Nico asks, looking up from taping his stick.

“No.”

“You definitely just fist pumped.”

“Mind your business.”

Luke is grinning from his stall. “She said yes, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jack invited Rozanov’s sister to the game,” Luke announces to the entire room.

The locker room erupts.

“You what?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Rozanov is going to kill you!”

“He’s not going to kill me,” Jack says, but he’s smiling so wide his face hurts. “She’s coming. She said yes.”

“Where’s she sitting?” Mercer asks.

“First row. Behind the glass.”

Dawson whistles. “You really are trying to die, huh?”

“I’m trying to impress her.”

“By putting her in the splash zone?” Timo laughs. “Bold strategy.”

“It’s romantic,” Jack argues.

“It’s going to be romantic when you get bodied into the boards right in front of her,” Luke says. “Very Shakespearean. Tragic, even.”

“You’re all terrible,” Jack mutters, but he’s already thinking about warmups, about skating by, about making sure she knows he’s glad she came.

Keefe walks in and the noise dies down, but Jack can feel the energy thrumming through his veins. You’re coming. You’re going to be here, watching him play, and he’s going to show you exactly how much he’s improved his backhand.

He’s going to make you regret ever doubting him.

(He’s also probably going to make your brother want to murder him, but that’s a problem for future Jack.)

***

You make it to the Prudential Center with twenty minutes to spare before warmups.

The ticket is waiting at will call, just like Jack promised. The attendant hands it over with a smile, and when you look at the seat number, you actually laugh.

Section 20, Row 1. Right behind the glass.

He wasn’t kidding about the best seat in the house.

You make your way down, very aware of the looks you’re getting. You’re still in your outfit from the shoot — designer jeans, a silk top, heels that are probably inappropriate for a hockey game but you didn’t have time to change. Your hair and makeup are still camera-ready, and you can feel eyes tracking you as you find your seat.

The Devils are already warming up, and you spot Jack immediately. Number 86, taking shots on net, his movements fluid and confident.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

You settle into your seat, pull out your phone, and wait.

***

Jack is trying very hard to focus on warmups and not scan the crowd for you.

“She here yet?” Luke asks, skating by.

“Don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”

“It definitely matters. You’ve looked at the stands like six times.”

“I’m checking the crowd energy.”

“Sure you are.”

Jack takes another shot, watches it ping off the post. He needs to focus. Needs to get his head in the game. Needs to-

He sees you.

First row, right next to the penalty box, looking like you just stepped out of a magazine. Which you probably did, technically. You’re on your phone, not even watching the ice yet, and you’re somehow the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Oh, he’s a goner,” he hears Dawson say from somewhere behind him.

Jack skates to the bench, frantically gesturing to the equipment manager. “Sharpie. I need a sharpie.”

“What? Why?”

“Please, do you have one?”

The equipment manager digs through his kit and produces a silver sharpie. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late,” Luke calls out helpfully.

Jack grabs a puck from the ice, uncaps the sharpie, and scribbles on the puck: Will you go out with me tonight?

His handwriting is terrible. The words are barely legible. It’s possibly the most unsmooth thing he’s ever done.

He skates toward you anyway.

***

You’re scrolling through emails when you hear the distinctive sound of a stick tapping on glass.

You look up.

Jack is standing right in front of you, separated only by the boards and the glass. He’s grinning, his hair wet with sweat already from warmups, his eyes bright with something that looks like nerves and excitement and challenge all mixed together.

He holds up the puck so you can read it through the glass.

Will you go out with me tonight?

Around you, people are starting to notice. Starting to pull out their phones. You can hear whispers, feel the attention shifting to this moment, to you and Jack and a puck with a question on it.

You could say no. Could shake your head, let him down easy, go home to Ottawa and forget this ever happened.

Instead, you smirk.

You lean forward, close enough to the glass that your breath would fog it if it wasn’t industrial-grade reinforced.

You mouth, slowly and clearly. Only if you score. On the backhand.

Jack’s eyes go wide.

Then he laughs — throws his head back and laughs, and even through the glass you can see the delight in it, the challenge accepted, the game on.

He points at you, then at himself, then mimes a backhand shot.

You nod.

He tosses the puck over the glass.

You catch it and look down at the words scrawled in sharpie.

Around you, people are definitely filming now. This is going to be on social media within minutes. Yuna is going to see it. Ilya is definitely going to see it.

Future you can deal with that.

Present you is watching Jack skate away, watching him say something to his teammates that makes them all laugh and shove at him, watching him look back at you one more time with a grin that promises everything.

The game hasn’t even started yet, and you’re already in trouble.

***

The first period is scoreless.

Jack has two good chances, but the opposing goalie is standing on his head. The Devils are playing well, controlling the pace, but nothing is going in.

Jack skates by your section every chance he gets. Makes eye contact. Grins like he knows something you don’t.

You’re trying very hard not to be charmed.

(You’re failing.)

The second period starts with the other team scoring first. The arena groans. You watch Jack’s shoulders tense, watch him line up for the next faceoff with renewed intensity.

He wins the draw, passes to Luke, crashes the net looking for a rebound.

Nothing.

Two minutes later, Dawson has a breakaway. Shoots. Hits the post.

The Devils are snake-bitten.

Jack circles back through the neutral zone, gets the puck on his stick, sees an opening-

And goes backhand.

Top shelf.

Bar down.

The goal horn sounds and the arena explodes.

You’re on your feet before you realize you’re moving, screaming with everyone else, and Jack is being mobbed by his teammates and he’s pointing at you through the crowd, through the celebration, direct and unmistakable.

He scored.

On the backhand.

Just like you asked.

***

“I can’t believe that worked,” Luke says during the TV timeout.

“I told you I’ve been practicing,” Jack says, but he’s grinning so wide it hurts.

“You’re disgustingly happy right now,” Nico observes.

“I have a date after this game.”

“You have a date if we win,” Dawson corrects. “Won’t be the same if we lose.”

“Then we’re not losing.”

The game stays tied 1-1 through the rest of the second period and most of the third. It’s physical, fast-paced, the kind of hockey that has the crowd on their feet.

Jack keeps skating by your section. Keeps checking to make sure you’re still there, still watching, still holding that puck with his terrible handwriting.

With two minutes left in the third, still tied, the Devils have possession in the offensive zone.

Jack gets the puck at the blue line. He sees Nico driving to the net, sees the defenseman commit to the pass-

And keeps it.

He cuts to the middle, dekes right, watches the goalie bite, and then-

Backhand.

Shelf.

Goal.

The arena absolutely loses its mind.

Jack is already skating toward the glass, toward you, and his teammates are chasing him and he’s laughing and pointing and the celebration is chaos but all he can see is you, standing and cheering and holding that puck and smiling at him like maybe, just maybe, he’s not entirely hopeless.

He stops right in front of your section, right where he gave you the puck during warmups.

And he winks.

Actually winks, like he’s in a movie, like he’s not completely ridiculous.

You’re laughing. He can see it even through the glass, even through the crowd going insane around you. You’re laughing and shaking your head and you mouth something that looks like show off.

He blows you a kiss.

Luke skates by and shoves him. “Stop flirting and play defense. There’s still two minutes left.”

Right. Hockey. Defense. Winning.

Jack has never been more motivated to protect a lead in his life.

***

The Devils win 2-1.

Jack gets first star, mostly because of the game-winning goal but also because his backhand finally decided to show up for work.

You wait outside the family area after the game, leaning against the wall, still holding the puck, feeling like you’re in some kind of fever dream.

Jack scored twice. Both times on his backhand. Both times while you watched.

Both times while looking at you like you were the only person in the building.

“You’re making a mistake, you know.”

You turn. There’s a blonde woman standing there — pretty, around your age, wearing a Devils jersey. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“Jack Hughes. He’s a player. Like, literally and figuratively.” She steps closer. “I’ve seen him with a different girl every week. Don’t get your hopes up.”

You look at her. At the defensive set of her shoulders, the bitter twist to her mouth.

“Thanks for the concern,” you say evenly. “But I can handle myself.”

“Can you? Because from where I’m standing, you’re just another puck bunny falling for the same routine.”

Before you can respond — before you can inform this woman exactly who you are and exactly what your standards are and exactly how many ways Ilya has taught you to destroy someone with words alone — a voice cuts through the tension.

“She’s not a puck bunny.”

Jack is standing there, hair still wet from the shower, wearing a suit that fits him almost as well as his hockey gear. He’s looking at the blonde woman with something cold and final in his expression.

“She’s my date,” he continues. “And you’re in the way.”

The woman’s face goes red. “Jack, I just-”

“Have a good night,” Jack says, dismissive and clear.

She leaves. Jack turns to you, and the coldness evaporates, replaced by something warm and nervous and hopeful.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Some people don’t know when to back off.”

“You scored,” you say instead of addressing the weird interaction. “Twice.”

“I did.”

“On the backhand.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“The game winner was pretty,” you admit. “Even if you’re a show off.”

He grins. “You liked it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You smiled.”

You did smile. You’re still smiling, and he’s smiling back, and you’re standing in a hallway outside the Devils locker room holding a puck with a question on it that you already know the answer to.

“So,” Jack says, shoving his hands in his pockets like he’s nervous. “I scored. On the backhand. Twice, actually, which I think should get me bonus points.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to bonus points.”

“I’m negotiating. Do you want to get dinner?”

You should say no. You should go back to your hotel, call Ilya, confess everything, and let him talk you out of this before it starts.

But Jack just scored twice on his backhand because you challenged him to. Jack just defended you to some random woman without hesitation. Jack is standing here looking at you like you’re the prize he just won, and maybe-

Maybe Ilya was right. Maybe you do deserve someone who shows up, who puts in the effort, who proves they’re worth your time.

“I want dinner,” you say. “Somewhere expensive.”

“I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else.”

“And you’re paying.”

“Obviously.”

“And if you bore me even once, I’m leaving.”

“I’ll juggle if I have to.”

You laugh and Jack’s whole face lights up like you’ve given him another star.

“Come on,” he says, offering his arm like you’re in a period drama. “I know a place.”

You take his arm.

You’re still holding the puck.

And somewhere in Ottawa, Ilya Rozanov is about to see social media explode with videos of his baby sister catching a puck from Jack Hughes and agreeing to a date.

But that’s a problem for later.

Right now, you have dinner with a boy who scored twice on his backhand just to prove you wrong.

And that feels like a pretty good start.

→ Part II

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