i'm conducting an experiment. everyone who's from an english speaking country state your country, regional area and what you call the following images. i need to see something
No fucking joke, I was offered 4 days of film-set marshalling and I told him I was unavailable for one of the days but I could cancel. And he told me he’d potentially found someone else.
I reblogged this.
And not 20 mins later, he came back to me and said if I really want it, let him know now. So fuck. Wow.
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Summary: you’re the first woman to play in the NHL, and the weight of history sits heavy on your shoulders. Every save is scrutinized. Every mistake dissected. You didn’t fight your way through lawsuits and locker room doubt just to be a curiosity, you came here to win. Then your captain starts looking at you like you’re more than just his goalie. And suddenly, the hardest save you’ll ever have to make has nothing to do with the puck.
(This was written before the trade and I don’t have the energy to go through and change pretty much everything, so it takes place in Vancouver)
The timeline of your life is measured not in years, but in the scrape of blades on ice. It’s measured in the sting of a frozen puck against your blocker, the muffled thud against your pads. It’s a staccato rhythm of saves and shots, of locker room speeches and the lonely quiet of the crease.
It started on a frozen pond behind your house, bundled in so many layers you could barely move, your dad lacing up your first pair of tiny skates. He’d shoot worn-out tennis balls at you, and you’d kick them away with a defiant joy that echoed across the snow-covered landscape. That joy became a fire.
The fire carried you through youth hockey, where the whispers followed you from rink to rink. “A girl goalie?” Mothers would murmur from behind the glass. “Is that allowed?” Fathers would grumble. The whispers turned to shouts from opposing benches, taunts from players who thought they could scare you. They didn’t know they were just fuel. Every chirp, every cheap shot after the whistle, every coach who looked at you with doubt — it all went into the furnace.
High school was a blur of state championships and headlines that always seemed to include the word “female” before “phenom.” You hated it. You weren’t a female phenom. You were a goalie. Full stop.
Then came college. The NCAA. The wall.
“The rules are clear,” the athletic director at Boston University had said, his face a mask of practiced sympathy. “The men’s team is for men.”
“The rules are discriminatory,” you’d shot back, your voice steely, betraying none of the fear churning in your gut. “I made the team. I beat out two other goalies in tryouts. Put me on the roster.”
He didn’t.
So you fought. Your family fought. You found lawyers who believed in the simple, radical idea that the best player should play. It became a national story. A lawsuit that crawled through the courts, each headline a fresh wave of pressure. Commentators debated your right to play on primetime television. Legends of the game weighed in, some for, some against. Through it all, you just kept training. Waking up at four in the morning, spending hours on the ice before class, facing down a puck-shooting machine until your legs screamed and your glove hand ached.
The day the judge ruled in your favor, you didn’t celebrate. You felt a quiet, bone-deep relief, as if a weight you’d been carrying your entire life had finally been lifted. The next day, you walked into the locker room, your nameplate freshly installed above a stall, and you pulled on the jersey.
And then you won. You won the Beanpot. You won the Hockey East championship. You carried the Terriers to the Frozen Four two years in a row, your save percentage and goals-against average shattering school records. You became a legend not because you were a woman, but because you were impenetrable. You were a wall.
Now, the fight is over. A new one is about to begin.
***
The air in J.P. Barry’s office is different. It’s thin and smells of money, glass cleaner, and the faint, lingering scent of a very expensive cigar smoked hours ago. His office is a glass box suspended forty stories above the glittering chaos of Manhattan, and from this vantage point, the world looks orderly, manageable. Deceiving.
You sit in a leather chair that costs more than your first car, a bottle of Voss water sweating onto the polished mahogany table beside you. Your hands are resting in your lap, still. A goalie’s hands. Calm. Ready.
J.P. Barry, your agent, paces slowly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s not a large man, but he commands space, his presence filling the room. He’s dressed in a tailored suit that probably costs more than your college tuition, his movements precise and deliberate. He’s been your agent for exactly six months, but in that time, he’s become the calm center of the hurricane that is your life.
“The media narrative is … predictable,” he says, his voice a low, even baritone. He stops pacing and turns to face you. His eyes are sharp, analytical. He’s not looking at you; he’s assessing an asset, calculating variables. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Experiment.’ ‘The Next Frontier.’ They’re treating you like a curiosity.”
You give a small, humorless smile. “I’ve been a curiosity since I was twelve.”
“This is a different level of curiosity,” he counters, walking back towards the massive desk. He taps a thick folder lying in the center. “This is a multi-million dollar curiosity. Every GM in the league wants to be the one who breaks the barrier. They want the good press, the ticket sales, the marketing bump.”
“And a goalie who can stop the puck?” You add, your voice quiet but firm.
A genuine smile touches the corner of his mouth. “And a goalie who can stop the puck. That, thankfully, is the one variable that isn’t in question. Your college career speaks for itself. The lawsuit proved your right to be there, and your performance proved you belonged.”
He sits down opposite you, lacing his fingers together on the desk. “Which brings us to this.” He gestures to the folder. “The offers. As an undrafted free agent, you’re in a unique position. You get to choose. We’ve fielded calls from nearly every team in the league. We’ve narrowed it down to the most serious, viable options.”
Your heart starts a slow, heavy drumbeat against your ribs. This is it. The moment every kid who ever played road hockey dreams of. The NHL.
“Lay it on me, J.P.”
He opens the folder. “Alright. Option one: The Utah Mammoth. They’re offering a two-year, entry-level max deal. The appeal here is opportunity. Their goaltending situation is … fluid. You’d go into camp with a very real, very immediate shot at the starting job. It’s a low-pressure media market. You could go there, find your footing, and make your mark without the intense scrutiny of a major hockey city.”
“The ‘safe’ option,” you surmise.
“The strategically sound option,” he corrects gently. “There’s no shame in starting your career on solid ground.”
You nod, processing it. Utah. It feels alien. “Okay. What’s next?”
“Option two: The New York Rangers.” He lets the name hang in the air. The history, the prestige, it’s all implied. “They’re offering more. Three years, ELC max, with significant performance bonuses. They want to make a splash. They see the marketing potential of having you in the biggest city in the world. The lights would be blinding. Every save, every goal let in, would be magnified a thousand times. You’d be a superstar overnight, for better or for worse. But … you’d be behind Igor Shesterkin. You’d be a backup, unequivocally. Learning from one of the best, yes, but your ice time would be limited.”
You think about Madison Square Garden. The roar of that crowd. The pressure. It’s tempting, the sheer glamour of it. But he’s right. You haven’t fought this hard your whole life to sit on a bench, no matter how nice the view is.
“I didn’t go to court for a front-row seat,” you say quietly.
J.P. nods, as if he expected that answer. “I figured as much. Which brings us to the third, and in my opinion, most interesting option.”
He slides a piece of paper across the desk. On it is a logo you know well. A stylized blue and green orca forming the letter ‘C’.
“Vancouver,” you breathe.
“Vancouver,” he confirms. “The Canucks. The offer is similar to Utah’s. Two years, ELC max. But the situation is … different. They have a clear number one.”
“Thatcher Demko.”
“Exactly. One of the best in the league when he’s healthy. They’re not looking for a savior. They’re not looking for a marketing gimmick. Patrik Allvin was very clear about that on the phone.” J.P. leans forward, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest. “They’re looking for a partner for Demko. Someone who can push him. Someone who can reliably take thirty, maybe thirty-five games a season and give them a chance to win every single night. They want to build the best goaltending tandem in the NHL.”
He lets that sink in. A tandem. A partnership. It’s not about being the star. It’s about being part of a whole.
“They’re in a Canadian market,” J.P. continues. “The media pressure will be intense, no question. It’s a religion up there. But it’s different from New York. It’s a hockey-literate pressure. They’ll criticize your glove hand, not your gender, if you’re playing well. They want to win. That’s all that matters.”
You stare at the logo. The Canucks. You think of the West Coast. The mountains, the ocean. You think of Thatcher Demko. You’ve watched his tape for years. His calmness, his economy of motion. The idea of sharing a crease with him, of learning from him, of competing with him … it feels right. It feels real.
“What’s the catch?” You ask.
“The catch is you have to earn it,” J.P. says plainly. “Nothing is guaranteed. They want to sign you, but you have to go into training camp and prove you’re the best option for that number two spot. You have to beat out the other guys. They’re not just going to hand it to you because of your story.”
A slow smile spreads across your face. “That’s not a catch, J.P. That’s the whole point.”
He leans back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face. “I thought you might say that. Utah is safe. New York is glamorous. Vancouver … Vancouver is a challenge. It’s a hockey decision, not a business one.”
You look out the window, at the endless grid of streets below. For so long, the fight was just to get a seat at the table. Now you have three seats offered to you, and you have to choose the right one. The one that leads not just to a job, but to a career. To a legacy.
“I don’t want to be the woman who broke the barrier,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “I want to be the goalie who won the Cup. Everything else is just noise.”
“And Vancouver gives you the best chance to do that?”
You think it over. A team on the rise. A passionate, hockey-mad city. A chance to be part of a tandem, to grow and develop without the crushing weight of being the immediate franchise savior. A chance to earn your spot, just like you always have.
“Yeah,” you say, a feeling of certainty settling deep in your chest. “I think it does.”
J.P. picks up his phone. He doesn’t look triumphant, just professional. The decision is made. Now comes the execution.
“So you’re telling me to call Patrik and tell him you want to be a Canuck?”
You take a deep breath, the filtered office air feeling suddenly fresh, full of promise. The pond behind your house. The taunts from the other kids. The sympathetic smirk of the athletic director. The slam of the judge’s gavel. It’s all led to this single, quiet moment, forty stories above the world.
“Yeah, J.P.,” you say, and the smile that breaks across your face is real, and bright, and full of fire. “Tell him I’m coming home.”
***
The air that hits you as you step out of the jet bridge at Vancouver International Airport is different. It’s clean, carrying the faint, briny scent of the Pacific and the crisp promise of pine from mountains you can’t yet see. It feels less like air and more like an inhalation of pure potential. The butterflies in your stomach, which had been performing a frantic, anxiety-fueled ballet for the entire six-hour flight from Boston, seem to calm, their wings beating a slower, more purposeful rhythm.
You navigate the terminal, a rolling duffel in one hand, your custom goalie sticks in a massive travel bag slung over your shoulder. People give you a wide berth. You’re used to it. A woman of your height, with the broad shoulders built by a thousand push-ups and the unmistakable gear of a hockey player, tends to part crowds. You scan the faces in the arrivals hall, a sea of reunions and greetings, looking for a sign. J.P. had said a team rep would meet you. You picture a fresh-faced kid from the media relations department, or maybe a grizzled, old-timer from the equipment staff, someone with a face like a well-worn catcher’s mitt.
Then you see him.
He’s leaning against a concrete pillar, away from the main throng, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. He’s tall — taller than you expected — and built like someone carved him from the side of a mountain. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie, the hood pulled up, and a pair of jeans. In his hands, he’s holding a small, slightly crumpled piece of printer paper. On it, in surprisingly neat block letters, is your last name.
Your brain takes a moment to process the image. The face under the hood is one you’ve seen a thousand times on television, in highlight reels, on hockey cards. The calm, intense eyes. The strong jaw. The placid expression that goalies perfect, the one that says nothing can rattle them.
It’s Thatcher Demko.
The starting goaltender for the Vancouver Canucks, a Vezina finalist, one of the best in the world, is standing in the arrivals terminal at YVR holding a makeshift sign for you like he’s an Uber driver.
Your feet feel suddenly rooted to the polished floor. You take a breath, tighten your grip on your duffel, and walk towards him. As you get closer, he looks up, his eyes meeting yours. A flicker of recognition, and then a small, genuine smile spreads across his face.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a low, easy rumble. It’s exactly as you’d heard it in post-game interviews. Calm. Steady. “You made it.”
“I … yeah,” you manage, your own voice feeling ridiculously small. “You’re Thatcher Demko.” It comes out as an accusation, a statement of blatant, unbelievable fact.
He glances down at the piece of paper in his hands and then back up at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I was trying to be subtle. Guess it didn’t work.” He crumples the paper and shoves it into his hoodie pocket. “Figured it was better than having some stranger pick you up. Welcome to Vancouver.”
He reaches for your stick bag, and you instinctively pull it back a little. “Oh, I can get it.”
“I’m sure you can,” he says, his smile widening. He gently takes the bag from your shoulder anyway. “But let me. It’s a big bag.” The transfer is seamless, professional. He handles the cumbersome bag with an ease that tells you he’s done this a million times.
You walk together towards the parkade, the silence between you punctuated by the squeak of your shoes and the rumble of your duffel’s wheels. Your mind is racing. Why is he here? Is this some kind of test? A rookie initiation?
“So,” he says, breaking the silence as you step into the elevator. “I have to say, this is pretty cool.”
“Cool?” You echo, confused. “What’s cool?”
“This. You. The whole thing.” He shifts the weight of your sticks on his shoulder. “I, uh, might have spent a few hours on YouTube last week watching your college highlights.”
You blink. “You did?”
“Oh yeah.” He nods, completely serious. “That glove save you made in the Beanpot final, second overtime, on that BC forward … Ryan Leonard, was it?”
“James Hagens,” you correct automatically.
“Hagens, right. The way you read the pass and pushed across, you were already there before he even shot it. Your anticipation is … insane.” He says it with the genuine, unadulterated enthusiasm of a true fan.
You don’t know what to say. Thatcher Demko is geeking out about your save. The world has officially tilted on its axis. “Thanks. He … he has a heavy shot.”
The elevator doors open, and he leads you to a large, black Ford F-150 that looks like it could drive up the side of a building. It’s immaculately clean. He loads your gear into the back with practiced efficiency before opening the passenger door for you.
“So you’re a truck guy,” you say, climbing into the cab.
“You kind of have to be, with the size of our gear bags,” he says, shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side. “Tried a sedan once. Lasted about a week. Felt like I was solving a Rubik’s Cube every time I went to the rink.”
He starts the engine, and the truck hums to life. As he navigates out of the parkade and onto the highway, the city begins to reveal itself. Glass towers glint in the late afternoon sun, framed by the dark, majestic peaks of the North Shore mountains. It’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
“So, listen,” he says, his eyes on the road. “I know things are probably going to be … a little weird at first. With the media, and, you know, everything.”
“I’m used to weird,” you say with a small smile.
“Yeah, I bet you are. But I just wanted to be the first one to say it doesn’t matter. None of that stuff matters in the room, and it definitely doesn’t matter in the crease. You’re here because you can stop the puck. Period. Anyone who has a problem with that is an idiot.”
The directness of it, the simple, unequivocal statement of support, loosens a knot in your chest you didn’t even realize was there. “Thank you,” you say, and the words are heavier than just two syllables. “Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me. Just be ready to work.” He glances over at you. “And don’t be afraid to be a weirdo.”
You laugh. “A weirdo?”
“Yeah. You’re a goalie. You have to be a weirdo. It’s in the job description.”
“Okay,” you play along. “What’s your weirdest goalie thing? Your biggest superstition?”
He thinks for a moment, a slight smile on his face. “Alright. Don’t tell anyone this. Especially not Ian Clark, he’d kill me. But before every period, when I skate out to the crease, I have to tap the left post, then the right post, then the crossbar with the butt-end of my stick. In that order. Always. If I mess it up, I have to skate a little circle and start over.”
“Okay, that’s pretty standard,” you say, nodding. “The post-tapping ritual. I get that.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the weird part,” he continues. “The weird part is … I say hello to them.”
You turn to look at him. “You what?”
“I say ‘Hey, Lefty. Hey, Righty. Hey, Top,’ under my breath. Every single time. Gotta make sure we’re all on the same page, you know? They’re my best friends out there.” He says it with such deadpan sincerity that you can’t help but burst out laughing.
“Okay, you win,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye. “That is officially weird.”
“Your turn,” he says, grinning. “Spill it. What’s your thing?”
You hesitate for a second, then decide he’s earned it. “My glove,” you say. “The night before a game, I take it to my hotel room. And I put it on the pillow of the other bed. Like it’s a person.”
He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Okay. Okay. I see it. You want it to be well-rested. Limber. Ready to perform. That makes a weird kind of sense.”
“And,” you add, emboldened, “I never, ever, let my pads touch on the floor of the locker room when I’m getting dressed. They have to be standing up against the stall, perfectly parallel. If someone bumps one and it falls over and touches the other one, I have to … well, it’s not good.”
“It throws the whole alignment of the universe out of whack,” he finishes for you, his expression deadly serious.
“Exactly!” You exclaim. “You get it.”
“I get it,” he confirms. “We’re the same kind of crazy.”
The rest of the drive passes in an easy flow of conversation. You talk about gear, the never-ending quest for the perfect skate sharpening, the agony of breaking in a new blocker. You talk about the mental side of the game, the deafening silence after letting in a soft goal, the weird Zen-like state you can get into when you’re seeing every puck like it’s a beach ball. He doesn’t treat you like a rookie, and he doesn’t treat you like a woman. He treats you like another goalie, a fellow member of the strange, lonely union.
He pulls up in front of a sleek downtown hotel. “Team puts all the new guys up here until they find a place,” he explains, putting the truck in park. “It’s not bad. Good gym. Decent room service.”
He gets out and helps you with your bags, walking you into the lobby. The concierge greets him by name.
“Thanks for this, Thatcher,” you say, as he hands your duffel over to the bellhop. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Demko,” he corrects. “Everyone just calls me Demko. Or Demmer. And yeah, I did. Wanted to make sure you got a proper welcome.” He offers you a hand. You shake it. His grip is firm, confident. “Get some rest. Camp starts in two days. It’s gonna be a grind.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good.” He gives you one last nod. “See you at the rink. Try not to let your pads touch.”
And with that, he’s gone. You watch him walk out of the lobby, leaving you standing there with a feeling you haven’t had in a long, long time. The feeling that, for the first time, you might have just found a place where you truly belong.
***
Two days later, that feeling of belonging is replaced by a tidal wave of pure nerves.
You walk through the corridors of Rogers Arena, following the signs to the Canucks locker room. The air is cool and smells of Zamboni fumes and stale popcorn. You can hear the distant, echoing clicks of pucks and the shouts of the early-arriving players. Every step feels momentous.
You push open the heavy door, and the room goes quiet.
It’s not a dramatic, movie-style silence. It’s more subtle than that. Conversations don’t stop mid-sentence, but they trail off. Heads turn. The dozen or so players already there, in various states of dress, all look at you. It only lasts for a second, but it feels like an eternity.
The room itself is exactly what you’d imagined. A large oval, stalls lining the walls, the iconic orca logo woven into the massive carpet in the center. Jerseys are hung with pristine care, a sea of blue, green, and white.
A man with a sharp suit and an even sharper expression detaches himself from a conversation with two other men in tracksuits. He walks towards you, hand extended.
“You’re here,” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is gravelly, no-nonsense. “Adam Foote. Welcome to camp.”
“Coach,” you say, shaking his hand. His grip is like iron. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Opportunity’s gotta be earned,” he says, but there’s no malice in it. It’s just a statement of fact. He turns to the rest of the room, his voice booming. “Alright, listen up! This is Y/N Y/L/N. She’s here to compete for a spot, same as everyone else. Introduce yourselves. Make her feel welcome.”
He gives you a short, sharp nod, and then he’s gone, back to his conversation. The ice is broken. A few guys call out a “Hey” or “Welcome.” One by one, players start to come over as you make your way to the empty stall someone has clearly designated for you. It’s between a veteran defenseman and an empty space.
A tall forward with a friendly, open face is the first to offer a proper handshake. “Brock Boeser. Good to have you here.”
“Conor Garland,” says another, his handshake firm, his eyes assessing. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Elias Pettersson,” a lanky Swede with intense eyes says with a polite nod.
You go through the motions, shaking hands, learning names, matching faces to the players you’ve watched for years. It’s a blur of polite greetings. Then, a goalie in full gear, minus his helmet, waddles over. He’s got a bright, optimistic look on his face.
“Kevin Lankinen,” he says in a slight Finnish accent, pulling off his blocker to shake your hand. “Welcome to the competition.”
You look him in the eye. He is, in the most direct way, your rival. The man you have to beat to earn that job. The smile he gives you is genuine, but his eyes hold a competitive fire that you know well, because you see it in the mirror every morning.
“Good to meet you,” you say, your tone even. “Looking forward to it.”
“May the best goalie win,” he says with a cheerful grin, and waddles back to his stall. There’s no animosity, just the clean, simple reality of professional sports.
You finally get to your stall and begin the long, familiar ritual of getting dressed. It’s a comfort. The specific order of things — shin pads, pants, skates, chest protector — is a meditation. You focus on the task, blocking out the low hum of conversation around you, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
“So, is it true?”
The voice is quiet, coming from your left. You turn your head. Leaning against the adjacent stall is a player you recognize instantly. Quinn Hughes. The captain. He’s smaller than most of the other guys, but he has an aura of quiet confidence. He’s watching you with a curious, almost academic interest.
“Is what true?” You ask, pulling a skate lace tight.
“That you sued the NCAA and won.” He says it casually, like he’s asking about the weather.
“Yeah,” you say, starting on your other skate. “That’s true.”
“That’s pretty badass,” he says with a small smirk. “Must have cost a fortune.”
“It did,” you admit. “My parents remortgaged their house.”
His smirk fades, replaced by a look of genuine respect. “Wow. So no pressure, then.”
You can’t help but smile. “None at all.”
He pushes off the stall and sits down on the bench in the empty spot next to you. He’s already in his lower gear, his skates on but unlaced. “I watched some of your games from last year. You, uh … you don’t move a lot.”
It’s an odd observation. “I move when I have to.”
“No, I mean, that’s a compliment,” he clarifies, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “A lot of goalies are all over the place. Hasek wannabes. All flash. You’re … efficient. Calm. Like you know where the puck is going before the guy even shoots it.”
He’s a student of the game. You can hear it in the way he talks. He’s not just seeing a goalie, he’s analyzing a system.
“It’s called anticipation,” you say. “Kind of important for the position.”
“Right.” He nods. “So, are you going to be able to anticipate my shot?” There’s a playful challenge in his eyes now.
You finish lacing your skates and stand up, looking down at him. “Which one? The slapshot you never use or that weird, jerky little wrist shot you release from your hip?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then he breaks into a wide, infectious grin. “Okay. Okay. You’ve done your homework. I respect that.”
“You have to,” you say, grabbing your chest protector. “It’s called being a professional.”
He laughs, a genuine, happy sound that draws a few glances. “I like you,” he declares. “You’re alright.”
“Glad I have the captain’s seal of approval,” you say dryly, pulling the bulky protector over your head.
“You don’t need my approval,” he says, his tone shifting back to something more serious. “You just need to stop pucks. That’s all anyone in here cares about. You do that, and you’ll be fine.”
He stands up, his presence suddenly feeling closer. “For what it’s worth,” he adds in a lower voice, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to have someone in the room who had to fight to get here.”
Before you can respond, Foote’s voice cuts through the room. “On the ice in five! Let’s go!”
Quinn gives you a quick tap on the shoulder pads. “See you out there. Try to keep up.”
He skates away, and you’re left with the echo of his words, a warmth spreading through your chest.
Stepping onto the ice at Rogers Arena is like stepping into another dimension. The lights are brighter, the ice is colder and harder, the rink feels both bigger and more intimate than any college barn you’ve ever played in. You take your place in one of the nets, Demko in the other, and begin your warm-up stretches, the movements as familiar and comforting as breathing.
Ian Clark, the legendary goalie coach, skates over. His eyes are piercing, and you feel like he’s taking a complete inventory of your technique, your stance, your very soul, in a single glance.
“Alright,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Just movement drills to start. T-pushes. Shuffles. Butterfly slides. I want to see clean edges. No wasted energy. Let’s go.”
For the next twenty minutes, he puts you and the other goalies through the paces. It’s grueling, precise work. He corrects your hand positioning by an inch, the angle of your skate by a few degrees. He doesn’t offer praise, only corrections. You just nod, absorb the information, and execute. You feel Lankinen next to you, matching you move for move, his own movements economical and sharp. The silent competition has begun.
Then, the team drills start.
A 3-on-2 rush comes down on you. Garland is carrying the puck, Pettersson on his left, Boeser on his right. It’s a blur of elite speed and skill. Garland dishes to Pettersson, who one-touches it back. You read the return pass, sliding across the crease, every muscle screaming. Garland fires it, a hard, low shot aimed for the far corner. You extend your leg, the toe of your pad just catching the puck, deflecting it wide.
A defenseman taps your pads with his stick. “Great save!”
You just nod, resetting. The next rush comes.
For an hour, it’s a relentless onslaught. You face shots from every angle, every type of release. Breakaways, backdoor tap-ins, point shots through traffic. You feel yourself slipping into the zone, that hyper-focused state where the puck seems to slow down, where you’re not thinking, only reacting. You make saves you have no business making, your glove snatching pucks out of the air, your pads slamming shut on five-hole attempts. You let in a few, too. A perfect snipe from Pettersson that goes bar-down. A tricky deflection you can’t track. But you don’t let it rattle you. You reset. Next puck.
Late in the practice, you see him. Quinn, gathering the puck at the blue line. He skates laterally, his head up, surveying his options. He’s not looking at you, but you know he knows you’re there. He fakes a pass, freezing the forward covering him for a fraction of a second. In that tiny window, he lets it go — that jerky, deceptive wrist shot you’d mentioned in the locker room. It’s not a hard shot, but it’s perfectly placed, ticketed for the top corner, short side.
You don’t have time to think. It’s pure muscle memory. You explode upwards from your butterfly, your glove hand shooting up, and you feel the sharp thud of the puck nesting perfectly in the pocket.
The whistle blows. You hold the glove up for a second, then toss the puck out. You look over at him. He’s standing at the blue line, stick resting on his hips, just watching you. He doesn’t smile. He just gives you a slow, single nod. A nod of pure respect.
In the world of hockey, it’s better than a standing ovation.
When the final whistle blows to end practice, you’re drenched in sweat, your legs feel like jelly, and you’re utterly exhausted. But you’re also exhilarated. As you skate towards the gate, Demko glides alongside you.
“Not bad,” he says, his face impassive behind his mask, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Not bad at all.”
“Just trying to keep up,” you pant.
“Well, you did.” He taps your pads. “Good work. See you tomorrow.”
Back in the locker room, the atmosphere is different. It’s lighter. The curiosity has been replaced by a quiet acceptance. You didn’t just show up. You performed. You proved, on day one, that you belong on that ice.
As you’re pulling off your skates, Quinn walks by your stall. He stops, leaning an arm against the frame.
“So,” he says, a small grin playing on his lips. “I guess you anticipated that one.”
“I told you,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating a little faster. “It’s my job.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing off the stall. “Tomorrow, I’m scoring.”
He winks, then walks away, leaving you to stare after him, a smile you can’t contain spreading across your face. It’s only day one, and the fight is far from over. But as you sit there in the loud, bustling, sweat-soaked locker room of the Vancouver Canucks, you feel a sense of rightness, a deep and profound certainty that you chose the right city. You chose the right team. You came to the right place.
***
Training camp is a blur. It’s a relentless, soul-crushing, beautiful grind. The days bleed into one another, marked only by the searing pain in your legs during bag skates and the fleeting satisfaction of a perfectly executed drill. Your world shrinks to the ice, the gym, the hotel, and the film room. It is monastic. It is punishing. It is exactly where you want to be.
You and Kevin Lankinen exist in a state of professional orbit. You are never far from each other, a silent, magnetic push-and-pull of competition. You watch him during drills, noting the efficiency of his pushes, the quickness of his glove. He watches you, his eyes lingering after you make a sprawling save in a scrimmage. The respect is mutual, the goal singular. There is only one job.
Your friendship with Demko solidifies. He’s your unofficial mentor, your confessor in the church of goaltending. He’ll skate by your net after a drill, offering a quiet word. “You’re opening up your five-hole a hair early on your butterfly slides,” or, “Keep that blocker hand active. Don’t let it go dead.” It’s never criticism, only data. He’s helping you, sharpening you, not because he’s a saint, but because he wants the best possible goalie playing behind him. A strong tandem makes the whole team stronger.
And then there’s Quinn. The interactions are small, fleeting moments that somehow feel more significant than entire conversations. It’s a shared laugh in the middle of a brutal stretching session. It’s him skating by the bench and squirting water from his bottle at you, earning a playful glare. It’s him seeking you out in the lunchroom to ask a question about a defensive breakdown in the scrimmage, his tone treating you not as a rookie, but as a peer whose opinion he genuinely values. You find yourself looking for him, your eyes scanning the ice for the smooth, effortless stride of number 43.
The preseason arrives like a judgment. Six games to decide your fate. Foote announces that you, Lankinen, and a prospect from Abbotsford will split the first three starts. The math is simple and terrifying. Every single shot matters.
Your first test is in Seattle. You’re backing up Lankinen, which means you spend the first half of the game chewing on a towel and trying to keep your leg muscles from seizing up. The Climate Pledge Arena is loud, a wave of teal and navy blue. Lankinen looks … tight. He lets in a goal on the first shot, a wrister from the point that he seems to misread. Ten minutes later, a bad rebound kicks right out into the slot, and a Kraken forward buries it. You can see his shoulders slump.
At the halfway mark of the second period, during a TV timeout, Ian Clark skates to the bench and looks directly at you. “You’re in.”
That’s it. No pep talk. No instructions. Just “You’re in.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You pull on your helmet, grab your stick, and skate to the net. Lankinen is already there. He lifts his mask, his face slick with sweat and frustration.
“See ‘em well,” he says, his voice tight. It’s the goalie’s equivalent of ‘break a leg.’
“You got it,” you say, tapping his pads.
You do your ritual. The familiar routine is a rock in a stormy sea. The whistle blows. The puck is dropped. A Seattle forward carries it over the blue line and fires a slap shot from a mile out. It’s a tester, a nothing-burger of a shot. You swallow it up in your glove, holding it for a second before the whistle. You feel the tension drain out of you. Okay. Just hockey.
For the next thirty minutes, you are a black hole. Everything they throw at your net, you absorb. A frantic goalmouth scramble where you lose your stick and have to make a save with your blocker while lying on your stomach. A breakaway from Matty Beniers where you match his speed, hold your ground, and force him to shoot it wide. You aren’t spectacular. You’re just … there. A calm, immovable object. You make the saves you’re supposed to make, and one or two that you aren’t. The Canucks end up losing 3-1, but you let in zero goals. In the silent, brutal accounting of a goalie battle, that’s a win.
A few nights later, in the home locker room at Rogers Arena, Foote walks up to your stall. “You’ve got the Oilers tonight.”
A cold dread mixes with fiery excitement in your stomach. The Oilers. McDavid and Draisaitl. The two-headed monster that haunts the dreams of every goalie in the league.
“Yes, coach,” you say, your voice betraying none of your internal chaos.
Before you go out for warmups, Demko, who is sitting this one out, comes over to you. He leans in close.
“Forget their names,” he says quietly. “They’re just 97 and 29. They’re just two guys with sticks. Watch the logo on their chest, not the name on their back. Stop the puck.”
You nod, the simple advice cutting through the noise in your head. Stop the puck. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
The game is the fastest you have ever experienced. The speed is breathtaking, particularly Connor McDavid’s. The first time he comes down on you with a head of steam, it feels like he’s warping reality around him. He skates past two of your defensemen like they’re traffic cones. He’s in alone on you. He dekes left, dekes right, his hands a blur. You don’t bite. You hold your depth, your focus narrowed to the six-ounce piece of vulcanized rubber on his stick blade. He tries to slide it five-hole. You slam your pads shut. The puck thuds into your pads and dies right there.
The arena, which had held its breath, explodes. You see Quinn skate by the net and bang his stick on the ice in appreciation.
You make forty-two saves that night. You rob Draisaitl on a one-timer that he blasts from his office at the side of the net, your glove shooting out to snag it. You stop a wraparound from Zach Hyman. You stand on your head. But they are who they are. McDavid scores on a ridiculous individual effort where he banks the puck off the back of the net to himself. Draisaitl scores on a power play. You lose 2-1.
But as you skate off the ice, exhausted and aching, the crowd is on its feet, giving you a standing ovation. You lift your stick to acknowledge them, a sense of gratitude washing over you. You lost the game, but you proved you could stand in the fire.
Your last chance is the final preseason game, on the road, against the Calgary Flames. The Scotiabank Saddledome is a sea of red, hostile and loud. This is it. The final exam. You feel a strange sense of calm. You’ve done everything you can. Now you just have to play.
And you do. You play the best game of your life. You’re in that surreal state of flow, the zone, where time slows down and you see everything. You’re reading plays before they happen, sliding into position a half-second before the pass is even made. You stop a 2-on-0 shorthanded breakaway. You make a glove save that is so audacious the Calgary crowd lets out a collective groan.
You pitch a shutout. The Canucks win 2-0.
In the locker room afterwards, it’s a quiet, happy scene. Guys are packing their bags, excited for the real season to start. You’re sitting in your stall, slowly peeling off your gear, when Quinn sits down on the bench next to you. He’s still in his gear, helmet off, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“You know,” he says, looking straight ahead, “you’re a real pain in the ass.”
You turn to look at him, confused. “What?”
“For Foote,” he clarifies, a grin spreading across his face as he turns to you. “You’re making this decision impossible for him. Lankinen has a contract. You don’t. And you just came in here and outplayed him at every turn. It’s a real headache for management.”
“Oh,” you say. “Sorry to be a bother.”
“Don’t be,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s the best kind of problem to have. You were unbelievable tonight.”
“Thanks, Cap,” you say, a genuine warmth spreading through your chest.
“Anytime,” he says, standing up. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”
He’s right. The next day, the final cut day, the air at the arena is thick with tension. The rink is quiet. Players walk around like ghosts, waiting for the summons. You sit in the players’ lounge, staring at a cup of coffee, your phone face down on the table. Every time a door opens, you jump.
At 11:30 AM, a team staffer finds you. “Foote wants to see you.”
Your blood turns to ice water. This is it. You walk down the hall, your footsteps echoing. The hallway to the executive offices feels a mile long. You knock on the door that says ‘HEAD COACH.’
“Come in.”
You open the door. Adam Foote is sitting behind his desk. Patrik Allvin is in a chair beside him. They both look serious. Your heart sinks. This is the ‘thanks for coming, but we’re going in another direction’ face. You’ve seen it before.
“Sit down,” Foote says, gesturing to the chair opposite them.
You sit. The leather is cold. You place your hands on your knees to keep them from shaking.
Allvin speaks first, his Swedish accent precise and clear. “We brought you into camp to compete for a job. We told you nothing would be handed to you. We told you that you would have to earn it.”
He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. You just nod, your throat too dry to speak.
“Well,” Foote cuts in, leaning forward. “You did. You came in here, you worked your ass off, you didn't say a damn word, and you were outstanding in all three of your games. You earned it.”
You stare at him, the words not quite registering.
Allvin smiles, a warm, genuine smile. “What Adam is trying to say is, we would like to offer you a two-year, two-way NHL contract. We want you to be Thatcher’s partner this season.”
The breath you’ve been holding for your entire life rushes out of you in a single, silent gasp. The room swims for a second. You feel a lightness in your head, a dizzying, overwhelming wave of relief and joy and disbelief. You swallow hard.
“Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice cracking. You clear your throat. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“We know we won’t,” Foote says, his stern expression finally breaking into a small smile. “Now get out of here. J.P. is waiting for your call. We’ve got a press conference to arrange.”
You stand up, shake both their hands, and walk out of the office in a daze. As the door clicks shut behind you, you lean against the wall in the empty hallway, closing your eyes. It’s real. You did it. All the years on the frozen pond, the taunts, the lawsuits, the 4 AM practices, the remortgaged house … it was all for this.
When you open your eyes, Demko is standing at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall, a huge, knowing grin on his face. He doesn’t say anything. He just gives you a slow, deliberate nod. You nod back, a wide, shaky smile spreading across your own face. He knew. Of course he knew.
***
Two hours later, you’re standing in the Canucks media room, but it feels more like a gladiator pit. The room is packed. Every major sports network in North America seems to be here. Cameras flash like lightning, and the low hum of dozens of conversations creates a palpable buzz of energy.
You, Allvin, and J.P. sit at a table on a small stage. Allvin makes the official announcement. “The Vancouver Canucks are proud to announce that we have signed goaltender Y/N Y/L/N to a two-year contract.”
The room erupts in a cacophony of camera shutters. After a few minutes of formal statements, they open the floor to questions. Most of them are for you.
They start easy. “How does it feel to make history?” “What does this moment mean to you?” You give the practiced, humble answers you’ve been preparing your whole life.
Then, a reporter from a major network in the front row gets the microphone. He has a smug, confrontational look on his face.
“A question for you,” he says, his voice amplified by the speakers. “We’ve seen a similar phenomenon in basketball with Caitlin Clark, who chose to embrace the WNBA and help grow that league. The PWHL is having incredible success in its own right. Why do you think you’re too good for the Professional Women’s Hockey League?”
The room goes quiet. It’s a loaded, cynical question, designed to trap you, to paint you as arrogant or as someone who is turning her back on women’s hockey. You can feel the weight of every female hockey player in the world on your shoulders.
You take a slow, deliberate breath. You look directly at the reporter.
“First,” you begin, your voice calm and steady, projecting through the room. “Let’s be clear. I think what Caitlin Clark is doing for the WNBA is incredible, and I think the PWHL is one of the most important things to ever happen to our sport. I have watched every game I can, and I am in awe of the talent in that league. I’m not too good for that league. No one is.”
You pause, letting that sink in.
“But my dream was never just to be a professional hockey player. It was to play in the best league in the world, against the best players in the world. Period. When I was a little girl, my dad didn’t tell me, ‘One day, you can play in a great women’s league.’ He told me, ‘One day, you can play in the NHL.’ My whole life, every decision I’ve made, every battle I’ve fought, including a lawsuit that took years off my parents’ lives, was for the right to have the opportunity to compete for a spot here.”
You lean a little closer to the microphone.
“This isn’t about me being too good for one league. This is about me finding out if I’m good enough for this one. The women in the PWHL are building something special, and they have my absolute respect. I’m trying to prove something different. I’m trying to prove that in hockey, the only thing that should matter is your ability to play the game.”
You lean back. The room is silent for a beat. You’ve answered the question, disarmed the trap, and stated your case without disrespecting anyone.
The scrum breaks up shortly after that, dissolving into a chaotic swirl of reporters trying to get one last quote. As you step down from the stage, you feel a hand clap you firmly on the back. You turn. It’s Quinn, a huge, proud grin on his face. The entire team had been watching from the back of the room.
He leans in close so you can hear him over the noise. “That,” he says, “was the best damn answer I’ve ever heard.”
He gives you a quick, conspiratorial wink, and then he’s swallowed up by the crowd of your new teammates, all coming over to congratulate you. But the wink lingers. It’s a seal of approval, a sign of alliance. It feels less like a welcome to the team and more like a welcome home.
***
The first four games of the season are a unique form of torture.
You are in the NHL. You have the contract, the stall in the locker room, the number on your back. You are living the dream. But you’re living it from the best seat in the house, on the bench, watching Demko do his job.
It's a strange purgatory. You are part of the team, but not yet part of the game. You chew on the nub of a Gatorade towel, your leg bouncing with a nervous energy that has nowhere to go. You track every puck, your body making phantom saves, your muscles twitching in sync with the action a hundred feet away. You are a loaded gun with the safety on.
“It’s the worst, isn’t it?” Demko says to you after the season opener, a solid 5-1 win against the flames where he was brilliant.
“What is?” You ask, looking up from the tablet where you’d been re-watching one of his saves from the third period.
“The waiting,” he says, leaning his head back against the wall. “Being the number two. You do all the same work, all the same prep, but you don’t get the release. It’s like being a race car driver who only gets to sit in the passenger seat. You just have to stay ready.”
“How do you do it?” You ask, the question genuine. “How do you stay sharp when you don’t know when you’ll play?”
“You get weird,” he says with a shrug. “Weirder than usual, I mean. Your practices become your games. Every shot in a morning skate is the Stanley Cup Final. You get into a competition with yourself. And you watch. You watch everything. You learn my tendencies, you learn the shooters’ tendencies. You become a librarian of hockey information. So when they finally call your number, you’re not thinking. You just know.”
You take his advice to heart. Your practices become legendary among the coaching staff. You stay out thirty minutes late every day, begging anyone — Pettersson, Garland, Boeser — to take extra shots on you. You become a student of your own team, learning how each defenseman likes to play a 2-on-1, which forward is most likely to block a shot.
Your bond with Quinn deepens, not through grand conversations, but through the quiet language of the game. He learns that you like to play the puck behind the net, and he starts presenting a better, more predictable target for your passes. You learn that on the power play, he loves the deceptive shot-pass, and you start anticipating the deflection. Before each game, as the team lines up in the tunnel, he’s the last one you see before you take your spot on the bench. He has a ritual. He skates by, taps Demko on the left pad, then skates to you and taps you on the right. Every single time. A small gesture of inclusion. A reminder that you’re part of the tandem.
After a tough 3-2 loss to the Blues at home, he finds you in the gym, long after most of the team has gone home. You’re on the exercise bike, churning out your frustration.
“Hey,” he says, walking over. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. “Shouldn’t you be at home eating pizza or something?”
“Not tired,” you say, your breathing heavy.
He just nods, understanding. He grabs a foam roller and starts working on his legs a few feet away. You ride in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the whir of the bike and the squeak of the foam roller.
“That second goal,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “That was on me. I bit on the pass, left Hronek out to dry.”
You slow your pedaling. “It was a 2-on-1, Quinn. It happens.”
“It shouldn’t,” he says, his voice tight with the frustration of a perfectionist. “Demmer had the shooter, I’m supposed to take the pass. I got greedy. I thought I could strip the puck.”
He’s not looking for absolution. He’s just analyzing the data, frustrated with his own error. It’s the same way you break down goals against yourself.
“Next time you’ll take the pass,” you say.
He looks up at you, a small, grateful smile touching his lips. “Yeah. I will.” He gets up, stretching. “Don’t stay too late. We’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow.”
“Yes, Captain,” you say with a mock salute.
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he walks away.
The moment finally comes on a gray, drizzly morning in Dallas, Texas. The team is going through a light morning skate ahead of their game against the Stars. It’s the fifth game of the season, and the second half of a grueling back-to-back that saw the Canucks lose a tight game in Chicago the night before. Demko had faced forty shots.
You’re in your net, feeling loose, tracking pucks, when Adam Foote skates over. His face is its usual stony mask.
“You’re in tonight,” he says, his voice a low gravel.
You freeze for a fraction of a second, a shot from Boeser sailing harmlessly past your ear. You turn back to the coach.
“You got this,” is all he says, before skating away to yell at a defenseman for a lazy pass.
Your stomach does a complicated series of flips. This is it. No more waiting. No more watching. The race car is yours to drive.
Demko skates over to your net, leaning against the crossbar. “Hear the news?”
“Heard the news,” you confirm, your voice coming out steadier than you feel.
“Good. It’s about damn time.” He looks around the American Airlines Center, at the thousands of empty green seats. “This is a tough barn to play in. They’re a heavy team. They love to crash the net. Stand your ground. Don’t let them push you around.”
“Got it.”
“It’s just another net,” he says, tapping the post with his stick. “Six feet by four feet. Same as it’s always been. Go have fun.”
The rest of the day is a slow, agonizing crawl towards 7 PM. You try to nap at the hotel, but your mind is racing, playing out every possible scenario. You eat your standard pre-game meal of salmon and quinoa, but it tastes like cardboard. You sit on the bus on the way to the arena, your headphones on, but you don’t hear the music. You just hear the thumping of your own heart.
In the locker room, the atmosphere is loose, but professional. The team is tired from the back-to-back, but they’re ready. As you go through the long, meticulous ritual of putting on your gear, you feel a sense of calm finally settle over you. This is your church. The smell of the room, the feel of the pads, the specific order of operations — it’s all familiar. It’s home.
When you’re almost dressed, Quinn walks over. He’s leaning against your stall, his expression unreadable.
“Ready for this?” He asks.
“Born ready,” you lie, trying for a confident smirk that probably looks more like a grimace.
“Good,” he says. “Because we’re gonna be running around a bit tonight. Tired legs. We’re gonna need you to be our best player.”
It’s not a pep talk. It’s a statement of fact. It’s a transfer of responsibility. He’s not trying to pump you up, he’s telling you what the team needs from you. It’s more effective than any rah-rah speech could ever be.
“I’ll be there,” you say.
“We know.” He offers you a fist bump. You meet it with your blocker. “See you in the tunnel.”
Walking down that tunnel is the most terrifying and exhilarating moment of your life. The lights of the arena are blinding, the roar of the Dallas crowd a physical force. You step onto the ice, and a chorus of boos rains down on you. They know who you are. They know this is your first start. They want to see you fail.
You skate to your crease, do your ritual.
The puck drops.
The first five minutes are a whirlwind. Dallas comes out flying, pinning the tired Canucks in their own zone. The puck is a blur. A shot from the point through a screen that you have to fight to see, your glove snatching it at the last second. A wrap-around attempt by Wyatt Johnston that you get your skate on, kicking it out of danger. A one-timer from Jason Robertson in the slot that you get your chest on, the puck thudding into your protector like a punch.
With each save, you feel the nerves melt away, replaced by the cool, clear focus you’ve been chasing your whole life. You are in the zone. The game slows down. The hostile crowd fades into white noise. There is only you, the puck, and the five skaters in front of you.
The Canucks weather the storm, and the game settles into a tense, grinding affair. It’s 0-0 at the end of the first. You’ve made 15 saves.
In the locker room, Foote is pragmatic. “Good period, good period! We bent, we didn’t break. She’s holding us in it,” he says, jerking his head in your direction. “Now let’s get our damn legs moving and get her some support. We can’t let her stand on her head all night.”
The second period is more of the same. It’s a goaltending duel. At the other end, Jake Oettinger, another young American star, is matching you save for save. He robs Pettersson on a breakaway, his long legs stretching to deny the deke. You stop Mikko Rantanen on a deflection from the top of the crease, the puck changing direction at the last second.
Late in the period, the Canucks finally break through. Garland forces a turnover at the blue line and feeds a pass to Boeser, who wires a wrist shot over Oettinger’s glove. 1-0 Vancouver. The small pocket of Canucks fans in the upper deck goes wild. You bang your stick on the ice, a jolt of pure joy running through you.
The third period begins, and Dallas comes with a desperate push. They are a proud, veteran team, and they hate losing at home. They throw everything at your net. The game gets chippy. A scrum ensues after you freeze the puck, and you get a little shove from a Stars forward. You don’t even flinch.
Then, it happens.
About eight minutes into the third period, there’s a mad scramble in front of your net. The puck is loose in the blue paint. You dive, covering it with your glove just as a skate kicks it. The whistle blows. You’re lying on your stomach, the puck safely under your glove.
As you start to get up, a massive weight lands on top of you. It’s Jamie Benn, the Dallas captain. He doesn’t just fall. He lands, and then he pushes. He grinds his weight into your back for a split second too long, a deliberate, antagonizing act of disrespect. A clear violation of the code.
You feel a flash of hot anger, but before you can even react, he’s gone. Because he’s been ripped off you.
Quinn, who had been the defenseman closest to the net, moves like a viper. He drops his stick, grabs the back of Benn’s jersey with both gloves, and yanks him back. Benn is bigger, stronger, a renowned tough guy. He turns, surprised, a snarl on his face. Quinn doesn’t care. He gets right in Benn’s face, his expression a mask of cold fury.
“Don’t you ever touch our goalie!” He screams, his voice raw, audible even over the crowd.
Benn shoves him hard. Quinn doesn’t go down. He shoves back. And then the world explodes.
Filip Hronek, Quinn’s defensive partner, is the next one in, grabbing Benn from behind. Another Stars player grabs Hronek. Suddenly, it’s a full-blown line brawl. Gloves are dropping everywhere. Garland finds his dance partner. Joshua squares off with another Dallas heavyweight. Every skater on the ice is paired up, grappling, shoving, throwing muffled punches that land with dull thuds against shoulder pads and helmets. The referees are overwhelmed, blowing their whistles uselessly, trying to separate the tangled knots of angry men.
And you? You get up, brushing the snow off your jersey. You watch the chaos unfold in your crease for a moment, a strange sense of calm detachment washing over you. This is insane. And it’s all for you. They are defending you. Your team.
You see Oettinger at the other end, standing in his crease, watching the mayhem just like you. A strange, unspoken goalie etiquette takes over. This isn't your fight. You look at him. He looks at you. You both give a slight nod, a silent agreement.
You calmly skate out of the warzone in front of your net, leaving your stick behind. You skate towards center ice. Oettinger does the same from his end. You meet right at the red line, the giant Stars logo beneath your skates. You both stop, standing a few feet apart, turning to watch the brawl like two patrons enjoying a particularly rowdy dinner theater performance.
“Well,” Oettinger says, his voice muffled by his mask. He leans on his knees, casual as can be. “That escalated quickly.”
“Tell me about it,” you say, shaking your head. “Benn get a little too friendly a lot?”
“That’s his move,” Oettinger says with a sigh. “Loves to stir the pot in the crease. Never does it when I’m in net, though. Professional courtesy, I guess.”
“Guess I haven’t earned that yet,” you say with a dry laugh.
“Oh, I think you just did.” He gestures with his blocker towards the pile of bodies, where Quinn is still trying to get at Benn, held back by a linesman. “Your captain seems to like you.”
You watch Quinn, his face flushed, still yelling at Benn. A strange, warm feeling spreads through your chest, a feeling that has nothing to do with the game. “Yeah,” you say softly. “He’s a good captain.”
“So, that save you made on Moose in the second,” Oettinger says, changing the subject with the ease of someone completely disconnected from the violence being perpetrated by his teammates. “The deflection. Did you read that off his stick or did you just get lucky?”
You can’t help but laugh. Your teams are engaged in mortal combat, and the two of you are here at center ice, breaking down film. “A little of both,” you admit. “I saw him get his stick free, and I know that’s his spot. I just tried to get my body in the way and hoped for the best.”
“Nice,” he says, nodding in appreciation. “Real nice. You’re looking solid tonight, by the way. Sucks that it’s against us, but, you know. Respect.”
“You too,” you say. “That stop on Petey was larceny.”
The linesmen finally start to get control of the situation, peeling players apart. The ice is littered with gloves and sticks.
“Well,” Oettinger says, straightening up. “Looks like the intermission’s over. Good luck the rest of the way.”
“You too,” you say. “Try to keep your captain in his pen.”
He chuckles. “No promises.”
You skate back to your crease, a small smile on your face. You pick up your stick. The rink crew comes out to scoop up the yard sale of equipment. The referees convene. The penalty box doors are about to get a workout. When the dust settles, Quinn gets two minutes for roughing. Benn gets two for goalie interference and two for roughing. The Canucks are going on the power play.
As Quinn skates to the box, his face still stormy, he looks over at you. You meet his eyes and give him a sharp, deliberate nod. A thank you. He nods back. An ‘anytime.’
The fight galvanizes the Canucks. They play the rest of the game with a ferocious energy. They kill off a late penalty with a desperation you haven’t seen all season. Every player on the ice is blocking shots, sacrificing their bodies. They are not letting this game slip away. Not tonight. Not your first start.
With ten seconds left, the Stars pull Oettinger for an extra attacker. A shot comes from the point. It’s deflected in front. You don’t see it, you just react, your body lunging to the side, your glove thrown out in desperation. You feel the puck hit the very tip of your glove, just enough to send it fluttering wide of the net.
The final horn sounds.
You’ve won. 1-0. Your first NHL start is your first NHL win is your first NHL shutout.
You’re immediately mobbed by your teammates. They swarm you, banging on your helmet, hugging you, their shouts of celebration a joyous, deafening roar. You feel Hronek’s arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ice in a bone-crushing hug. You see Garland’s ecstatic face, Pettersson’s rare, wide grin.
In the locker room, it’s euphoric. Foote comes into the center of the room.
“Hell of a win!” He yells over the music. “Hell of a gutsy, greasy, road win! That’s how we gotta play!” He looks over at you, a proud, almost fatherly look on his face. “And how about this one? Stood on her head. Unbelievable.” He tosses you the game puck. “Congrats on your first. Many more to come.”
The room erupts in stick taps and cheers. You hold the puck, the black rubber cool and heavy in your hand. It’s the single greatest object you’ve ever owned.
Later, after the media interviews and the chaos, when the room has mostly cleared out, you’re sitting in your stall, the puck on the bench beside you. You’re just staring into space, replaying the entire night in your head.
“You okay?”
You look up. It’s Quinn. He’s changed into a suit for the flight, but there’s a small, fresh cut above his right eye, a souvenir from his tangle with Benn.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little hoarse. “I’m okay. Are you okay?” You nod towards his cut.
He touches it gingerly. “It’s nothing. Just a love tap.” He sits down on the bench next to you. “You earned that one tonight. You were … incredible.”
“I had some help,” you say, looking at him meaningfully. “Thanks for … you know. Back there.”
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and serious. “No one touches our goalie. Ever. That’s the rule. I don’t care who it is. That’s my job.” He pauses, a small smile playing on his lips. “Especially when it’s you.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, and you’re suddenly very grateful for the dim lighting of the locker room. You look down at the puck in your hand, then back up at him.
“Well,” you say, your voice softer than you intend. “It was nice of you to do your job.”
He just holds your gaze, his eyes warm and sincere. The noise of the world — the equipment managers packing bags, the distant sound of the bus engine starting — fades away. In the quiet aftermath of the battle, sitting on a bench in a locker room in Dallas, Texas, it feels like you’ve won more than just a hockey game. You’ve found your place. And you have a very strong feeling that the captain, the one with the cut above his eye, is a very big part of it.
***
The two months between your first start and the December road trip are a whirlwind of learning and adjustment. You settle into the rhythm of being an NHL goaltender, a rhythm that is both monotonous and exhilarating. You get ten more starts, winning six of them. You are no longer a curiosity, you are a reliable, effective number two goalie. You are part of the team.
The life is a series of airports, buses, hotels, and arenas. You learn which cities have the best coffee near the team hotel (Calgary) and which have the worst morning traffic (Los Angeles). You learn that Conor Garland is a fiend at cards, that Brock Boeser can sleep literally anywhere, and that Elias Pettersson analyzes crossword puzzles with the same intensity he uses to break down power-play footage.
And you learn Quinn Hughes. You learn him in the small moments. You learn that he hates losing more than he loves winning. You learn that he can be quiet and withdrawn after a bad game, but he’s the first one to crack a joke the next morning to reset the mood. You learn that he always asks the flight attendants their names and thanks them personally when he deplanes. You develop an easy rapport, a shorthand built on the ice that translates seamlessly to life off it. It’s a shared eye-roll during a boring team meeting, a quiet conversation in the back of the bus about a missed defensive assignment, a shared bag of peanut M&Ms on the plane. It’s simple. It’s comfortable. And it’s starting to feel like something you look for, something your day feels incomplete without.
The five-game East Coast swing in December is a notorious grind. New York, New Jersey, Long Island, Boston, and then Philadelphia. A ten-day sentence in the hockey gulag. The team is tired. You lose a sloppy game to the Devils. You grind out an overtime win against the Rangers.
The night before the game against the Islanders, you’re in your hotel room on Long Island, studying film, when your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Demko.
Demmer: Foote just told me I’m in tomorrow.
You stare at the message. Of course he is. The Islanders are a tough, veteran team. It’s the first half of a back-to-back. It’s the logical choice. But a knot of disappointment tightens in your gut anyway. The next game, the second half of the back-to-back, is in Boston.
You: Go get ‘em. Be great.
Demmer: Don’t you get it?
You: Get what?
Demmer: He’s giving you Boston. On purpose. Your homecoming.
You read the text again. And again. Demko is right. Foote could have easily started you here, against the Isles, and given Demko the more prestigious Saturday night game in Boston against the Bruins. But he didn't. He was giving you your stage. The city where you became a star. The city where you fought the NCAA and won.
A fresh wave of nerves, far more potent than anything you felt in Dallas, crashes over you.
The next day, you watch from the bench as the Canucks play a hard, heavy game against the Islanders, ultimately losing 2-1 in a shootout. Demko is brilliant, but the team looks gassed. After the game, on the short flight to Boston, the mood is subdued.
Quinn slides into the empty seat next to you. “You good?” He asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit,” he says, not unkindly. “You’re thinking about tomorrow.”
You turn to look at him. He’s got that look on his face, the analytical one he gets when he’s reading a play. Right now, he’s reading you.
“It’s just another game,” you try, the words feeling hollow even to you.
“No, it’s not,” he counters gently. “It’s Boston. It’s where you played college. It’s where you became … you. Don’t pretend it’s not a big deal. It’s okay for it to be a big deal.”
His understanding, the simple act of him acknowledging the pressure you feel, makes the knot in your stomach loosen. “There’s going to be a lot of people there,” you admit quietly. “People I know.”
“Good,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Then we’d better put on a show for them.” He bumps his shoulder against yours. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back.”
***
TD Garden is electric. From the moment you step onto the ice for warmups, you can feel it. It’s different from the hostility in Calgary or the nervous energy in Dallas. This is … love.
You see them immediately. Scattered throughout the lower bowl, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Boston University jerseys. Terrier red mixed in with the Bruins’ black and gold. You see signs. ‘WE STILL LOVE OUR GOALIE.’ ‘ONCE A TERRIER, ALWAYS A TERRIER.’ BOSTON, BE NICE TO HER!’
As you skate your laps, a chant starts, low at first, then growing in volume. It’s not a Canucks chant, or a Bruins chant. It’s your name. The sound echoes through the cavernous arena, a surreal, overwhelming wave of affection from a crowd that is supposed to be rooting against you. You tap your heart with your glove, a lump forming in your throat.
At the other end of the ice, Quinn is leaning against the boards, watching you, a curious smile on his face. He’s never seen anything like this. An opposing player being serenaded by the home crowd before the game has even started.
The game itself is a war. The Bruins are one of the best teams in the league, and they play a heavy, punishing style. The tired Canucks are on their heels from the opening faceoff. The first period is a siege. You face nineteen shots. Nineteen.
You are a wall.
You stone Fraser Minten on a breakaway, refusing to bite on his deke and smothering the puck with your pads. You make a lightning-fast glove save on a David Pastrnak one-timer from the circle, a shot that has beaten the best goalies in the world. The Bruins fans groan in frustration, but their groans are mixed with a loud, appreciative roar from your personal cheering section.
You get lucky, too. A shot rings off the post with a deafening PING that vibrates through your bones. A puck trickles through your five-hole, but Hronek is there to sweep it off the goal line at the last second.
You go into the first intermission tied 0-0. Your teammates skate by your net, tapping your pads, their expressions a mixture of relief and awe.
“Just hang in there,” Quinn says as you skate to the tunnel. “We’ll get our legs under us. You’re keeping us alive.”
In the locker room, Foote is calm. “They gave us their best punch, and we’re still standing,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “Because our goalie is a damn rock star. Now, let’s get our heads out of our asses and go play some hockey. Let’s reward her.”
The second period is a different story. The Canucks come out with a renewed energy. Five minutes in, Pettersson threads a perfect pass to Garland, who rips a shot past Jeremy Swayman. 1-0 Canucks. The building falls silent, except for the pocket of Terrier fans who erupt in joyous celebration.
The lead is short-lived. The Bruins come back with a vengeance. Elias Lindholm crashes the net, creating chaos. In the ensuing scramble, the puck squirts out to Pavel Zacha, who flips it over your outstretched pad. 1-1.
The game is a track meet from there. Brock Boeser scores on a wicked wrister. Charlie McAvoy ties it for the Bruins on a blast from the point that you never saw through a screen. It’s 2-2 heading into the third.
The third period is the most intense twenty minutes of your life. Every save feels like the most important save you’ve ever made. The crowd is a single, roaring entity, living and dying with every shot. With five minutes left, the Bruins get a power play. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the building. This is it. The breaking point.
They set up in the zone. Pastrnak with the puck on his stick is a terrifying sight. He winds up for a one-timer. You slide across, every fiber of your being focused on that puck. He fires. You get your blocker on it, the puck deflecting high up into the protective netting. Faceoff.
They win the draw. The puck goes back to the point, then over to Morgan Geekie. He fakes a shot, freezing you for a split second, and slides a pass across the royal road to a wide-open Pastrnak. The net is empty. It’s a sure goal.
You don’t think. You explode. You push off your right skate with all the force you have left, throwing your body, your glove, your entire existence across the crease. The puck is already on its way. You feel a sharp, stinging impact in the webbing of your glove, your arm fully extended, parallel to the ice.
You’ve got it.
The entire arena, Bruins fans and your fans alike, rises to its feet with a single, unified roar of disbelief. It’s the save of the year. It’s the save of your life.
The Canucks kill off the rest of the penalty, feeding off the energy. The horn sounds. 2-2. You’re going to overtime. You collapse onto your knees in the crease, head bowed, utterly spent.
Overtime is a frantic, chaotic blur of 3-on-3 hockey. There are chances at both ends. You stop a 2-on-1. Swayman stones Pettersson. Finally, Quinn gets the puck in his own end. He sees a seam and takes off. He flies through the neutral zone, his skates barely seeming to touch the ice. He cuts around a Bruins defenseman, the move so slick it looks like the other player is standing still. He’s in alone on Swayman. He fakes the shot, pulling the puck to his backhand and sliding it gently, perfectly, into the open net.
The Canucks win.
The bench empties, a wave of white jerseys flooding the ice and heading straight for Quinn. But he just skates past them, his arms raised in triumph, and comes directly to you. He crashes into your crease, wrapping you in a hug that lifts you off your skates.
“You did it!” He yells into your mask, his voice filled with pure, unadulterated joy. “You stole that game! You were unbelievable!”
The rest of the team piles on, a joyous scrum of exhaustion and victory. When they finally disperse, you’re named the first star of the game, to absolutely no one’s surprise. You skate your lap, saluting the crowd, your heart feeling like it’s going to burst.
As you head towards the tunnel, you see them. Pressed up against the glass is a sea of familiar faces. Your old BU teammates, the ones who are still on the team. They’re banging on the glass, their faces split with massive grins.
“Y/N!” Yells your old defenseman, a big kid named Mick. “Get over here!”
You skate over, a huge smile breaking across your face. “You guys came!”
“Are you kidding me?” Shouts your old backup goalie, Mathieu. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world! You were insane!”
You open the gate at the end of the bench and step out onto the walkway. You’re immediately swallowed by them. They’re all talking at once, a chaotic, loving cacophony.
“That save on Pastrnak! What was that?”
“You’re buying drinks for the whole team for the next year!”
“Coach watches every game from his office, he screams so loud I always think he’s gonna have a heart attack!”
Mick, who is about six-foot-two and built like a lumberjack, grabs you and lifts you effortlessly onto his shoulders. You yelp in surprise, your helmet still on, as the whole group cheers. They’re parading you around the small concrete walkway like you just won the national championship all over again. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, it’s ridiculous, and it’s the purest form of love you’ve ever felt.
You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, your body aching, your heart soaring. This is your family. The boys you went to war with for four years. The ones who saw you cry after a tough loss and who celebrated with you after a huge win. For a moment, you’re not an NHL goalie. You’re just their goalie.
***
Down the long, sterile tunnel that leads to the visitors’ locker room, Quinn is leaning against the concrete wall. He’s watching the scene unfold at the edge of the ice, a small, genuine smile on his face. He sees the joy, the friendship. He sees you, beaming, being hoisted onto some giant defenseman’s shoulders. He’s happy for you. Truly.
But there’s something else, too. A strange, unfamiliar pang in his chest. It’s a feeling of distance. He’s watching you be a part of a world he has no access to, a history he wasn’t there for. He sees the easy way they touch you, the inside jokes he can’t hear, the shared history that radiates from the group. And he feels … separate. An outsider.
“She’s not going to see you from all the way back here.”
Quinn jumps slightly. Petey has materialized beside him, silent as a ghost. He’s leaning against the wall in a similar pose, his intense eyes also fixed on the scene.
“I’m not trying to be seen,” Quinn says, trying to sound casual. “Just giving her a minute. It’s a big night for her.”
“Yes,” Petey says, his gaze unwavering. “She is very popular.”
Just then, Brock strolls up, a towel around his neck and a wide, easy-going grin on his face. “What are we lookin’ at, boys? Oh, wow. Look at that. They’re treating her like she’s the Stanley Cup.”
“She basically won it for us tonight,” Quinn mutters, his eyes still locked on you. He sees the big defenseman finally set you down, only for you to be pulled into a dozen different hugs.
“You have a funny look on your face,” Petey observes, his tone flat and analytical.
“I do not have a funny look on my face,” Quinn retorts, a little too quickly. “I’m happy for her. That’s my ‘happy for my teammate’ face.”
Brock snorts. “Dude, no offense, but that is not your ‘happy for your teammate’ face. That’s your ‘I just watched Garland take the last donut’ face.”
“I’m not …” Quinn starts, then stops, frowning. He can’t quite name the feeling himself. It’s a weird, protective, possessive knot in his stomach. He hates it.
“You look like a little puppy who has been left in the car,” Petey adds, with absolutely zero malice. It is a simple statement of fact, as he sees it.
“I do not look like a puppy!” Quinn snaps, finally tearing his gaze away from the celebration to glare at his teammates. “What is wrong with you two? I’m the captain. She’s my goalie. I’m just … watching out for her.”
Brock’s grin widens. He exchanges a look with Petey, who allows the barest hint of a smirk to touch his lips. They know. Oh, they know.
“Right. ‘Watching out for her’,” Brock says, making air quotes with his fingers. “From fifty feet away. Behind two security guards. Very effective protection, Cap.”
“You are jealous,” Petey says, the words landing with the simple finality of a judge’s gavel.
“I am not jealous!” Quinn insists, his face flushing. The accusation hits a little too close to home. “Jealous of what? A bunch of college kids? That’s ridiculous.”
“It is not ridiculous,” Petey counters, pushing off the wall. “They know a part of her you do not. They are lifting her up. You wish you were the one lifting her up.”
Quinn opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because, in a way the quiet Swede couldn't possibly understand the full scope of, he's right. It’s not about lifting you physically. It’s about being part of that inner circle, about being the one who gets to share in that uninhibited joy.
“Whatever, guys,” he finally mumbles, turning to head towards the locker room. “I’m gonna go shower.”
“Don’t want her to see your sad puppy face when she gets back?” Brock calls after him, laughing.
Just as Quinn is about to round the corner, he hears your voice, bright and breathless, echoing down the tunnel.
“Quinn! Wait up!”
He freezes, caught. He turns around as you jog to catch up, your face flushed and glowing, a smile so wide it looks like it hurts. Your old teammates are waving from the edge of the ice before being shooed away by security. Petey and Brock are standing there, identical looks of smug amusement on their faces.
“Did you see that?” You say, completely oblivious to the conversation that just took place. “That was my whole team! Mick put me on his shoulders! Can you believe it? I think my ribs are bruised.”
Quinn has to physically reset his face from ‘flustered and annoyed’ to ‘happy and supportive.’ He shoves the strange, confusing feelings down, deep down.
“Yeah, I saw,” he says, and he’s relieved to find his voice is normal. He even manages a genuine smile. “Looked like fun. You deserved it. You deserved every second of that tonight.”
“It was the best,” you say, still buzzing. You look up at him, your eyes shining with leftover adrenaline and pure happiness. “Thanks for scoring that goal, by the way. You kind of saved my butt.”
“Nah,” he says, his smile softening as he looks at you. “You saved ours about twenty times first.”
He gives a pointed look over your shoulder at Brock and Petey, who are failing to hide their laughter. “Come on. Let’s go. These two are weirdos.”
He puts a hand lightly on your back, guiding you towards the locker room, away from the prying eyes of his far-too-observant teammates. And as you walk beside him, still chattering excitedly about the game and your friends, he feels that strange, possessive pang in his chest again. But this time, it’s a little less confusing. And it feels a little more like home.
***
The months after the Boston game are a crucible. The easy comfort between you and Quinn deepens into something more charged, a low-voltage current that hums just beneath the surface of every interaction. It’s in the way his eyes find yours across a crowded locker room after a big win. It’s in the way you start saving the seat next to you for him on the plane without even thinking about it. It’s in the lingering moments after practice when you’re the last two on the ice, him feeding you pucks for one-timers, the only sound the scrape of your skates and the echo of the puck off the boards, a rhythm that feels more intimate than any conversation.
He imagines asking you out a thousand times.
He plays the scenarios in his head on a loop. A casual coffee on an off-day. A well-planned dinner during a road trip. A simple, direct question after a practice. Each version is smooth, confident, charming. Each version ends with you smiling and saying yes. And each version evaporates into a cloud of anxiety the moment he’s actually near you.
The timing is never right. The stakes are too high. What if you say no? What if it makes things weird? What if it messes with the delicate chemistry of a team that is, against all odds, scratching and clawing its way into playoff contention? So he says nothing, and the unspoken thing between you grows, a tangible presence in the room.
April arrives, cold and cruel. The final two weeks of the regular season are a gauntlet. Every game is a playoff game. The city of Vancouver is holding its collective breath. You, the surprising Canucks, are on the bubble, locked in a brutal three-way race for the final wild-card spot.
The second-to-last game of the season is at home, against the Vegas Golden Knights. The math is simple and devastating. A win, in any fashion, and you clinch a playoff spot. A loss, and you need a miracle on the final day. The pressure is a physical weight, pressing down on the entire city.
Demko gets the start. Of course he does. He’s the number one, the Vezina candidate, the man you trust with the season on the line. Your job is to be ready, to be the best teammate you can be from the bench, to open the door and have a towel ready.
The game is a masterpiece of tension. Rogers Arena is a shaking, roaring cauldron of blue and green. Every save Demko makes, every blocked shot, every hit, is met with a deafening roar. The first period ends 0-0. The second period is just as tight, a chess match played at a hundred miles per hour.
And then, disaster.
With three minutes left in the second, there’s a collision in the crease. A Vegas forward drives the net, gets tangled with Hronek, and they both go crashing into Demko. It doesn’t look malicious, just a hockey play gone wrong. But Demko stays down.
The arena falls silent. You’re on your feet, peering over the boards, your heart in your throat. He tries to get up, and his left leg buckles. The trainer is on the ice. After a tense few minutes, Demko is helped off, unable to put any weight on his leg. He gives you a grim nod as he passes the bench.
Ian Clark is at your side before Demko is even off the ice. “You’re in,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Stay square. Breathe. You’ve done this a hundred times.”
Your blood runs cold. You have to go in. Cold. Into a 0-0 game, with the entire season on the line. Your mind is a screaming siren of panic, but your body goes on autopilot. You do the stretches, take the sips of water. You are a machine built for this, even if the ghost inside is terrified.
You step onto the ice. The crowd, which had been silent with worry, gives you a tentative, hopeful cheer. You skate to the net, give it a few taps with your stick.
You survive the final three minutes of the period. The horn sounds. In the locker room, the mood is grim. Demko is already in the trainer’s room. Foote is pacing.
“Listen up!” He barks. “Nothing changes! We feel for Demmer, but we’ve got a game to win. And we have all the confidence in the world in the person in that net.” He points his clipboard directly at you. “We’ve seen what she can do. Now let’s go out there and play our asses off for twenty minutes and get this goddamn thing done.”
The third period is the most intense, high-stakes hockey you have ever played. It’s a track meet. The Golden Knights, sensing blood in the water, come at you in waves. You make a save on Jack Eichel. You stop a point-blank shot from Mark Stone. You are no longer thinking, you are pure reaction, a vessel of instinct and muscle memory.
With ninety seconds left on the clock, the game is still tied 0-0. And then, a turnover. A bad pinch by a defenseman at the Vegas blue line. Suddenly, it’s a 2-on-0. William Karlsson and Mitch Marner are streaking down the ice, all alone, with only you between them and the Canucks’ playoff death.
Quinn is the lone man back, skating for his life, but he won’t get there in time. The arena holds its breath. This is it. This is the season.
Karlsson carries the puck, his eyes locked on Marner. He knows you have to respect his shot. You hold your ground, refusing to cheat to the pass. He slides it across at the last possible second. A perfect pass. A backdoor tap-in. Marner has the entire right side of the net empty, a gaping four-foot by six-foot invitation.
He one-touches it.
You have already pushed off. It’s not a calculated move, it’s an act of pure desperation. You throw your body across the crease, your stick fully extended along the ice, your glove hand reaching, reaching, reaching for something that seems impossibly far away.
You feel it before you see it. A faint vibration up the shaft of your stick. The puck, ticketed for the back of the net, hits the paddle of your outstretched stick and deflects up, over the crossbar, and out of play.
The buzzer for a TV timeout sounds a second later.
The sound that erupts from the crowd is not a cheer. It’s a sonic boom of disbelief. A primal roar of catharsis. Your teammates are staring, mouths agape. Quinn, who had dove in a last-ditch effort, just lifts his head from the ice and stares at you, his eyes wide.
You just lie there on the ice for a second, your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest. You did it. You saved it.
The team skates over to you, a jumble of white jerseys. They’re banging your helmet, screaming your name. “Unbelievable!” “Holy shit!” “You’re a maniac!”
Quinn is the last to arrive. He skates right up to your crease, his hair matted with sweat. He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. It’s awe. It’s relief. It’s something so raw and open it makes your breath catch in your throat. He leans in close, his mouth right next to the earhole of your mask, the arena noise fading into a dull roar around his voice.
“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes, his voice shaky with adrenaline. And then he says the words that shatter the world. “Go out with me.”
You freeze. The blood drains from your face. You are certain you misheard him. The roar of the crowd, the adrenaline, the exhaustion — it has to be a hallucination.
“What?” You manage to say, your voice a faint croak.
“After the season,” he says, his eyes, wide and intense, pleading with yours through the bars of your mask. “One date. Please.”
The referee is blowing his whistle, gesturing for the players to get ready for the faceoff. Foote is screaming from the bench. You have to finish the most important ninety seconds of your season, and your brain has just short-circuited.
You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say. So you just give a single, tiny, bewildered nod.
He squeezes your shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he skates away to the faceoff circle. You’re left alone in your crease, your mind a complete blank. Did that just happen? Did the captain of the Vancouver Canucks just ask me out during a TV timeout after I made a save?
Somehow, you get through the rest of the game. You get through overtime. You get to a shootout. And you stop all three Vegas shooters stone cold. The Canucks win. They’re going to the playoffs. The arena is pure bedlam. You are mobbed, the hero, the savior. But all you can think about is him.
***
The locker room is a joyous, chaotic asylum. Champagne and beer are spraying everywhere. The music is so loud the walls are vibrating. Players are hugging, screaming, celebrating a hard-fought, year-long battle finally won. You are at the center of it, guys lifting you up, chanting your name.
But your eyes keep finding him across the room. He’s celebrating, too, but every few seconds, his gaze meets yours. There’s a question in his eyes. An apology. A hope.
An hour later, the room has finally cleared out. The music is off. The puddles of beer are being mopped up by the equipment staff. Most of the players have left to meet their families. It’s just you and him. You’re sitting in your stall, still in your undershirt and hockey pants. He’s sitting in his, a few stalls down. The silence is deafening.
He’s the first to break it. He gets up and walks over, pulling a rolling stool with him. He sits down in front of you, his knees almost touching yours.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.
“I am so, so sorry,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice is overwhelming. “That was … I don’t know what that was. I didn’t plan it. I swear. It just … came out. My brain shut off and my mouth kept working. It was the stupidest possible time to do that, and I’m sorry.”
You just nod, looking down at your hands.
“I’ve wanted to ask you for months,” he continues, his voice low and earnest. “Since the fall. I kept trying to find the right time, the perfect moment, and I just … I kept chickening out. And then you made that save, and it was just … you were incredible. And I …” He trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m an idiot.”
You finally look up at him. You see the genuine remorse in his eyes, the nervousness. And you know you have to say what’s in your heart.
“Quinn,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “You know what my life has been like. You know what I’ve had to fight for. The headlines, the lawsuit, the commentators … it was always ‘the girl goalie.’ For years, that’s all I was. I fought so hard, I worked so hard, for people to just see ‘the goalie.’ For my play to be the only thing that mattered.”
You take a shaky breath. “If I start dating the captain … I become a story again. A different story. A cliché. ‘The first woman in the NHL finds love with her captain.’ It sounds like the plot of a bad movie. It’s not fair, but it’s the truth. People will talk. They’ll say I didn’t earn my place, that I had a distraction. It threatens to undermine everything I’ve ever worked for.”
Tears well up in your eyes, and you hate it. You hate feeling this vulnerable.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just listens, his eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t try to interrupt or argue. He just lets you speak your truth. When you’re finished, he reaches out and gently, tentatively, takes your hand. His touch is warm and steady.
“I hear you,” he says, his voice full of a quiet strength. “I get it. And it is completely and totally unfair that you have to carry that weight. That you have to even think about those things. What you’ve accomplished, what you’ve earned … it stands on its own. It’s historic. Nothing and no one can ever undermine that. Especially not me.”
He squeezes your hand. “But it’s also not fair for you to have to build a wall around your life because of what a bunch of idiots with microphones might say. We can’t let them write our story, Y/N. That’s their narrative. We have to be able to write our own.”
He looks at you, his expression so sincere it makes your heart ache.
“One date,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “That’s all I’m asking. After the playoffs are over. We’ll go somewhere quiet. No cameras. No jerseys. Just you and me. And if it’s weird, or if it feels wrong, or if it’s just not right for you, we go right back to being teammates and friends. And I will never, ever bring it up again. I swear on my life. But …” He hesitates, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “What if it’s not weird? What if it’s great?”
You look into his eyes, and you see your future. Not the one the reporters will write, but the one you want. A future where you can be the goalie, the trailblazer, and a person who gets to be happy. You see a future with this man, who waited, who respected you, who fought for you, and who just laid his heart at your feet.
A slow smile spreads across your face. The tears are gone, replaced by a feeling of profound, heart-stopping hope.
“Okay, Hughes,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “One date.”
The relief that washes over his face is so absolute it’s like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. He breaks into a grin so wide and boyish it makes you laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirm, laughing. “Now, are you going to let go of my hand, or are we going to sit here all night?”
He laughs, too, a sound of pure joy, and reluctantly lets go. You both stand up, the quiet locker room suddenly filled with a new, fragile, wonderful energy.
You walk out of the room together, side-by-side. As you step into the main hallway that leads to the players’ parking lot, you see a strange scene unfolding.
Clustered near the exit are Petey, Brock, Garland, Hronek, Joshua, and at least five other players. They’re all gathered around Demko, who is leaning against the wall with his injured leg propped up on a chair. And every single one of them is pulling out their wallet and handing cash to Demko, their faces a mixture of disgust and grudging respect.
Demko is raking in a pile of twenties and fifties, a smug, triumphant grin plastered on his face. “Pay up, boys,” he says cheerfully. “The bookie always wins. Told you it’d happen after a season-defining moment of emotional vulnerability.”
Quinn stops dead in his tracks. You stop with him, staring at the bizarre transaction.
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn says, his voice a mixture of disbelief and horror. “There was a betting pool?”
Demko looks up, completely unfazed. He gestures to Quinn with the wad of cash in his hand. “Of course, there was a pool. What do you think we talk about on road trips? Defensive pairings?”
Brock claps a dejected hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, man. I lost a hundred bucks. I had ‘day after the end-of-season party’.”
“I had ‘during bye week’,” Garland grumbles, handing a fifty to Demko. “I thought you had more game than this, Huggy.”
Petey shakes his head, his expression deadpan as he pays his debt. “I was logical. I predicted he would ask after the first playoff series win. I did not account for him being a complete lunatic.”
Demko points a thumb at Quinn. “That’s where you went wrong, Petey. You gotta factor in the crazy. I was the only one who bet on ‘in the middle of the most important game of the season immediately following an impossible save.’ High risk, high reward.”
You look at Quinn. His face is the color of a ripe tomato. He looks mortified. And then you start to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full, deep, belly laugh. The absurdity of it all, the tension of the last few hours, the ridiculous, supportive, wonderful stupidity of your team — it all comes bubbling out.
Your laughter is infectious. Quinn looks at you, then at his teammates, who are all grinning now, and a reluctant smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head, defeated but happy.
This is it. This is the story. Not the one the media will write. This one. The real one. Messy, and chaotic, and dramatic, and funny. It’s yours. And as Quinn takes your hand again, this time with no hesitation at all, you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that this is only the first chapter.
***
Two Years Later
The air in the arena is thick enough to breathe. It’s Game 6 of the second round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The weight of an entire city, desperate and dreaming, rests squarely on your shoulders. Two years ago, that pressure would have terrified you. Now, it’s just fuel.
The ‘you’ of today is not the same person who stepped onto the ice for that first start in Dallas. This version is etched from playoff wars and Vezina nominations. The ‘rookie sensation’ and ‘female phenom’ headlines have long since faded, replaced by simpler, more powerful words: ‘elite,’ ‘unflappable,’ ‘franchise goalie.’ You are the starter. The number one. The last line of defense for a team, and a captain, that you love.
Demko is still here, your partner and best friend, a formidable 1B in the best tandem in the league. But tonight, this series, this run — it’s your net.
The game against the Los Angeles Kings is a street fight on ice. It’s 2-1 for you in the third period, and every inch of ice is contested with a slash or a cross-check. They crash your net relentlessly, a swarm of orange and black, trying to break you through sheer force of will.
There’s a scramble in your crease. You make the initial save, but the rebound sits dangerously in the blue paint. You lunge, covering the puck with your glove a split second before a Kings forward can poke it home. The whistle blows, a shrill mercy in the chaos.
As you lie there, Joel Edmundson, a player who seems to exist purely to irritate, skates by and deliberately sprays you with a shower of ice shavings, right in the face. It’s a classic, infuriating act of disrespect.
The old you might have ignored it. The current you does not. You look up, your eyes locking with his through your mask, and you give him a slow, deliberate whack on the shin pads with the paddle of your stick. A clear message: Not in my house.
He snarls something at you. But he doesn't get to finish.
Because Quinn is there.
It’s not the frantic, furious rush of two years ago. This is something far more dangerous. It’s a cold, calculated arrival. He glides between you and Edmundson, a silent, blue-and-green wall. He doesn’t shove him at first. He just gets in his space, forcing him back, his eyes burning with an intensity that could peel paint.
“Are we doing this again, Joey?” Quinn’s voice is deceptively calm, a low rumble that cuts through the din. “You seem to forget the rules.”
“She’s a goalie, not the damn queen,” Edmundson spits back, trying to push past him.
Quinn’s hands come up, grabbing the front of Edmundson’s jersey. He shoves him back so hard the King stumbles. “She’s my goalie,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that’s more threatening than any shout. “And my only rule is that scum like you doesn’t get to breathe her air. Now get the hell out of the crease before I help you.”
A jolt, sharp and electric, goes through you. It’s not fear. It’s not even just gratitude anymore. It’s a dark, thrilling, proprietary feeling that is yours and his alone. Watching him, your captain, your partner, stand guard over you with that cold fire in his eyes … it’s a language only the two of you speak. Two years of this, of these moments, and it still lights a fuse deep inside you.
The referees move in, separating them before it can escalate further. As Quinn skates away from the scrum, he circles back past your net. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you. His eyes, dark with leftover aggression and something else, something deeper, lock with yours. It’s a look that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the hotel room that awaits you both in a few hours. A silent, searing promise.
You just give him a slow, deliberate nod, your heart hammering against your ribs for an entirely new reason.
***
An hour later, the locker room is vibrating with the joy of a 2-1 series-clinching win. You’re advancing to the Western Conference Final. The music is blasting, players are celebrating, the weight of the game replaced by the giddy anticipation of what’s to come.
You’re sitting in your stall, peeling off your drenched gear, when Quinn comes over. He leans against the stall beside yours, a towel slung around his neck, that intense look still lingering in his eyes.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice a low murmur meant only for you.
“Never better,” you reply, your own voice dropping to match his. You meet his gaze, and the noisy, crowded locker room melts away. There’s only him, the promise in his eyes, and the echo of that on-ice fire.
You are so lost in the moment that you don’t notice the audience you’ve gathered.
“Uh oh,” Garland says, not even trying to be quiet. He’s sitting across from you, taking off his skates. “Everybody see that? They’re making the eyes.”
Brock, sitting next to him, grins. “Yep. That’s the ‘Quinn played knight in shining armor’ look. It’s got its own gravitational pull.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from Quinn. He just rolls his eyes at his teammates, a small, private smile playing on his lips. He’s used to it. They all are.
Garland sighs, a loud, dramatic sound that cuts through the music. He stands up and stretches, making sure he has the attention of the entire room.
“Alright, boys,” he announces, his voice booming. “Just a friendly reminder for everyone on the leadership group’s floor at the hotel …” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“I certainly hope you all brought your earplugs.”
The room explodes. A wave of laughter, catcalls, and stick taps echoes off the walls. You finally break eye contact with Quinn, burying your hot face in a towel, your shoulders shaking with laughter. You feel mortified and ridiculously, incandescently happy all at once.
Across the way, Quinn just shakes his head, a huge, unbothered grin spreading across his face. He picks up a crumpled roll of sock tape and wings it at Garland’s head, who ducks it with a triumphant laugh.
The noise eventually dies down. You look up from your towel. Your eyes find his again across the room. The laughter is gone, replaced by that same, searing look from the ice. It’s a look of profound love, of shared history, of a fierce, protective partnership that transcends the game. And it’s a look that still holds the silent, thrilling promise of later.
This was the story. Not the one the reporters wrote, but the one you built together. The one with the fights, the saves, the bets, and the love that was forged in the fire of the NHL. And as he gives you a slow, deliberate wink, you know with every fiber of your being that the best chapters were still to come.
If you want a good object lesson about what we can and can't know about the past, we don't know Ea-Nasir was a dishonest merchant selling shoddy goods.
What we know is we have found a cache of complaint tablets about him selling low quality copper as high quality, in a site that was probably his own residence. We know multiple people complained he was a cheat. It's entirely possible they were right. It's also entirely possible that he kept these complaint letters as records of people he would no longer do business with, because they had made accusations and threats in order to bully him into giving them free copper. That is an equally valid interpretation of the evidence.
My point is not that we have maligned Ea-Nasir, my point is that thousands of years later, we do not and cannot know.
it's all a huge misunderstanding, it's nothing to do with actual copper it's about him having a policeman fetish and our theory will be finally vindicated once someone unearths the missing tablet where he wrote "so sue me, I do like a man in cuneiform"
Summary: you stitch up a professional hockey player who tried to catch a falling water glass with his bare hand. It’s the dumbest injury you’ve seen all week. You tell him he might need surgery, send him on his way, and figure that’s the end of it. Then the flowers arrive. Then he follows you on Instagram. Then he asks if you’d like to show him around the Art Institute next time he’s Chicago. You’re an ER resident who barely has time to sleep. He’s an NHL player who lives 700 miles away. This should be a disaster. (Spoiler: it’s not.)
The thing about high-end steakhouses is that they’re full of glass. Wine glasses. Water glasses. Those fancy little glasses for God knows what. Jack isn’t thinking about any of this as he reaches across the table at Chicago Cut, laughing at something Timo said about the game last night.
“Dude, you literally fell on your ass,” Jack says, grinning. “Don’t try to make it sound cool.”
“I didn’t fall, I strategically repositioned-”
The sound isn’t loud. Just a soft clink as Jack’s elbow catches the edge of his water glass. It tips. He reaches to catch it.
And then everything goes red.
“Oh shit,” someone says. Might be Dawson. Might be anyone.
Jack stares at his hand. There’s glass embedded in his palm, a wicked shard sticking out near his thumb, and blood is already pooling, spilling over his fingers, dripping onto the white tablecloth in fat, dark drops.
“Jack.” That’s Luke, suddenly right next to him, his face gone pale. “Jack, don’t move.”
“I’m fine,” Jack says automatically, even though he’s watching his own blood spread across the table like spilled wine. “It’s just-”
“That’s a lot of blood.” Nico’s voice cuts through the shocked silence that’s fallen over their section of the restaurant. He’s already standing, his captain voice activated. “Luke, get napkins. Jack, keep your hand elevated.”
“I’m serious, it’s not that bad-” Jack starts, but then he makes the mistake of looking at his palm again. The glass is deep. Like, really deep. And the blood won’t stop. He can feel it, hot and sticky, running down his wrist.
“You can literally see-” Luke stops himself, wrapping what looks like an entire stack of cloth napkins around Jack’s hand. They turn red almost immediately. “Okay. Okay, we’re going to the ER.”
“I don’t need-”
“Jack.” Nico’s already got his jacket. “You need stitches. At minimum. That’s not a discussion.”
The restaurant manager appears, horrified and apologetic, but Nico waves him off while Luke practically drags Jack out of his chair. Jack wants to argue, but his hand is throbbing now, a deep ache that’s starting to make him feel lightheaded, and the napkins are completely soaked through.
“This is so stupid,” Jack mutters as they pile into an Uber. He’s sitting in the middle, his hand elevated like he’s asking a question, fresh napkins wrapped tight. Luke’s on his phone, searching for the nearest ER.
“Northwestern Memorial is like ten minutes away,” Luke says.
Jack leans his head back against the seat. “I cut my hand. On a glass. At a steakhouse.”
“Yeah, you did,” Nico says from the other side. There’s something almost amused in his voice now that the initial shock has worn off. “You really did.”
“This is the dumbest injury ever.”
“Remember when Bratter broke his finger opening a car door?” Luke offers.
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
The Uber driver keeps glancing at them in the rearview mirror, clearly trying to figure out if he should be concerned about the blood or the fact that three guys built like professional athletes just piled into his Camry.
***
You’ve been on shift for six hours when they walk in.
Three guys, mid-twenties, one of them cradling his hand like it’s made of porcelain. The hand is wrapped in what looks like an entire linen service worth of napkins, all of them dark with blood. His two friends — one tall and lanky, one broader and more solid — are flanking him like bodyguards.
“Hi,” the injured one says. He’s got brown hair that’s slightly too long, falling into his eyes, and he’s smiling. Actually smiling. “So, uh, I had a little accident.”
You glance at the napkins. There’s blood seeping through. “I can see that. Come on back.”
You lead them to Bay 3, snapping on gloves as you go. “I’m Dr. Y/L/N. What happened?”
“He tried to catch a glass,” the taller one says. He looks younger, similar features to the patient. Brother, maybe. “At dinner.”
“With your hand?” You ask, gesturing for the injured one to sit on the bed.
“Well, I wasn’t gonna use my face,” he says.
Despite yourself, you almost smile. “Fair point. Let’s see it.”
He starts unwrapping the napkins slowly, wincing. “It’s probably not as bad as it looks.”
The second the last napkin comes off, blood wells up, thick and fast. The cut runs deep across his palm, and you can see glass still embedded in the wound. Multiple pieces, actually. One of them is dangerously close to what you’re pretty sure is his flexor tendon.
“Okay,” you say calmly, already reaching for gauze. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how much do you like having full use of your hand?”
His eyes widen. “What?”
“Because that glass is very close to some important stuff.” You apply pressure, firm and steady. “How did you say this happened again?”
“I reached for a glass-”
“To catch it,” you finish. “Right. And you didn’t think to just … let it fall?”
The broader one — he’s got a Swiss accent, you notice — actually laughs. “That’s what we said.”
“It was instinct!” The patient protests. “I wasn’t thinking!”
“Clearly.” You’re already assessing the damage, mentally running through what you’ll need. “I’m going to need to irrigate this, remove the glass, and see what we’re dealing with underneath. This is going to require more than stitches.”
“How much more?” The younger brother asks. He looks worried.
You meet the patient’s eyes. He’s still trying to smile, but there’s pain there now, tightening around his mouth. “Honestly? I won’t know until I can see the full extent of the damage. But you’ve got glass embedded deep enough that I’m concerned about nerve damage. Maybe tendon damage. You might need surgery.”
“Surgery,” he repeats.
“Maybe. Let’s take this one step at a time.” You turn to grab supplies. “What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“Jack, I’m going to inject some local anesthetic, and then we’re going to explore this wound. It’s going to hurt first, then it’ll go numb. You good with needles?”
“Love them,” he says flatly.
“Great. How about you two?” You glance at his friends. “You going to pass out on me?”
“I’m Luke,” the tall one says. “That’s Nico. And no.”
“Good. Because I don’t have time to scrape anyone off my floor tonight.” You draw up the lidocaine. “Jack, deep breath for me.”
You inject along the wound edges, watching his face. He doesn’t flinch, just clenches his jaw and breathes through his nose. Tough, or stubborn. Maybe both.
“So,” you say conversationally as you wait for the anesthetic to take effect, “you guys do this often? Expensive dinners ending in ER visits?”
“First time,” Nico says. “We usually make it through meals without catastrophic injuries.”
“Usually,” Luke mutters.
You start irrigating the wound with saline, watching the blood wash away to reveal the true damage. It’s bad. Worse than you initially thought. “What do you all do? For work?”
There’s the briefest pause. “We’re hockey players,” Jack says.
That makes you look up. “Seriously?”
“New Jersey Devils,” Luke adds.
“And you injured yourself on a water glass.” You can’t help it — you laugh. “Not on the ice. Not in a fight. A water glass.”
“When you say it like that-”
“It sounds exactly as dumb as it is?” You finish. You’re carefully extracting glass now, piece by piece, dropping each shard into a metal tray with a soft clink. “How long are you in Chicago?”
“We fly out tomorrow,” Nico says. “Afternoon.”
“Mm.” You extract another piece of glass. It’s larger than the others. “Jack, can you feel this?”
“Feel what?”
“Good.” You drop the glass in the tray. “That’s the biggest piece. But I’ve got to be honest with you — this needs more than I can do here.”
Jack’s smile finally falters. “What do you mean?”
You sit back, meeting his eyes. “I mean you’ve got a laceration that’s deep enough to have potentially damaged your flexor tendon. That’s the tendon that controls your ability to bend your fingers and grip things. Which, for a hockey player, seems pretty important.”
“Pretty important,” Luke echoes weakly.
“I can clean this, close it, bandage it. But you need to see a hand specialist. Soon. Like, tomorrow soon.”
“We have a game-”
“You’re not playing,” you say firmly. “Not with this. Jack, I’m serious. If that tendon is damaged and you don’t get it repaired properly, you could lose function permanently.”
The room goes very quiet.
“How bad?” Jack asks. His voice has changed, lost that joking edge.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why you need a specialist. But I can tell you that if you ignore this, if you try to tough it out, you could be looking at permanent nerve damage, chronic pain, reduced grip strength. Is that a risk you want to take?”
He’s staring at his hand. At your gloved fingers holding gauze against his palm. “No.”
“Good. Then tomorrow morning, you’re going to call whatever team doctor you have and tell them you need to see a hand surgeon immediately. Today we’re going to do damage control.” You start setting up your suture kit. “This is going to take a while. You guys comfortable?”
“We’re fine,” Nico says. But he’s moved closer, standing right next to the bed.
You work in silence for a few minutes, carefully cleaning and examining every millimeter of the wound. Jack watches you, and you can feel his eyes tracking your movements.
“How long have you been doing this?” He asks suddenly.
“Medicine? Or specifically patching up people who make questionable decisions?”
“Both.”
“I’m a third-year resident. And I’ve been dealing with questionable decisions since my first day.” You start suturing, small precise stitches. “Last week I had a guy who tried to deep-fry a turkey. Inside his apartment.”
“Did he-”
“He’s fine. His security deposit, not so much.”
Luke laughs, sharp and surprised. “That’s insane.”
“That’s Friday night in the ER.” You tie off another stitch. “You see enough weird stuff, nothing surprises you anymore. Although I have to say, professional athlete versus water glass is a new one.”
“Glad I could contribute to your collection of stories,” Jack says drily.
You glance up at him. He’s pale, probably from blood loss and shock, but he’s still trying to joke. There’s something oddly endearing about it. “Trust me, this is going in the group chat.”
“Great.”
“Could be worse. At least you have a good story. ‘Yeah, I missed eight weeks because I heroically tried to save a water glass at a steakhouse.’”
“Eight weeks?” Jack’s voice cracks.
You pause. “Jack. I’m not trying to scare you. But yes, if there’s tendon damage, you’re looking at surgery and significant recovery time. That’s why you need to see a specialist.”
He’s quiet while you finish suturing. Twelve stitches in total, neat and even. You bandage his hand carefully, wrapping it to keep it immobilized.
“Okay,” you say, stripping off your gloves. “Here’s what’s happening. You’re going to keep this clean and dry. No using this hand for anything. I’m prescribing antibiotics and pain medication. You’re going to follow up with a hand surgeon within twenty-four hours. And Jack?”
He looks at you.
“Don’t be stupid about this. Your career might depend on it.”
The weight of that settles over all of them. Luke and Nico exchange glances. Jack just nods slowly.
“I’ll give you guys paperwork and prescriptions,” you say. “Wait here.”
You step out of the bay, pulling the curtain closed behind you. At the nurses’ station, you start filling out discharge forms, but your mind is still on the kid with the cut hand. Because that’s what he is, really — a kid. A few years younger than you, maybe. Professional athlete with his whole career ahead of him.
And he almost destroyed it trying to catch a water glass.
“That bad?” Rosa, one of the nurses, asks.
“Potentially.” You sign your name with a flourish. “He needs a hand surgeon.”
“The hockey players?”
“You know them?”
“My boyfriend loves the Devils. That’s Jack Hughes in there. He’s kind of a big deal.”
You glance back at Bay 3. Jack Hughes. The name doesn’t mean much to you — you barely have time to sleep, let alone follow sports — but Rosa seems impressed.
“Well,” you say, “big deal or not, he just did something really stupid.”
“Most men do.”
“Fair.”
You head back to Bay 3 with the discharge papers. All three of them look up when you enter, and you’re struck by how young they seem. Boys playing a man’s game.
“Alright,” you say, handing the papers to Jack. “You’re free to go. But I’m serious about the follow-up. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Jack says. He stands, cradling his bandaged hand. “Thank you. Really.”
“Just doing my job.” You start to turn away, then pause. “And Jack? Next time someone drops a glass? Let it fall.”
He laughs, real and surprised. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
You watch them leave — Luke hovering close to Jack, Nico already on his phone, probably calling someone — and then you’re on to the next patient. Dislocated shoulder. Possible appendicitis. A kid who swallowed a Lego.
Just another Saturday night.
But later, during your 3 AM break, you find yourself thinking about the hockey player with the brown hair and the stupid grin who nearly destroyed his hand catching a glass. About the way his friends stayed close, protective. About the fear in his eyes when you mentioned eight weeks.
You hope he listens to you.
You hope he’s not as stupid as that water glass incident suggests.
But somehow, you suspect you haven’t seen the last of Jack Hughes.
***
Jack can’t sleep on the plane.
His hand is throbbing despite the pain meds, wrapped in enough gauze and bandaging that it looks like he’s wearing a white boxing glove. Luke’s passed out in the seat next to him, head tilted back, mouth open. Nico’s across the aisle, scrolling through his phone with that focused expression he gets when he’s reading something in German.
Jack should sleep. He should rest. Instead, he’s thinking about the ER doctor.
About the way you didn’t flinch when you saw the blood. The way you made jokes while stitching him up, like it was the most normal thing in the world. The way your eyes — were they brown? blue? green? He can’t remember and it’s driving him crazy — met his when you told him his career might depend on taking this seriously.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Luke mumbles without opening his eyes.
“I’m not.”
“You’re doing that thing where you bounce your leg. You always bounce your leg when you’re thinking too much.”
Jack stills his leg. “Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t. You’re thinking too loud.”
Despite everything, Jack almost smiles. “Shut up.”
Luke cracks one eye open. “You okay? Hand?”
“Yeah. Fine.” It’s not fine. It hurts like hell. But that’s not what’s keeping him awake.
“You’re worried.”
Jack shrugs with his good shoulder. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Yeah,” Luke admits. He sits up straighter, rubbing his face. “But you heard what she said. The doctor. You get it fixed right, you’ll be fine.”
She. You. The doctor who looked at him like he was both the dumbest and most entertaining patient of her night.
“What was her name?” Jack asks suddenly.
“Who?”
“The doctor. In Chicago.”
Luke frowns. “Uh. Doctor Y/L/N, I think? Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Dude.” Luke’s giving him that look. The little brother look that says I know exactly what you’re thinking and you’re an idiot. “Are you serious right now?”
“What?”
“You’re into the ER doctor.”
“I’m not-” Jack stops. “She was nice.”
“She called you brain-dead.”
“She implied I was missing brain cells. Different thing.”
“Oh my god.” Luke’s grinning now. “You’re actually into her. You almost destroyed your hand and you’re thinking about the doctor.”
“I’m not-” But he is. He absolutely is. “She was funny.”
“She was doing her job.”
“She was funny while doing her job.” Jack shifts in his seat, cradling his hand. “And she was pretty. She was pretty, right?”
“I was focused on your hand bleeding everywhere, so-”
“Luke.”
“Yeah, okay, she was pretty. In a ‘hasn’t slept in three days and might murder you’ kind of way.”
Jack grins despite the pain. “So pretty.”
“You need help.”
“I need hand surgery.”
“That too.”
***
The Hospital for Special Surgery is nothing like the Chicago ER.
Everything is sleek and pristine and expensive-looking. Jack sits in an examination room that’s nicer than some apartments he’s seen, his hand re-bandaged by the nurse who took one look at your work and said, “Clean stitches. ER doc?”
“Yeah,” Jack had said. “In Chicago.”
“Good work.”
He’s weirdly proud of that, like you’d been complimented personally.
Dr. Hotchkiss is older, maybe fifty, with gray hair and steady hands and the kind of calm authority that makes Jack immediately trust him. He examines Jack’s hand carefully, asking questions about the injury, the pain level, the range of motion.
“You’re lucky,” Dr. Hotchkiss says finally. “The ER physician did an excellent job cleaning and closing this. But you’ve got significant damage to your flexor tendon. It’s not completely severed, but it’s badly compromised.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you need surgery. Soon. We’ll repair the tendon, make sure there’s no nerve damage, and then you’re looking at a recovery period.”
Jack’s stomach drops. “How long?”
“Eight weeks minimum. Possibly longer depending on how the repair heals.” Dr. Hotchkiss sits back. “I’m sorry, Jack. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”
Eight weeks. The ER doctor called it. You called it exactly.
“When can we do the surgery?” Jack asks.
“Tomorrow morning. I can have my team ready by eight AM.”
Tomorrow. Okay. Jack can do tomorrow.
“My parents are flying in tonight,” he says. “They’ll want to be here.”
“Of course. We’ll take good care of you.”
Jack nods. His hand throbs. He thinks about you, about the way you looked at him and said don’t be stupid about this. He’s trying not to be stupid. He’s trying to do everything right.
“Thank you,” he says. “Really.”
Dr. Hotchkiss smiles. “That’s what we’re here for. Try to rest tonight. No food or water after midnight.”
***
His parents arrive at ten PM.
Jack’s in his apartment, Luke making pasta because he refuses to let Jack do anything, when there’s a knock at the door. His mom comes in like a hurricane, all anxious energy and worry, pulling him into a hug that he has to be careful returning.
“Let me see,” she demands.
“Mom, it’s bandaged-”
“Let me see the bandage then.”
He holds up his hand dutifully. His dad stands behind his mom, looking worried in that quiet way he gets. Quinn’s on FaceTime from Vancouver, his face taking up Luke’s phone screen on the counter.
“You’re an idiot,” Quinn says fondly.
“Yeah, I got that memo.”
“A water glass, Jack. Really.”
“Can we please stop talking about the glass?” Jack sits heavily on the couch. His hand is really hurting now, a deep ache that the pain meds barely touch. “It happened. I’m getting surgery. Can we move on?”
His mom sits next to him, gentler now. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”
“Tired. Sore.” He leans against her shoulder like he’s twelve again. “Scared.”
“I know.” She runs her hand through his hair. “But Dr. Hotchkiss is the best. You’re going to be fine.”
“Eight weeks,” Jack says quietly. “I’m going to miss eight weeks.”
“At least,” his dad adds, because Jim Hughes has never believed in sugar-coating things.
“At least,” Jack echoes.
They sit in silence for a moment. Luke’s stirring pasta. Quinn’s watching from the phone. His parents are warm and solid on either side of him. Jack should feel better. He should feel comforted.
Instead, he keeps thinking about the ER. About you, standing there in your scrubs with blood on your gloves, telling him exactly what he needed to hear even when he didn’t want to hear it.
“The ER doctor in Chicago was really good,” he says suddenly.
Luke snorts from the kitchen.
“That’s good,” his mom says. “What was his name?”
“Her name. Dr. Y/L/N.” Jack sits up. “She knew immediately how serious it was. She stitched me up and told me I needed a specialist and she was right about everything.”
“Sounds like you were in good hands,” his dad says.
“She was pretty too,” Luke adds helpfully. “Jack’s in love.”
“I’m not in love-”
“He asked me what her name was on the plane,” Luke continues, grinning at their parents. “He can’t stop thinking about her.”
Quinn’s laughing from the phone. “Oh my god.”
“You guys are the worst.” But Jack’s smiling too, even though his hand hurts and he’s terrified about tomorrow and everything feels uncertain. “She was nice. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” His mom’s got that look. The mom look. “Well, when you’re healed up, maybe you should thank her properly.”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying. A nice card. Some flowers.”
“She works in an ER in Chicago. I live in New Jersey.”
“They have mail in Chicago,” Quinn points out.
“All of you suck.”
But later, after his parents have gone to their hotel and Luke’s asleep in his room and Quinn’s hung up, Jack lies in bed and thinks about it. About sending you something. A thank you card. Flowers. Something to acknowledge that you probably saved his career by being blunt and honest and not letting him minimize the injury.
He falls asleep thinking about what color your eyes were.
***
The surgery is scheduled for eight AM.
Jack’s not allowed to eat or drink anything, which seems cruel and unusual, and he’s tired and nervous and his hand won’t stop throbbing. They’re in pre-op, and a nurse is going through all the paperwork while his mom holds his good hand and his dad stands like a sentinel at the foot of the bed.
Luke had to go to practice — someone has to show up for the team — but he’d hugged Jack before leaving, tight and fierce. “You’re going to be fine,” he’d said. “And I’m going to make fun of you forever for the water glass thing.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Now, sitting in a hospital gown that’s somehow both too big and too small, Jack feels very young and very scared.
“It’s a routine procedure,” the nurse is saying. She’s older, kind-eyed, patient. “Dr. Hotchkiss does these all the time. You’ll be under general anesthesia, so you won’t feel anything.”
“How long?” Jack asks.
“Usually about two hours, depending on the extent of the repair needed. You’ll wake up in recovery, and then we’ll move you to a regular room.”
Two hours. Okay. He can do this.
Dr. Hotchkiss appears, already in surgical scrubs. “Ready?”
Jack nods. He’s not ready. He’s terrified. But he nods anyway.
“We’re going to take excellent care of you,” Dr. Hotchkiss says. “I’ll see you in there.”
The anesthesiologist introduces herself — smiling and efficient — and starts explaining about the medications they’ll use. Jack tries to pay attention, but his brain is fuzzy with fear and pain and lack of food.
“Any questions?” Dr. Chen asks.
About a million. Will I play again? Will my hand work the same? What if something goes wrong? What if-
“No,” Jack says. “I’m good.”
His mom kisses his forehead. His dad squeezes his shoulder. And then they’re wheeling him away, down bright corridors that all look the same, and Jack’s staring at the ceiling tiles and trying not to panic.
The operating room is cold and full of people and machines that beep. Someone’s putting a mask over his face.
“Count backward from ten,” the anesthesiologist ays.
“Ten. Nine. Eight …” Jack’s thinking about hockey. About Luke. About his parents in the waiting room. About you, the ER doctor with the sharp wit and the careful hands. “Seven. Six …”
The world goes soft at the edges.
“Five …”
And then nothing.
***
Everything is fuzzy and bright and wrong.
Jack tries to open his eyes, but they’re so heavy. His mouth tastes like cotton. Something’s beeping nearby, steady and rhythmic. His hand feels weird. Numb and heavy and not quite attached to his body.
“-coming around now,” someone’s saying. A woman. Not his mom. A nurse maybe?
He manages to get his eyes open. The room swims into focus slowly. White walls. Monitors. His hand is wrapped in fresh bandaging, elevated on a pillow, and there’s an IV in his other arm.
“Jack?” His mom’s face appears above him. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re okay. Surgery’s done.”
Surgery. Right. His hand. The glass. Dr. Hotchkiss.
“How’d it go?” Jack’s voice sounds wrong. Thick and slow.
“Really well. Dr. Hotchkiss said the repair went perfectly.”
That’s good. That’s really good. Jack tries to smile, but his face isn’t quite working right. “Where’s the angel?”
His mom blinks. “What?”
“The angel. The doctor. The pretty one.” Jack’s words are slurring together. Why is talking so hard? “Is she here?”
From somewhere to his left, Luke starts laughing.
“Jack, honey, you’re in New York,” his mom says gently. “Dr. Hotchkiss did your surgery.”
“No, the angel. From Chicago. The one with the …” He gestures vaguely with his good hand, trying to describe you. “The pretty eyes. And the—the smart words.”
“Oh my god,” Luke says. He sounds like he’s dying. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”
“Luke,” his dad says warningly.
“No, I’m recording this. This is going in the vault.”
“Is she here?” Jack asks again. He’s pretty sure he’s being very clear and logical. “I want to say thank you. For saving my hand. And being pretty.”
“She’s in Chicago, buddy,” his dad says. He’s trying not to smile. Jack can tell.
“We should call her.” Jack tries to sit up, which is a mistake. The room tilts dangerously. “Someone call her. Tell her the surgery went good. She’d want to know.”
“I’m sure she would,” his mom says soothingly. “But right now you need to rest.”
“But she was so nice. And funny. And did I mention pretty?” Jack’s pretty sure he’s already mentioned that, but it bears repeating. “Luke, you saw her. Tell them.”
“I saw her,” Luke confirms. He’s definitely recording. Jack can see the phone. “She was very professional.”
“She was beautiful. Like an angel. An angel who’s really good at stitches.” Jack’s eyelids are getting heavy again. “We should send her flowers. Do they have flowers in Chicago?”
“Yes, Jack, Chicago has flowers.”
“Good. We should send her all of them. All the flowers.” He’s fading, he can feel it, but this is important. “Luke, write that down. Send the angel all the flowers.”
“On it,” Luke says. He’s absolutely not writing anything down. He’s recording every second of this.
“And chocolate. Do doctors like chocolate?”
“Most people like chocolate,” his mom says.
“So much chocolate. And a card. A really nice card that says …” Jack’s trying to think of the right words. “‘Thank you for saving my hand and being the prettiest person I’ve ever seen in an ER.’”
“That’s beautiful, Jack,” Luke says, his voice shaking with laughter. “Really romantic.”
“I’m very romantic. I’m the most romantic.” Jack’s eyes are closing. “The angel will love it. When she comes to visit.”
“She’s in Chicago, remember?”
“Then I’ll go to Chicago. When my hand’s better. I’ll take her to that restaurant. The one with the evil glasses.”
“Chicago Cut?” His dad supplies.
“Yeah. But this time-” Jack holds up one finger, very serious. “This time, no glasses.”
“Solid plan.”
“I’m good at plans.” Jack’s definitely slurring now. “That’s why I’m a professional athlete. Professional athletes are good at plans and skating and …” He loses his train of thought. “What were we talking about?”
“The angel doctor,” Luke says helpfully.
“Right. The angel.” Jack sighs, content. “She has really nice hands. Doctor hands. Healing hands. Like an angel.”
“You said that already.”
“It’s worth saying twice. Maybe three times. Angel hands. Angel face. Angel …” He’s fading fast now, the medication pulling him back under. “Someone tell her I said thank you.”
“We will,” his mom promises.
“And that I think she’s pretty.”
“That too.”
“And that I’m not usually this stupid.” Jack’s barely conscious now. “The glass thing was a fluke. I’m normally very smart. Tell her that.”
“We’ll tell her.”
“Good.” Jack lets his eyes close. “That’s good. She should know I’m smart. And grateful. And I think she’s pretty. Did I mention she’s pretty?”
“Several times,” his dad says dryly.
“Good. Important information.” Jack’s almost gone now, floating in that space between awake and asleep. “Angel doctor. Healing angel. Pretty angel who-”
He’s out before he can finish the sentence.
***
When Jack wakes up again — really wakes up, clear-headed and mortified — Luke is sitting in the chair next to his bed, grinning like the cat who got the cream.
“Good news,” Luke says. “Your hand surgery went great.”
“And the bad news?” Jack croaks.
Luke holds up his phone. “I have a twelve-minute video of you professing your love for the ‘angel doctor’ from Chicago.”
Jack closes his eyes. “No.”
“Oh yes. You asked for her approximately fifteen times. You wanted to send her ‘all the flowers in Chicago.’ You called her pretty so many times I lost count.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Mom made me promise not to post it publicly,” Luke says. “But the family group chat is already blowing up. Grandpa’s dying. Dad said it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all year.”
“I hate you.”
“You also said you wanted to take her to Chicago Cut but ‘this time, no glasses.’”
Jack groans, pulling his good hand over his face. “Did I at least sound cool?”
“You sounded like you’d been lobotomized. It was incredible.”
“I’m never getting anesthesia again.”
“Too bad, because you’ve got a follow-up surgery scheduled in a few months to remove the pins.”
Jack’s quiet for a moment, processing that. Then: “Was I really that bad?”
“You called her an angel approximately twenty times. So yes.”
But Luke’s smiling, fond and amused, and when Jack looks around the room, his parents are there too, his mom reading a book and his dad doing something on his iPad, and the whole thing feels less mortifying and more …warm.
“How’s the hand?” Jack asks, changing the subject desperately.
“Dr. Hotchkiss said the repair went perfectly. He’ll come by later to talk about recovery, but you should get full function back.”
Jack exhales. That’s all that matters, really. Everything else — the embarrassment, the drugged confessions, the video Luke will definitely use as blackmail material forever — is secondary to that.
“That’s good,” he says quietly. “That’s really good.”
“Yeah.” Luke leans forward. “You scared me, you know. When I saw all that blood at the restaurant.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just stop trying to catch things with your bare hands.”
“Deal.”
They sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Jack’s hand throbs, but it’s different now. Better. Like something broken being put back together.
“Hey Luke?” Jack says finally.
“Yeah?”
“Can we really send all the flowers in Chicago?”
Luke throws a pillow at him.
But later, when everyone’s gone home and Jack’s alone in his hospital room, he thinks about it seriously. About you. About the way you looked at him with amusement and concern and complete professional competence. About the way you stitched him up and told him the truth even when he didn’t want to hear it.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see you again. Chicago’s far from New Jersey, and you probably deal with dozens of patients every shift. He was just another injury, another case, another stupid kid who did something dumb.
But he wants to thank you properly. When he’s healed, when he can think straight without anesthesia turning his brain to mush, he wants to find a way to say: you were right. About everything. Thank you for being honest. Thank you for being competent. Thank you for being kind.
Thank you for saving his career.
And maybethank you for being pretty too.
Even if Luke never lets him forget it.
***
The flowers arrive on a Wednesday.
You’re in the middle of your shift — hour nine of twelve, running on coffee and spite — when Rosa appears with a massive bouquet of white roses and peonies. They’re gorgeous, the kind of arrangement that probably cost more than your daily rate.
“Someone has an admirer,” Rosa sings, setting them on the nurses’ station counter.
You stare at them. “Those aren’t for me.”
“Card says Dr. Y/L/N.”
That makes you look up. “What?”
Rosa hands you the small card tucked between the flowers. Your name is written on the envelope in unfamiliar handwriting — or maybe printed by a florist, you can’t tell. You open it carefully.
Dr. Y/L/N,
Thank you for saving my hand and possibly my career. You were right about everything. The surgery went well, and I’m on the road to recovery. I promise I’ve learned my lesson about water glasses.
Also, I’m sorry for whatever I said when I woke up from anesthesia. According to my brother, it was embarrassing.
- Jack Hughes
You read it twice. Then a third time.
“Well?” Rosa demands. “Who’s it from?”
“The hockey player. From last week.” You’re still staring at the card. “The one with the glass injury.”
“The cute one?”
“I didn’t notice if he was cute.” That’s a lie. You definitely noticed. “I was focused on his hand.”
“Uh-huh.” Rosa’s grinning. “And he sent you flowers.”
“He’s just being polite. Saying thank you.”
“Honey, men don’t send flowers like that just to say thank you. Those are ‘I’m interested’ flowers.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling despite yourself. The flowers are beautiful. The note is sweet. And there’s something endearing about the apology for post-anesthesia rambling, even though you have no idea what he said.
“He lives in New Jersey,” you point out. “I live in Chicago.”
“So?”
“So it’s a thank you. That’s all.”
But you take the flowers home that night, and you put them in a vase on your kitchen counter, and every time you look at them over the next few days, you think about Jack Hughes and his bleeding hand and the way he kept trying to joke even when he was clearly terrified.
***
Jack stares at his phone.
He’s been staring at his phone for twenty minutes, sitting in his apartment, his hand elevated on a pillow like he’s supposed to, trying to figure out if sending the flowers was a good idea or the stupidest thing he’s done since the water glass incident.
“You’re spiraling,” Nico says from the kitchen. He’s making lunch — grilled cheese, because Jack can’t do much one-handed yet — and pointedly not looking at Jack.
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’ve checked your phone forty times in the last hour.”
“I’m just—what if she didn’t get them? What if they went to the wrong person? What if-”
“Jack.” Nico appears with two plates. “She got them. Eat your sandwich.”
Jack takes the sandwich obediently. His hand aches — it’s been two weeks since surgery, and everything still feels wrong and stiff and frustrating. “Should I have included my number?”
“Did you want her to text you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? Is that weird?”
“It’s a little weird,” Nico admits. “You met her once. In an ER. While bleeding.”
“It was a significant meeting.”
“It was a medical emergency.”
Jack takes a bite of his sandwich. It’s good, but he barely tastes it. He can’t stop thinking about you. About whether you liked the flowers. About whether you thought the note was charming or creepy. About whether you remember him at all beyond ’that idiot who cut his hand on glass.’
“We don’t play in Chicago again this season,” Jack says.
“No.”
“So I can’t just … happen to see her.”
“No.”
“Unless I went to Chicago.”
Nico pauses mid-bite. “Jack.”
“What? It’s a nice city. Lots of … architecture. And pizza.”
“You hate deep dish.”
“I could learn to like it.”
“You’re not flying to Chicago to stalk your ER doctor.”
“It’s not stalking if I just happen to be in the city-”
“That’s literally what stalking is.”
Jack slumps back on the couch. His hand throbs. Everything feels complicated and frustrating, and he can’t even play hockey to work out the restless energy. “I just want to say thank you. Properly.”
“You sent flowers.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Jack.” Nico sits next to him, his voice gentler now. “I get it. She made an impression. But she’s a doctor in Chicago. You’re a hockey player in New Jersey. Sometimes things just … aren’t meant to work out.”
Jack knows Nico’s right. He knows it’s impractical and borderline crazy to be this fixated on someone he met once under the worst possible circumstances. But he can’t help it. There was something about you. The way you looked at him. The way you made jokes while stitching him up. The way you told him the truth even when it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“Yeah,” Jack says finally. “You’re right.”
But he doesn’t stop thinking about it.
***
Three days later, you’re grabbing coffee at the hospital Starbucks when your phone buzzes.
It’s an Instagram notification. A new follower … @jackhughes.
You almost drop your coffee.
Standing in line, you click on the profile. It’s verified — a blue checkmark and everything. The feed is what you’d expect: hockey photos, occasional shots with teammates, a few family pictures. He’s got over six-hundred-thousand followers.
And he just followed you.
Your Instagram is private — mostly just pictures of your cat, your friends, the occasional sunset. Nothing special. Certainly nothing that would interest a professional athlete with a million followers.
You accept the follow request before you can overthink it.
Within thirty seconds, he’s liked three of your photos. Your cat, Mr. Darcy. A picture of you and your roommate at brunch. A sunset from last summer.
Your phone buzzes again. A DM.
Hope the flowers made it to you okay. Thanks again for everything.
You stare at the message. He’s giving you an opening. A chance to respond or not respond. No pressure.
You type They’re beautiful. Thank you. How’s the hand?
The response is almost immediate.
Getting there. PT is brutal but the surgeon says I’m healing well. I should be back on ice in 6 weeks.
That’s great. I’m glad the surgery went well.
You called it. Eight weeks exactly. You should consider a career in fortune telling.
You smile despite yourself. I’ll add it to my resume. “ER Doctor and Part-Time Psychic.”
I’d come to you for all my medical needs.
Even the ones that don’t involve glass injuries?
Especially those. I’m trying to avoid glass entirely now. Very traumatic.
You’re grinning at your phone like an idiot, standing in the Starbucks line, completely oblivious to the barista calling your name for your order.
“Y/N?” The barista tries again.
You grab your coffee, still looking at your phone. Another message has come through.
This is probably weird, but I’ve been thinking about coming back to Chicago. The city, not for a game. Have you ever been to the Art Institute?
Your heart does something complicated.
Are you asking if I want to go to a museum with you?
Only if that’s not completely insane. Which it might be. I’m not great at this.
You should say no. He lives in New Jersey. You live in Chicago. You met him once while he was bleeding all over your ER. This is impractical at best, crazy at worst.
Instead, you type I love the Art Institute.
***
Jack reads your message seventeen times.
I love the Art Institute.
Not yes. Not no. Just an opening. A maybe.
He’s sitting in physical therapy, his hand being tortured by a very nice woman named Stephanie who keeps telling him that pain means progress, and he’s grinning at his phone like he just won the lottery.
“Good news?” Stephanie asks, guiding his fingers through exercises that hurt like hell.
“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”
“Girl?”
“Doctor, actually. The one who stitched up my hand in Chicago.”
Stephanie pauses. “You’re still in touch with your ER doctor?”
“I sent her flowers. And then I followed her on Instagram. And now I’m maybe planning a trip to Chicago.”
“That’s either really romantic or really creepy.”
“I’m hoping for romantic.”
“Does she know you’re coming?”
Jack looks at his phone. At your message. At the opening you’ve given him. “Not yet. I don’t want to be presumptuous.”
“But you’re going anyway?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
Stephanie shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Hockey players. You’re all insane.”
“I prefer ‘determined.’”
“Keep doing those finger flexes. Determined or not, you need to heal.”
Jack does the exercises, gritting his teeth through the pain, and thinks about Chicago. About the Art Institute. About seeing you again in a context that doesn’t involve blood and stitches and medical emergencies.
About whether this is the best idea he’s ever had or the dumbest.
Later, in the car with Luke driving him home from PT, Jack says, “I’m going to Chicago.”
Luke doesn’t even look surprised. “When?”
“I don’t know. Soon. Before I lose my nerve.”
“Does she know?”
“Not exactly.”
“Jack.”
“I’m not just showing up at the hospital! I’m going to ask her. Properly. If she wants to hang out while I’m there.”
“And if she says no?”
Jack’s quiet for a moment. “Then at least I tried.”
Luke merges onto the highway. “For what it’s worth, I think you should go. You’ve been different since the injury. Quieter. This is the first time you’ve seemed excited about something.”
“I’m excited about hockey-”
“You know what I mean.”
Jack does know. The injury has been hard. Watching the team play without him. Sitting in the press box instead of on the ice. Going to physical therapy every day and feeling like his progress is microscopic. He’s been in his head, anxious and frustrated and lost.
But thinking about you — about seeing you again — makes everything feel lighter.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “I know what you mean.”
***
You’re lying in bed, Mr. Darcy purring on your chest, scrolling through Jack’s Instagram when your roommate, Charlie, appears in your doorway.
“Are you stalking someone?”
You nearly drop your phone. “No.”
“You’re stalking someone. Who is it?”
“I’m not-” You sigh. “Remember that hockey player from last week? The one with the glass injury?”
Charlie’s eyes go wide. “The cute one?”
“Why does everyone keep saying he’s cute?”
“Because he is? Obviously?” Charlie launches herself onto your bed, making Mr. Darcy meow in protest. “What about him?”
“He sent me flowers. And followed me on Instagram. And now he’s talking about coming to Chicago.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious.”
“He wants to see you again?”
“I think so? Maybe? I don’t know.” You show Charlie your phone, the DM conversation. “He mentioned the Art Institute.”
Charlie reads through the messages, her grin growing. “Oh my god. He’s into you.”
“He’s just being nice-”
“Nobody follows their ER doctor on Instagram and talks about flying to their city just to be nice.” Charlie hands back your phone. “He wants to see you.”
“That’s crazy. He lives in New Jersey. I live here. We met once.”
“So? Sometimes once is enough.”
You think about that. About Jack in your ER, trying to joke through the pain. About his friends staying close, protective. About the flowers and the note and the way he writes messages like he’s actually thinking about what to say instead of just typing whatever.
“I don’t date,” you remind Charlie. “I don’t have time to date.”
“You have time to stalk his Instagram at midnight.”
“It’s not midnight. It’s eleven-thirty.”
“My point stands.”
Mr. Darcy kneads your chest, purring. The flowers Jack sent are still on your kitchen counter, starting to fade but still beautiful. Your phone is warm in your hand.
“What if I said yes?” You ask quietly. “What if he comes here and it’s weird? What if we have nothing to talk about outside of a medical emergency?”
“What if you have everything to talk about?” Charlie counters. “What if he’s great?”
“He lives in New Jersey.”
“People have survived long distance before.”
“I don’t even know if I like him. I met him once. While he was bleeding.”
“You kept his flowers.”
“They’re pretty flowers.”
“You accepted his Instagram follow.”
“I’m polite.”
“You’re into him,” Charlie says definitively. “Just admit it.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. Then: “He was funny. Even when he was scared. And he listened to me when I told him how serious the injury was. And the note he sent with the flowers was sweet.”
“So say yes.”
“To what? He hasn’t actually asked me anything.”
“He will,” Charlie says confidently. “And when he does, say yes.”
***
Jack waits three days before messaging you again. He doesn’t want to seem desperate, even though he absolutely is.
So here’s a crazy idea, he types. Then deletes it. Too flippant.
I’m going to be in Chicago next weekend. Delete. Too presumptuous.
Would you want to get coffee sometime? Delete. Too casual.
He’s overthinking this. He knows he’s overthinking this. But everything feels significant, like the wrong word could ruin whatever this is before it even starts.
Finally, he settles on I know this is probably weird, but I can’t stop thinking about Chicago. And the Art Institute. And how I’d really like to see you again. Would you want to get together if I came to visit? No pressure at all. I just like to thank you properly.
He hits send before he can second-guess it.
Then he immediately panics.
“Oh god,” he says out loud. “That was too much. That was way too much.”
His phone sits silent on the coffee table. One minute passes. Then two. Jack’s about to throw his phone across the room when it buzzes.
I have Saturday off. I’d love to show you around the Art Institute.
Jack reads the message three times to make sure it’s real.
Then he’s texting Luke. She said yes.
To what?
To seeing me. I’m going to Chicago.
You’re insane.
I know.
When?
Saturday.
That’s in three days.
I know.
You’re really doing this.
Yeah, Jack types, grinning at his phone. I really am.
***
You tell yourself it’s not a date.
It’s just … showing a grateful patient around the city. Being polite. That’s all.
But you also spend an hour trying to decide what to wear on Saturday morning, and you let Charlie help you with your hair, and you put on actual makeup instead of just the bare minimum.
“Not a date,” Charlie says, watching you apply lipstick.
“It’s not.”
“You’re wearing your good jeans.”
“I always wear these jeans.”
“You bought them last month and haven’t worn them once.”
You cap the lipstick. “I’m being friendly.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”
But she hugs you before you leave, and whispers, “Have fun. Text me if you need an escape plan. Or if he’s perfect.”
The Art Institute is busy for a Saturday afternoon. You’re standing by the lion statues out front, checking your phone for the hundredth time, when you see him.
Jack’s wearing jeans and a jacket, his hand still wrapped in a brace, and he’s looking around like he’s not quite sure this is real. When he spots you, his whole face lights up.
“Hi,” he says, walking over. He’s taller than you remembered. Or maybe that’s just because he’s not hunched over in pain this time.
“Hi,” you say back. “How’s the hand?”
He holds it up. “Getting there. Still can’t do much, but at least I can hold a coffee cup now.”
“That’s progress.”
“Revolutionary progress.” He’s smiling, that same slightly lopsided smile from the ER. “Thanks for agreeing to this. I know it’s weird.”
“It’s a little weird,” you admit. “But good weird, I think.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You both stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, and it’s strange how this feels both exactly like the ER — that same awareness, that same connection — and completely different.
“So,” Jack says finally. “Art?”
“Art,” you agree.
And together, you walk into the museum.
Inside, surrounded by paintings and sculptures and the quiet murmur of other visitors, Jack says, “I have a confession.”
“Oh no.”
“I don’t actually know anything about art.”
You laugh. “Then why did you suggest this?”
“Because you said you loved it. And I wanted an excuse to see you again.” He’s looking at you, sincere and slightly nervous. “Was that too honest?”
“Maybe,” you say. But you’re smiling. “But I appreciate honesty.”
“Good. Because I’m really bad at playing it cool.”
“I noticed.”
“In my defense, I was bleeding a lot when we met.”
“Fair point.”
You lead him through the galleries, talking about the paintings, the artists, the history. Jack asks questions — good questions, thoughtful questions — and you realize he might not know about art, but he’s genuinely interested in learning. Or maybe he’s just interested in listening to you talk.
Either way, it’s nice.
In front of a Monet, Jack says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you become a doctor?”
You think about that. “My dad was sick when I was a kid. Cancer. The doctors who treated him were … they were heroes to me. They were honest, they were competent, and they cared. I wanted to be that for someone else.”
“Did he-” Jack hesitates.
“He’s okay now. Ten years in remission.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah.” You turn to look at Jack. “Why did you become a hockey player?”
“Because it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at,” he says simply. “And because I love it. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m injured and frustrated and can’t play. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
You understand that. The single-minded devotion to something you love.
“That’s how I feel about medicine,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You’re standing very close to each other now, in front of a painting of water lilies, and Jack’s looking at you like you’re more interesting than any art in this entire museum.
“I’m glad I cut my hand,” he says quietly.
“That’s a weird thing to be glad about.”
“I know. But if I hadn’t, I never would have met you.”
Your heart does that complicated thing again. “Jack-”
“I know this is crazy. I know I live in New Jersey and you live here and we barely know each other. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night.” He’s talking faster now, nervous. “And maybe that makes me sound like a stalker, and if you want me to leave right now I will, but I just—I had to see you again. I had to know if I was imagining this … thing.”
“What thing?” You ask, even though you know.
“This,” Jack says, gesturing between you. “Whatever this is. This feeling like I’ve known you longer than one night in an ER.”
You should be scared. You should be running. This is impractical and complicated and probably doomed from the start.
But you’re not running.
“I feel it too,” you say quietly.
Jack’s face transforms. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So what do we do about it?”
You think about that. About your schedule and his schedule and the hundreds of miles between you. About all the practical reasons this shouldn’t work.
And then you think about the flowers on your counter. The messages on your phone. The way Jack’s looking at you right now, hopeful and nervous and sincere.
“I think,” you say slowly, “we could start with coffee. After this.”
Jack grins, bright and genuine. “I’d really like that.”
“And then we figure out the rest.”
“Deal.”
So you do. You finish the museum, and then you get coffee at a place around the corner, and you talk. About everything. About his family and your family. About hockey and medicine. About favorite movies and worst injuries and the weirdest things you’ve seen in the ER.
And somewhere between the art and the coffee and the conversation, something shifts. This stops being just a grateful patient thanking his doctor. This becomes something else. Something with potential. Something worth trying for.
When Jack finally has to leave to catch his flight, he says, “Can I see you again?”
“You live in New Jersey.”
“I’m very good at planes.”
You laugh. “Okay. Yes. You can see me again.”
“Next time I have a few days off?”
“Text me when you know. We’ll figure it out.”
He nods, still smiling. Then, hesitantly, he hugs you. It’s careful because of his hand, brief because you’re in public, but it feels significant anyway.
“Thank you,” he says. “For today. For everything.”
“Thank you for the flowers.”
“They don’t seem like enough now.”
“They were perfect.”
When you get home, Charlie’s waiting. “Well?”
You’re still smiling. You can’t stop smiling. “It was good.”
“Good?”
“Really good.”
“Are you seeing him again?”
“Yeah,” you say, and it feels both terrifying and right. “Yeah, I think I am.”
Your phone buzzes. A message from Jack. Made it to the airport. Today was the best day I’ve had since the injury. Thank you for saying yes.
You type back Thank you for asking.
And then Text me when you land. Just so I know you made it safely.
Is that the doctor in you talking?
Maybe. Or maybe I just want an excuse to keep talking to you.
Good. Because I’m going to find a lot of excuses to talk to you.
You fall asleep that night with your phone on your pillow and a smile on your face, thinking about water glasses and art museums and the strange, wonderful way that something terrible can lead to something good.
Mr. Darcy purrs next to you, content.
Outside, Chicago glitters with lights.
And in New Jersey, Jack lies in bed, his hand aching but his heart full, thinking about you and art and second chances.
Sometimes, he thinks, the best things come from the worst moments.
Sometimes a water glass is just the beginning.
***
Eight weeks feels like forever when you’re counting down.
Jack’s been back on the ice for three days now — limited contact, supervised practice, his hand still tender but functional — and the whole thing feels surreal. Like he’s relearning how to be himself.
“Looking good,” Coach says, skating past. “How’s it feel?”
“Good,” Jack says. His hand aches, but it’s the good kind of ache. The healing kind. “Really good.”
Luke skates up next to him, grinning. “Ready for Saturday?”
Saturday. Jack’s first game back. Against the Rangers at home. He’s been cleared to play — full contact, no restrictions — and the thought makes him both excited and terrified.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “I’m ready.”
What he doesn’t say is that he’s also invited you to the game. That he bought you a plane ticket and booked you a hotel room and got you seats ten rows back from the glass. That he’s been planning this for two weeks, ever since the doctor cleared him to return.
That he’s more nervous about you being there than about playing his first game in two months.
***
The text comes on Monday.
You’re in the middle of a shift — of course you are, you’re always in the middle of a shift — when your phone buzzes with Jack’s name.
So I have my first game back on Saturday.
That’s amazing! How are you feeling?
Nervous. Excited. Terrified.
That’s a lot of emotions.
Yeah. But mostly I’m excited.
There’s a pause, and then I want you to come.
You stare at your phone. You’ve been seeing Jack for seven weeks now — if you can call it “seeing” when it’s mostly FaceTime calls and text messages and two more visits where he flew to Chicago and you spent entire weekends just talking and laughing and figuring each other out.
But this feels different. This feels significant.
Jack, I’d love to, but I don’t know if I can get the time off.
I already got you a ticket. And a hotel room. And seats that I think you’ll really like.
You what?
I know it’s presumptuous. But I really want you there. For my first game back. Please?
You should say no. You should remind him that you have responsibilities, a schedule, a life that doesn’t revolve around hockey games in New Jersey.
But you’re already checking the hospital schedule, already thinking about who you can trade shifts with.
What time is the game?
***
Jack’s been nervous before games. Plenty of times. But this is different.
This is you’re about to play your first game in two months and also the girl you’re crazy about is going to be watching nervous. Compounded nervous. Exponential nervous.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” Nico says. They’re in the locker room, pre-game routines in full swing around them, and Jack’s been pacing for ten minutes.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re a mess.”
“What if I play terribly?”
“You won’t.”
“What if my hand can’t keep up?”
“It will.”
“What if-”
“Jack.” Nico grabs his shoulders. “Breathe. You’re going to be great. Your hand is healed. You’ve been practicing all week. You’re ready.”
“She’s here,” Jack says quietly. “She flew in this morning.”
“I know. You’ve mentioned it approximately fifty times.”
“What if she thinks I’m terrible?”
“She’s a doctor. She’s seen you at your worst — literally bleeding all over an ER. If she’s still here after that, a bad game isn’t going to scare her off.”
Jack knows Nico’s right. He knows it logically. But his heart is racing anyway, and not just because of the game.
“Did you put her in the family box?” Luke asks, appearing with his gear half-on.
“No. I got her regular seats.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to pressure her. Putting her with all the wives and girlfriends felt like … too much.”
“You flew her across the country but sitting in a box is too much?”
“It’s different.”
Luke and Nico exchange glances. “You’ve got it bad,” Luke says.
“I know.”
“Like, really bad.”
“I know.”
“Dude, you’re smiling.”
Jack is smiling. He can’t help it. You’re here. In the building. About to watch him play.
“Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
***
The Prudential Center is loud.
You knew it would be loud — you’ve watched hockey on TV, you know how arenas work — but being here in person is completely different. The energy is electric, vibrating through the seats, through your chest, through your bones.
Your seats are incredible. Ten rows back, center ice, close enough to see everything but far enough back to have perspective. Jack said he wanted you to have the best view of the game.
What he didn’t say is that these seats probably cost a fortune.
The woman next to you is wearing a Devils jersey with “HUGHES” on the back. The number is 43 — Luke’s number, you’ve learned.
“First game?” She asks kindly.
“That obvious?”
“You keep looking around like you’ve never seen an arena before.”
“I haven’t,” you admit. “I’m a doctor. I work night shifts. I don’t get out much.”
“Well, you picked a good game for your first. Jack Hughes is back tonight.”
You try to keep your face neutral. “That’s exciting.”
“He’s been out for eight weeks with a hand injury. The team really missed him.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I think he’s the most talented player on the team. Don’t tell my son — he thinks it’s Luke.”
You smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The lights dim. The music gets louder. The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome YOUR NEW JERSEY DEVILS!”
The team skates out, and the arena erupts.
You’re looking for number 86. You spot him almost immediately — Jack, skating with that effortless grace that seems impossible, circling the ice with his teammates. He looks completely different here. Confident. Powerful. In his element.
When the announcer calls his name — “Returning to the lineup tonight, NUMBER EIGHTY-SIX, JACK HUGHES!” — the crowd goes absolutely wild.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest.
***
Jack can feel the energy from the crowd, but he’s scanning the seats.
He knows where you’re sitting — section 107, row 10, seat 5 — and during warm-ups, he skates past your section. He doesn’t look directly at you — that would be too obvious — but he knows you’re there.
It makes everything feel more real.
“Focus,” he tells himself. “Just play your game.”
The puck drops.
And Jack remembers why he loves this.
The speed, the sound of skates on ice, the way his body knows exactly what to do even after eight weeks away. His hand feels good — strong, responsive, no hesitation. Every pass connects. Every movement feels right.
Six minutes into the first period, he gets an assist. Feeds the puck to Timo, who buries it top shelf.
The arena explodes.
Jack’s grinning as the team celebrates, but he’s thinking about you. About whether you’re cheering. About whether you understand what just happened.
By the end of the first period, the Devils are up 2-1, and Jack has two assists.
“You’re flying out there,” Nico says in the locker room during intermission.
“Feels good,” Jack says. His hand is holding up perfectly. No pain, no weakness. Just hockey. “Really good.”
“Someone’s watching,” Luke singsongs.
“Shut up.”
“Someone important.”
“I will actually murder you.”
But Jack’s smiling, and when they go back out for the second period, he plays even better.
***
You don’t understand all the rules.
You know that’s probably obvious to anyone watching you — the way you jump up when everyone else sits down, the way you ask the woman next to you questions about offsides and icing — but you don’t care.
Because watching Jack play is mesmerizing.
He’s fast — so much faster than you expected — and there’s this grace to how he moves, like he’s dancing on ice. Every time he touches the puck, the energy in the arena shifts. People lean forward. Voices raise.
“That’s going to be a goal,” the woman next to you says as Jack carries the puck into the offensive zone.
She’s right.
Jack dishes the puck to Luke, who passes it back, and Jack shoots. The goalie makes the save, but the rebound pops out and another Devils player — you think his name is Dawson — taps it in.
Jack’s third assist of the night.
The arena is deafening. You’re on your feet, cheering, and you don’t even care that you probably look ridiculous.
Jack skates past your section during the celebration, and just for a second — so quick you might have imagined it — his eyes find yours.
He’s smiling.
***
The Devils win 5-2.
Jack finishes with three assists, +3, and no injuries. His hand held up perfectly. Better than perfectly.
In the locker room after the game, the energy is jubilant.
“Hughesy’s back!” Timo shouts, and everyone cheers.
“That’s my center,” Jesper adds, throwing an arm around Jack. “Feeding me goals like it’s his job.”
“It literally is my job,” Jack points out, but he’s grinning.
Coach comes by, claps him on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, Jack. Really good.”
“Good to be back.”
After the media availability — where Jack deflects every question about his hand with “it feels great” and “just happy to be playing again” — he showers and changes as quickly as possible.
Because you’re waiting.
He told you to meet him by the player’s entrance, and when he finally makes it there, you’re standing with your hands in your jacket pockets, looking slightly overwhelmed.
“Hi,” Jack says, suddenly nervous again.
“Hi.” You’re smiling. “That was incredible.”
“Yeah?”
“Jack, you were amazing. I don’t know much about hockey, but even I could tell you were amazing.”
He wants to kiss you. You’re standing there in his arena, looking at him like he hung the moon, and he wants to kiss you so badly it hurts.
But instead he says, “Come meet the team.”
“What?”
“The guys want to meet you. Nico and Luke won’t shut up about the ER doctor who saved my hand.”
“Jack, I don’t think-”
“Please?” He’s already pulling you gently toward the locker room area. “I promise they’re not scary.”
“They’re professional athletes.”
“They’re idiots. Trust me.”
***
The locker room area is chaos.
Players are milling around, some still in their gear, some changed into the clothes they arrived in. When Jack walks in with you, conversation stops.
“Guys,” Jack says, and his voice is proud — so proud it makes your cheeks heat. “This is Y/N. The doctor from Chicago.”
“The one who stitched you up?” Dougie asks, stepping forward with a grin.
“That’s me,” you say.
“And put up with him asking for ‘the angel’ while drugged,” Luke adds helpfully.
Jack’s face goes red. “Luke-”
“Oh, I heard about that,” you say sweetly. “Your brother was very forthcoming over text.”
The team laughs, and just like that, the tension breaks.
“I’m Timo,” Timo says, shaking your hand. “Thank you for fixing our boy. We really needed him back.”
“Jesper,” another player introduces himself. “The guy he keeps feeding goals to.”
“Jonas.” A tall defenseman with a Swiss accent. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” you say.
“Mostly just Jack sighing and staring at his phone,” Jonas says. “But we figured that meant good things.”
You look at Jack, who’s trying to disappear into the floor. “Is that so?”
“Don’t listen to them,” Jack says. “They’re lying.”
“We’re not lying,” Nico says, appearing with Luke. He offers you his hand. “Good to see you again, Dr. Y/L/N. Under much better circumstances.”
“Much better,” you agree. “And it’s just Y/N, please.”
“Y/N,” Nico repeats. “How was the game?”
“Honestly? I don’t understand half of what happened. But it was incredible.”
The team laughs again, warm and welcoming, and you start to relax. These aren’t scary professional athletes. They’re just guys who happen to be really good at hockey. Guys who clearly care about Jack.
“So,” Dawson says, leaning against a locker with a wicked grin. “We have to know. Did you think Jack was as dumb as the water glass story made him seem?”
“Dude-” Jack protests.
“I plead the fifth,” you say diplomatically.
“That’s a yes,” Timo translates.
“She’s a doctor,” Luke adds. “She’s seen him at his absolute worst. Bleeding everywhere, probably crying-”
“I wasn’t crying-”
“-definitely crying-”
“I was not-”
“He was very brave,” you interrupt, and Jack looks at you gratefully. “Even when he was terrified.”
“She’s too nice,” Jesper says. “We all know you were a mess, Hughes.”
“I was fine.”
“You asked for the angel seventeen times coming out of anesthesia.”
“Oh my god, can we please stop talking about that?”
But Jack’s grinning despite his protests, and you realize this is what he wanted. Not just for you to meet his team, but for them to see you together. To make this real.
“Alright,” Nico says, clearly taking pity on Jack. “Let the man breathe. Y/N, it’s really great to meet you properly.”
“You too. All of you.”
As the group starts to disperse, players heading home or out for post-game meals, Dougie says, “Hey, Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re way too good for him. Like, way too good.”
“I know,” Jack says before you can respond. He’s looking at you, sincere and open. “I absolutely know.”
“And yet,” you say softly, “here I am.”
The smile Jack gives you could power the entire arena.
***
Later, after everyone’s gone and it’s just you and Jack walking to the parking garage, Jack says, “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me. For the ticket and the hotel and the incredible seats.”
“You liked them?”
“Jack, they were amazing. Everything was amazing.”
He stops walking, turning to face you under the fluorescent lights of the garage. His hand — the one that was so badly injured, the one you stitched up in a Chicago ER eight weeks ago — reaches for yours carefully.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jack says quietly. “About this. About us. About how you’re in Chicago and I’m here and it’s complicated.”
Your heart sinks. “Jack-”
“Let me finish.” He squeezes your hand gently. “It is complicated. But I don’t care. These past eight weeks, getting to know you, talking to you, seeing you when I can — it’s been the best part of recovering from the injury.”
“Jack …”
“I’m not saying we have all the answers. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But I’m saying I want to try. Really try. If you do.”
You think about the last eight weeks. About falling asleep on FaceTime with him. About his texts that make you laugh during difficult shifts. About the way he asks about your day and actually listens to the answer. About flying here tonight to watch him play and feeling your heart swell with pride every time he touched the puck.
About how somewhere between stitching up his hand and now, you fell for him.
“I work insane hours,” you say carefully. “I’m on call constantly. I sometimes go days without seeing daylight.”
“I travel all the time. I have games almost every other night. I’m going to be terrible at texting back during road trips.”
“I’ve never dated a professional athlete.”
“I’ve never dated a doctor.”
“This is probably a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Probably,” Jack agrees. He’s smiling now, soft and hopeful. “But I think it might be worth it anyway.”
You look at him — at this boy who cut his hand on a water glass and somehow became the best unexpected thing in your life — and you can’t help but smile back.
“Yeah,” you say. “I think it might be worth it too.”
Jack kisses you then, gentle and sure, in a parking garage in New Jersey, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
When you break apart, both smiling like idiots, Jack says, “So what now?”
“Now? Now you take me to get food. I’m starving and I’ve been told New Jersey has excellent diners.”
“We have the best diners.”
“Prove it.”
So he does. He takes you to a 24-hour diner fifteen minutes from the arena, and you sit in a booth and share disco fries and talk about everything and nothing. About his next game and your next shift. About his family and your family. About the water glass incident, which is somehow both the dumbest and best thing that ever happened to either of you.
Around 2 AM, when you’re both exhausted and happy and full of diner food, Jack drives you back to your hotel.
“When do you fly back?” He asks, walking you to the entrance.
“Tomorrow morning. I have a shift tomorrow night.”
“Already?”
“I’m a resident. We don’t get much time off.”
“I know.” Jack brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming. For meeting my team. For giving this a chance.” He’s holding your hand again, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your palm. Right over the scar where you stitched him up. “For everything.”
“Jack, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”
“I know. But still. Thank you.”
You lean against him, comfortable and content. “You know, when you walked into my ER that night, I thought you were just another patient with a stupid injury.”
“Rude, but fair.”
“I never thought you’d become this.”
“This?”
“This important. This … essential.”
Jack turns to look at you, and his expression is so tender it makes your breath catch. “That’s exactly how I feel about you.”
You kiss him then, soft and slow and perfect, and outside the windows, New Jersey glitters with lights, and somewhere in the universe, you’re grateful for water glasses and hockey games and the strange, unpredictable way life brings people together.
Because sometimes the worst moments lead to the best things.
Sometimes a stupid accident in a steakhouse leads to love.
And sometimes, when you least expect it, someone walks into your life and changes everything.
Jack pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too,” you whisper back.
And it’s the easiest, truest thing you’ve ever said.
***
Three Years Later
The wedding is perfect.
Not perfect in the pristine, nothing-goes-wrong way — the flowers arrived two hours late, the string quartet played the wrong song for the processional, and Jack’s tie was crooked in half the photos — but perfect in the way that matters. In the this-is-exactly-right way.
You’re married to Jack Hughes.
The thought makes you want to laugh and cry and pinch yourself all at once.
The reception is in full swing now. Dinner’s been served, your feet hurt from your heels, and you’re sitting at the head table next to your husband — your husband — watching everyone dance and drink and celebrate.
“Happy?” Jack asks, his hand finding yours under the table.
“So happy I might be sick from it.”
“That’s the most doctor response ever.”
You laugh and lean against his shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Mrs. Hughes.”
“Dr. Hughes, thank you very much. I didn’t go through four years of med school and three years of residency to drop the title.”
“Dr. Hughes,” Jack corrects, grinning. “My mistake.”
Across the room, Luke is standing up. He’s got a microphone. He’s also got a laptop.
“Oh no,” Jack says immediately.
“What?” You sit up straight.
“Luke has that look.”
“What look?”
“The I’m-about-to-embarrass-Jack look. He’s had it since he was five.”
Luke taps the microphone, and the DJ lowers the music. “Hi everyone! For those who don’t know me, I’m Luke, Jack’s much better-looking younger brother.”
The crowd laughs. Quinn, sitting at a table with your parents and Jim and Ellen, shouts, “That’s debatable!”
“Anyway,” Luke continues, grinning wickedly, “I’ve been waiting for this day for a very long time. Not just because I’m happy Jack found someone willing to put up with him-”
“Hey!” Jack protests.
“-but because I’ve been holding onto something. A piece of evidence, if you will. A video that I took three years ago when Jack had surgery on his hand.”
Jack’s face goes white. “Luke, don’t you dare-”
“A video that I promised I would save for a special occasion. And what’s more special than his wedding?”
You look at Jack. “What video?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Luke, seriously-”
But Luke’s already pulling up the video on his laptop, and someone’s connecting it to the projector screen, and suddenly there’s Jack on the screen, looking absolutely wrecked, his eyes half-closed, his hair a mess.
The audio starts.
“Where’s the angel?” Video Jack slurs.
The room erupts in laughter.
“Oh my god,” you breathe.
“I’m going to kill him,” Jack mutters, but he’s smiling despite himself.
On screen, Ellen’s voice says, “Jack, honey, you’re in New York.”
“No, the angel. The doctor. The pretty one.”
More laughter. You’re covering your mouth, trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment and also because this is the funniest thing you’ve ever seen.
“Is she here?” Video Jack asks earnestly. “I want to say thank you. For saving my hand. And being pretty.”
“Did I really say that?” Jack asks, looking at you.
“Apparently!”
“She’s in Chicago, buddy,” Jim’s voice says on the video.
“We should call her. Tell her the surgery went good. She’d want to know.”
The room is dying. Your friends are cackling. Jack’s teammates are losing their minds. Even your very professional colleagues from the hospital are doubled over laughing.
“But she was so nice,” Video Jack continues. “And funny. And did I mention pretty?”
“Several times,” Luke’s voice says from behind the camera.
“She was beautiful. Like an angel. An angel who’s really good at stitches.”
You’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and Jack has his head in his hands, but he’s laughing too.
“We should send her flowers. Do they have flowers in Chicago?”
“Yes, Jack, Chicago has flowers.”
“Good. We should send her all of them. All the flowers.”
The video continues — Jack rambling about chocolate and cards and taking you to Chicago Cut “but this time, no glasses,” and by the end, the entire room is in tears from laughing.
When it finally ends, Luke takes a bow. “And that, everyone, is how it started. With Jack, drugged out of his mind, asking for his angel doctor.”
The applause is thunderous.
Jack stands up, taking the microphone from Luke. “I’m going to start by saying that I’m absolutely going to get you back for that.”
“Worth it,” Luke says.
“But also-” Jack looks at you, and his expression softens. “He’s not wrong. I did ask for you. Even when I was completely out of it, apparently some part of me knew you were important. That you were going to be important.”
You’re definitely crying now.
“I was terrified that night,” Jack continues. “About my hand, about my career, about everything. And you walked into that ER and you fixed me. Not just my hand — you fixed everything. You made me laugh when I wanted to panic. You told me the truth when I needed to hear it. You saved my career.”
He’s walking toward you now, and everyone’s watching, and you can’t look away from him.
“But more than that, you became my best friend. My partner. The person I want to tell everything to. The person who makes every day better just by existing.” Jack’s in front of you now, and he takes both your hands. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world. Not because I play hockey, not because I have a great family and amazing friends, but because somehow, impossibly, you chose me.”
“Jack,” you whisper.
“I love you,” he says simply. “Angel doctor. Smartest person I know. My wife. I love you.”
You stand up and kiss him, not caring that everyone’s watching, not caring that you’re probably ruining your makeup, not caring about anything except this moment.
The room explodes in cheers.
When you finally break apart, you take the microphone. “Okay, my turn.”
Jack laughs. “Uh oh.”
“When Jack walked into my ER that night, I thought he was just another patient. Another stupid injury on a Saturday night. I patched him up, sent him on his way, and figured that was the end of it.”
You look at Jack, at his stupid grin, at the way he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
“But then he sent me flowers. Beautiful, ridiculous, over-the-top flowers. And a note that made me laugh. And then he followed me on Instagram, and we started talking, and suddenly this boy who cut his hand on a water glass became the most important person in my life.”
“I wasn’t expecting you,” you continue. “I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was focused on my career, on becoming the best doctor I could be. But you-” You shake your head, smiling. “You were impossible not to fall for. You’re funny and kind and so passionate about everything you do. You make me laugh every single day. You support my career even when it means we’re apart. You flew to Chicago just to take me to a museum. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Jack’s eyes are suspiciously shiny.
“So yes, Luke, thank you for that video. Because it’s a pretty accurate representation of how we both felt from the start — like we’d found something angel-level special. Something worth holding onto.”
You hand the microphone back to Luke, but before he can say anything, Nico stands up.
“I have a toast,” he announces.
“Of course you do,” Jack says.
Nico raises his glass. “I was there that night. In Chicago, when Jack turned a water glass into a medical emergency. And I remember thinking, ‘This is the dumbest thing he’s ever done.’ Which is really saying something.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
“But then we got to the ER, and I watched this doctor-” he nods at you “-take one look at Jack’s hand and immediately know exactly what needed to happen. No panic, no hesitation. Just competence and calm and a few jokes that made Jack stop spiraling.”
Nico’s smiling now. “And I watched Jack, bleeding and scared, try to make her laugh. And I thought, ‘Oh. This is going to be something.’”
“I’ve known Jack for years. I’ve watched him become an incredible hockey player, a great teammate, a good friend. But I’ve never seen him as happy as he’s been these past three years. Y/N, you make him better. You challenge him. You keep him grounded. You’re the perfect balance to his chaos.”
“Jack, you found someone who sees all of you — the talented athlete, the goofy kid, the determined competitor, the caring friend — and loves all of it. That’s rare. That’s special.”
Nico raises his glass higher. “To Jack and Y/N. May your marriage be filled with less bleeding and more laughter. May you always find your way back to each other, no matter how many miles apart you are. And may you never, ever, go to Chicago Cut again.”
“Here, here!” Everyone choruses, raising their glasses.
You and Jack are both laughing and crying, and when everyone drinks, Jack pulls you close.
“Best day of my life,” he murmurs.
“Better than your first NHL game?”
“Better than everything.”
The DJ starts the music again — something slow and romantic — and Jack leads you to the dance floor.
“I can’t believe Luke saved that video for three years,” you say as Jack spins you gently.
“He’s been threatening to play it at every major life event. I’m just glad he waited for the wedding.”
“It was pretty adorable.”
“I was drugged!”
“You were adorable,” you insist. “Asking for your angel doctor.”
Jack groans, but he’s smiling. “I’m never living that down.”
“Never ever. I’m going to bring it up at every anniversary.”
“I love you anyway.”
“I love you too.”
You dance, surrounded by everyone you love, and think about how strange and wonderful life is. How a random Saturday night shift turned into this. How a water glass — the dumbest, most ridiculous accident — led to the best thing in both your lives.
Later, much later, when the reception is winding down and you’re both exhausted and happy and ready to start your honeymoon, Luke finds you.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s grinning. “I had to.”
“I’m going to get you back,” Jack promises.
“I know. But it was worth it.” Luke hugs you both. “Seriously though. I’m really happy for you guys. You’re perfect together.”
“Thanks, Luke,” you say. “And thank you for recording that video. It’s going to be a family treasure.”
“I have it backed up in three places.”
“Of course you do.”
As you and Jack finally leave the reception, heading to your car covered in tin cans and shaving cream (courtesy of the team), Jack says, “Ready for the rest of our lives?”
“With you? Absolutely.”
“Even though I’m a hockey player who once nearly destroyed his career with a water glass?”
“Especially because of that.”
Jack kisses you, right there in the parking lot, and somewhere in the universe, that water glass sits in a restaurant in Chicago, completely unaware it’s responsible for this love story.
But you and Jack know.
You’ll always know.
And every year on your anniversary, you’ll go to that same Chicago Cut steakhouse — carefully avoiding all water glasses — and toast to the beautiful, ridiculous, perfect way you found each other.
Because sometimes the worst moments really do lead to the best things.
Sometimes an angel appears when you need one most.
And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, that angel decides to stay forever.
a/n: don't ask me where or how or why, because quite honestly i do not have a fucking clue. but ive been thinking about law school apps and somehow my brain went here. it's insane because its been eons since ive written about someone non-fictional.
wc: 2.5k
synopsis: you're just a girl outside a bar, attempting to socialize.
You’re not sure why you’re still standing outside the bar.
Your makeup is as good as it’s going to get. Your hair is about as tame as possible. You even threw back a couple drinks at your apartment in a half-hearted attempt to get into the “going-out” mood.
But you’ve been living in Vancouver for three weeks. You have no plans, no social life, no friends.
Vancouver wasn’t your plan, but the law school acceptance—and the scholarship—had been too good to pass up. You’d told yourself it was practical, that you’d figure out the rest once you got there. How could you say no? seriously, you wished someone had given you an answer.
Now you’re here. You’ve moved in, unpacked, and settled. Classes don’t start for another two weeks, and you desperately need to meet someone before you talk yourself into dropping out of social existence entirely.
Thing is, you’re a social person. Really. It’s just the initial hump of making a new friend that always gets you.
It could be some bullshit unresolved trauma from when you were little and had a bully. Or it could be because you’d gotten used to your friends and your life from before you moved. Change could be good, but it was never easy.
So now you were standing outside of a bar. It’s got the lights, the bumping music, and according to Reddit and Google, was popular. Exactly where twenty-somethings go to make friends on Friday nights, that was universal, and if you could make a friend you’d be set. Just someone to ease you into Vancouver.
“You can do this,” you tell yourself softly. “you can totally do this.”
Unfortunately, your pep talk has become both necessary and audible. You start pacing a little, shaking your hands out and mumbling to yourself that you could totally go in and do this. And in the process of trying to mentally hype yourself up, you failed to realize you’d drawn in an audience.
...
Across the street, three guys lean casually against the brick wall outside another bar.
“What do you think she’s doing?” Beau asks, the trace of a grin curling through his accent.
“Who?” Quinn answers, taking a slow breath of the crisp night air.
“Her,” Beau nods toward you.
Quinn follows his gaze. You’re pacing, gesturing, lips moving to words he can’t hear. Pretty, he thinks absently—though that’s not what keeps his eyes there. It’s the endearing way you seem to argue with yourself under the glow of the sign.
“She looks wound up,” Petey says, earning a few nods.
Quinn watches another minute of your antics, “she looks anxious,” he adds. You were flexing your hands and shaking your fingers, Luke did the same thing when he was younger, still does, sometimes.
“Maybe someone should check if she’s okay,” Quinn says finally.
“Someone should,” Beau agrees—eyes locked on him.
Quinn blinks. “What? Me?”
“You suggested it, Cap,” Petey teases.
Quinn groans but pushes off the wall anyway. “Fine. I’ll make sure she’s fine,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets as he crosses the street.
...
“-Can totally do this,” you repeat for the umpteenth time. though this time you falter. Your eyes catch on one of the bouncers, who looks like he can read every though you’re having, and then gives you a pitying smile. You turn around to avoid looking at him any longer, “maybe I can’t do this,” you decide.
“Can’t do what?”
The voice startles you, hard. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts you forgot you were totally exposed to anyone walking by.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the voice continues, but you’re a little too embarrassed to look over so you keep your eyes on the street and shake your head.
“No, its fine. I probably should pay better attention to my surroundings,” you shake off.
You think that’s the end, but his presence lingers, you can barely make him out in your peripherals— dark hair, longer than you expected, jeans and a t-shirt that somehow work a little too well.
“So… what is it you cant do?” he repeats his question and you sigh.
“I’m attempting to socialize?” you tell him, though your voice lilts a bit on the end like a question.
“Socialize?” he repeats.
god, he probably thinks you’re insane.
“Yeah, you know, socialize. Go out, meet people, that sort of thing.”
“No, I get the theory of it,” he confirms and you swear theres a little amusement in his voice. “Usually, when socializing, there are people to… well-”
He trails as if unsure if he should continue the sentence, but you get where he went.
“Socialize with?” you offer, not in the slightest offended, he’s not wrong.
“Yeah…”
“Yeah,” you confirm.
“So?”
“Which is why you’re socializing alone.”
“It’s why I came out alone with the hopes of socializing,” you correct.
“Totally different,” he deadpans.
“Of course.”
A beat passes before he asks, “How is it different?”
You smile despite yourself, “Socializing alone sounds like you sit and talk to yourself. Going out alone with the hopes of socializing means you start alone—but make friends along the way.”
He tilts his head, conceding, “Okay, I see your point.”
“Thank you.”
“But…”
“What?”
“You were definitely standing here talking to yourself.”
Your face scrunches, “Touché. Well played.”
He laughs, quiet and genuine. You finally turn to look at him properly—and then freeze.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
No way. Your cousins aren’t going to believe this.
There’s a memory that niggles at the back of your brain, ‘Did you hear they’re giving the Norris to Hughes! He made Captain this year, and he’s getting the top defensive player award. His ice time is crazy, and I think he’s the first Canuck to ever get the award!’ it had been your cousin, catching you up on the awards announcements just a few seasons back. And now you were face to face with that particular topic of conversation.
“So what brought you over here?” you manage, praying your face doesn’t give you away as you clear your throat.
“Well,” he says, tone casual, “you were standing alone, seemed a little anxious, and you were talking to yourself. I guess I was a concerned citizen.”
You decide right then, that you wish he weren’t funny, because it’s not fair to be funny, handsome, and talented. It just wasn’t, and God was clearly playing favorites.
“So you thought, her, I wanna talk to the borderline crazy girl outside the bar?” you ask, tilting your head.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he replies easily.
“Bold move.”
He grins, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You said you just moved here?”
“Yeah.”
“Where from?”
“California.”
He nods, slow and thoughtful, like that explains something about you—the way you talk, maybe, or the sunshine still clinging to your voice.
“Work?” he asks.
“School.”
That earns you a longer look, a faint squint like he’s trying to place what kind of school you mean. You crack first, smiling. “Law school,” you clarify, watching him relax at that.
“So you’re not eighteen?” His tone teases.
You laugh. “No. I didn’t much care for eighteen when I was in it—with a global pandemic and all. Very happy to have left that behind.”
“So, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four,” you correct, mock-prim. “But you know you’re not really supposed to ask a lady her age.”
He chuckles. “I apologize.”
“Accepted.”
You shake out your hands again, realizing too late that he’s watching, his gaze dropping to the small fidget before meeting your eyes again.
“So what was your plan for solo socializing, exactly?” he asks.
You breathe out a laugh. “Go out and make friends. Pretty simple.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Well, I got out of the apartment. And I got to the bar. But this is the tricky part.”
“Going in?”
“Going in,” you confirm. “Once I’m in, it’ll be fine.”
He raises a skeptical brow. “You sure?”
“Oh, yeah. It only takes a few minutes to become best friends with other drunk women your age.”
“Really?”
“For me, yes. For you, no.”
“Because I’m a man?”
“Because you’re a man,” you say matter-of-factly, the smile creeping back onto your face.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that softens his whole expression. You think it’s unfair—how gentle he seems for someone who could flatten a guy twice his size on the ice.
“So how does it work for you?” he asks, playing along.
“Well, you find a group of girls, you say hello, ask to dance, and they envelop you in. Three songs or a shot later, you’re exchanging Instagrams and phone numbers, and by the first bathroom trip it’s life stories.”
He gives a low whistle. “You seem pretty confident in that.”
“I am.”
“But you can’t go in.”
“It’s not that I can’t.”
“No?”
“No. I just… haven’t built up to that yet.”
“Nerves?”
“A little, yeah.”
“I think I’d have nerves if I was socializing alone.”
You make a face at that, nose scrunching automatically, “I really don’t like how that sounds.”
He laughs, and the sound seems to warm the night air around you.
“So… law school,” he says after a beat. “You wanna be a lawyer?”
“Yep.”
“That’s quite the career path.”
“It’s definitely a path,” you muse.
The conversation settles again, comfortable in its quiet. You cross your arms, uncross them, then glance back at the club’s glowing sign.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “most people would return the question.”
“Sorry?” you ask, turning back to him.
“Most people would ask about the other person—career, life, something.”
Something in his voice is teasing, but his eyes are curious. You hesitate, guilt tugging at your mouth, and he seems to realize what you weren’t saying.
“You didn’t ask because you know,” he says softly.
You shrug, caught.
“You didn’t say anything,” he adds.
“You didn’t either.”
“But you know who I am.”
He winces slightly at his own phrasing, like he hates how it sounds.
“I come from a really big hockey family,” you admit, hoping that makes it better.
“From California?” he asks, incredulous.
“Hey! California has three separate NHL organizations,” you defend.
He laughs, “you’re right. My mistake.”
“You’re forgiven,” you say, smirking. “The Canadian citizenship must be infecting you.”
“Hey, I’m all American. I was born in Florida.”
You stop, “seriously?”
“Yes.”
“No wonder you skate the way you do. Florida’s got something weird in their water.”
He squints, fighting a grin, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
The smirk you give him is enough to make him laugh outright this time.
“How you feeling about your objective for tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the club.
“I’m working toward it.”
“Was there a specific goal, as far as socializing goes?”
“Make a friend,” you say simply. “Someone who’d maybe help me learn the city.”
“Solid plan. A local guide is helpful. I guess I lucked out when I moved—I had a whole team.”
“Now you’re just being mean, bragging about your super cool job and built-in friends to socialize with.”
“How dare I.”
“How dare indeed,” you echo, and the shared grin that follows feels startlingly easy.
“My cousins are going to lose it when I tell them I met the Quinn Hughes during my first month up here,” you say, shaking your head.
“What would they do if you told them he was your first friend?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’d be called a liar.”
“I don’t know,” he says lightly. “You came out to socialize and make a friend. I think you did that.”
“Did I?”
“Oh yeah,” he muses, smirk overtaking his features, “you reeled me in with the anxiety and talking to yourself.”
You snort. “Well, I have been told my anxiety can be stress-inducing. It’s got quite the pull.”
He laughs, startled, then blushes faintly when he catches the double meaning. He’s still smiling when he asks, “What if I said I could show you around the city?”
“I’d say you’re a big-time hockey star who definitely has better things to do.”
“Maybe,” he says, tilting his head, “but maybe it’s what I want to do.”
You blink, thrown off balance again. When you look back, he’s holding out his phone.
“You want my number?” you ask, incredulous.
“I do.”
“I don’t usually give my number out to men I’ve just met.”
“Fair. Probably smart. There’s a lot of weirdos out there.”
“There are,” you agree.
“Yeah—like people who talk to themselves outside of clubs.”
You shake your head, laughing, “Point taken.”
Still, you take his phone, type in your number, and hand it back.
“I don’t have a Canadian number yet,” you warn.
“It’s fine. My family’s all in America—my phone plan covers it.”
You press your lips together, hiding your grin. “Well. You cleared my hurdle, Mr. Hughes.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. And now…” You take a deep breath. “Now I’m going to go in, and make another friend.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Have a nice night—”
He stops mid-sentence, blinking like he’s realized something.
“Y/N,” you supply, amused.
His smile softens, “Have a nice night, Y/N.”
You start toward the door, adrenaline buzzing in your chest, but you glance back over your shoulder, “Hey, Quinn?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for socializing,” your voice just a little softer, sweeter.
His eyes crinkle, the corners of his mouth lifting, “My pleasure.”
You’re still smiling when you hand your ID to the bouncer. You’re just about to step through the doors when his voice carries after you.
“You never said if you’re a Canucks fan?”
You laugh, bright and teasing, over your shoulder, “I’m not!”
Then you disappear into the glow of the club.
...
The next morning, your phone lights up with three messages.
One from your brother: how’s Vancouver?
One from a girl named Claire—the one who’d pulled you into her friend group halfway through the night.
And one from a number you don’t have saved:
i guess when i’m playing tour guide i’m just going to have to convince you to go ‘nucks.
models should consider themselves lucky charles isn't a pro. musicians should consider themselves lucky that charles isn't a full-time pianist. footballers should consider themselves lucky that charles isn't a professional footballer. artists should -
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And I would never condone clicking on this link to watch F1 pre-season testing and all the free practices, qualifying and races.
Don’t click on this link.
JOKES! Fuck that, free for all is what I say. No one should miss out on F1 because it’s expensive to watch.
Just to be clear…this is the link I am talking about. It streams F1 for free. FREE!
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