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
















