#jack hughes

[alexis-everafter]

🎀 Hockey Imagine 🎀

Imagine you meet Quinn Hughes and punch him in the face. Imagine Jack Hughes tries to come to his brother’s rescue and you punch him the face too. Imagine you’re escaping in your getaway car and run over both the Tkachuk brothers ✨🫶💕

[pucksandpower]

The Code

Jack Hughes x Reader

Summary: a late hit during a heated playoff game sends Jack over the edge, but it’s not the cheap shot that ignites his fury — it’s the words whispered about you, his girlfriend watching from the stands, that make him drop the gloves and risk it all

The clock is bleeding.

That’s how it feels. The red numbers drip seconds away, agonizingly slow. 12:04. 12:03. Third period. Playoffs. Game 4. Rangers.

The air in The Rock is toxic. It’s a thick, humid animosity that coats the back of the throat. They’re down 3-2. A meaningless regular-season game against, say, the Sabres, Jack can skate with a loose, joyful arrogance. This is different. This is a 60-minute root canal. His jaw is set, a permanent clench that he knows will have him rubbing his temples tonight, long after the noise has stopped.

He leans over the boards, sucking air. His lungs burn. Every part of him is damp.

“Change ‘em up! Hughesy, you’re up!” Keefe’s voice cuts through the noise, a gravelly command.

Jack swings his leg over. The blade bites the ice. The sound, that shiiick, is the only clean thing left in the building. He joins the play, head on a swivel. The puck is a rumor in the corner. He angles his body, anticipating the clear.

It’s been a chippy, nasty game. The kind where every whistle is followed by a mandatory two-second shoving match. Sticks are high. Language is low. This is Devils-Rangers, the Hudson River rivalry dialed to a playoff fever pitch. It’s not hockey, it’s a turf war.

He finds open ice, just a small pocket near the hash marks. He taps his stick. Now. C’mon, Luke, see me.

Luke does. A crisp pass, tape-to-tape. Jack receives it, and in the same motion, he’s pivoting, protecting the puck, looking for Bratt.

Before he can move, a body slams into him. It’s not a clean hit. It’s late, high, and entirely intentional. The boards rattle. The glass shudders. Jack’s helmet smacks against the dasher, a dull thump that echoes inside his skull.

The whistle screams.

“Jesus, man! What the hell was that?” Bratt is in first, shoving the offender.

Jack gets to his feet, shaking the cobwebs out. He knows the number. 47. A new guy. Some call-up from Hartford, all piss and vinegar, trying to make a name for himself by running the Devils’ biggest star.

“You okay, Jacky?” Timo Meier skates over, gloves already half-off, looking for a dance partner.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Jack mutters, adjusting his helmet. He glares at number 47. The kid is smirking, chewing on his mouthguard like a piece of cud.

“Nice hit, asshole,” Jack says, skating a tight, angry circle. “Try that again, see what happens.”

The call-up, Kowalski, skates backward, his smirk widening. “What’s the matter, Hughes? Scared I’ll mess up the pretty face?”

“Just play the game,” Jack snaps, turning away. The refs are already moving in, trying to separate the small herd of red and white jerseys.

“That’s what I’m doing,” Kowalski says, his voice lowering, designed to carry only to Jack. He gets right beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, as the ref tries to push them apart. “Just playing. Though I gotta say, must be hard to focus on the game.”

Jack stops. He turns his head. “What?”

The ref is busy with Bratt and Rempe. They’re in a little bubble of quiet malice.

“You know,” Kowalski says, his eyes flicking up, scanning the luxury boxes that line the arena. He’s searching. “Must be hard. All this pressure. And with her watching and all.”

The red film descends.

It’s not a slow burn. It’s a switch. A cold, immediate click. The roaring of the 17,000 fans vanishes. The chill of the ice is gone. There is only the sour smell of Kowalski’s sweat and the ugly twist of his mouth.

“Shut your mouth,” Jack says. The words are flat. Deadly.

“Which one’s she in?” Kowalski continues, ignoring the warning, drunk on his own perceived edge. “The WAG suite? Yeah. Saw ‘em all coming in. Real nice. Y/N, right?”

He says your name.

He says your name, and Jack’s world narrows to the two-inch space between his fist and Kowalski’s jaw.

“Heard she’s been around since, what, high school? That’s a long time, man.” Kowalski leans in, his voice a greasy whisper. “Must be tough, y’know? Keeping it interesting. Keeping her ... satisfied. Especially when you’re playing this soft.”

Jack doesn’t remember dropping his gloves.

He doesn’t remember the thwack-thwack they make as they hit the ice. He only feels the sudden, shocking freedom of his bare knuckles.

Kowalski’s smirk falters. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second. He wasn’t expecting this. He was expecting a shove. A verbal volley. He wasn’t expecting Jack, the skill guy, the finesse player, to snap.

Jack’s first punch is pure, unadulterated rage. It’s not technical. It’s not smart. It’s a right hook fueled by every protective instinct he possesses. It connects with the side of Kowalski’s helmet, and the sting is immediate, a white-hot pain that shoots up his arm.

It doesn’t matter.

Kowalski stumbles, tries to get his own gloves off, but he’s too slow. Jack grabs the front of his jersey, the coarse material bunching in his fist.

“You. Don’t. Say. Her. Name.”

He punctuates each word with a pull, yanking Kowalski off balance. Kowalski swings wildly, a desperate, clumsy punch that grazes Jack’s shoulder.

Jack answers with a short, brutal jab that finds the gap between helmet and visor. He feels the give of cartilage. He hears the kid grunt.

“JACKY!”

It’s Luke. His brother’s voice.

And then the world explodes.

It’s not a scrum anymore. It’s a riot.

Timo Meier, who was already looking for a reason, finds one in the form of Carson Soucy. They tie up, two heavyweights spinning in a furious, grappling dance.

Bratt pairs off with Panarin, a mismatch of weight but not of anger.

But the real chaos erupts from the benches.

It happens in a wave. Kowalski’s linemates pile on Jack. Luke, seeing his brother at the bottom of a three-man heap, launches himself across the ice and dives headfirst into the pile, a missile of fraternal fury.

“GET OFF HIM!” Luke is screaming, his voice cracking.

That’s the signal. The unspoken agreement is broken. This isn’t a line brawl.

It’s a clearing.

Jack sees it in flashes. The Rangers bench door swings open. Coach Sullivan is screaming, but his players are already spilling onto the ice, a wave of white.

And then the Devils bench answers. Nico is actually trying to hold guys back for a second, trying to maintain order, but it’s hopeless. Jonas Siegenthaler is over the boards. Kurtis MacDermid, built for this very moment, is a blur, making a beeline for the biggest Ranger he can find.

The ice, already scarred, becomes a warzone.

Jack is still tangled with Kowalski, who is now bleeding from the nose, his bravado replaced with a watery panic. Another Ranger is pulling Jack’s jersey from behind, trying to get leverage.

“You piece of shit!” Jack grunts, trying to get free. He’s not a fighter. He knows this. His currency is speed, his hands, his brain. But right now, his brain is offline. It’s all instinct. The caveman part of his psyche that sees a threat to his mate, to you, and wants it eliminated.

He thinks of you. He thinks of the promise he made you after that game in Boston his rookie year.

“I just hate it, Jack. I hate seeing you fight.”

“It’s part of the game, babe. Sometimes it just ... happens.”

“Promise me you won’t go looking for it. Please. Your hands... your head. They’re too important.”

“I promise. I won’t look for it.”

He didn’t look for it. It found him. It found you.

A huge glove grabs the back of his collar. It’s a linesman. “Hughes! That’s enough! It’s over! Let him go!”

The adrenaline is so potent it makes the man’s shouts sound like they’re coming from underwater. 

Jack shoves Kowalski away. The kid scrambles, helped by a teammate.

Jack straightens up, his chest heaving. His lungs are on fire. His knuckles are raw, screaming. He tastes copper. He licks his lips. Blood. Probably from Kowalski.

He looks around.

It is sheer, beautiful bedlam.

The goalies are at center ice. Markstrom and Shesterkin. They aren’t fighting. They’re just standing there, five feet apart, masks on, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like two kings surveying a battlefield they have no intention of joining. It’s the goalies’ code.

Near the Rangers’ bench, Luke is tangled up with Jonny Brodzinski. They’re just wrestling now, the fire having gone out, replaced by weary grappling.

Nico is trying to pull MacDermid off of someone.

The noise is deafening. It’s not cheering. It’s not booing. It’s a single, primal roar. The sound of 17,000 people losing their collective minds.

The refs are whistling, their arms windmilling. Penalties are being handed out like candy on Halloween.

“Hughes! You’re done!” Wes McCauley points a definitive, dramatic finger at him. “And you!” He points at Kowalski. “You’re done! Game misconducts! Both of you! Get outta here!”

Jack doesn’t argue. He knows. You cross that line, you pay the toll.

He skates to the penalty box, but the door attendant just shakes his head and points down the tunnel. “You’re gone, Jack. All the way.”

Right. Misconduct.

He starts the long, lonely skate. From the penalty box to the small Zamboni gate that leads to the locker room. It feels like a mile.

The Rangers fans packed behind the benches are alive. They lean over the glass, their faces distorted with rage.

“FUCK YOU, HUGHES!”

“GO CRY TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND, YOU BABY!”

“DIRTY PIECE OF SHIT!”

He keeps his head down, but the words still land. Cry to your girlfriend.

They don’t know. They don’t know why. They just see the fight. They see the result. They don’t hear the words that lit the fuse.

Only he and Kowalski know. And Kowalski will never, ever admit it. It’s the one sacred, unwritten rule. You don’t talk about wives. You don’t talk about girlfriends. You don’t talk about families.

And this kid, this no-name AHL call-up, didn’t just break it. He shattered it.

Jack reaches the boards. He unclips his helmet. The cool, recycled air hits his sweaty hair. It feels... okay. His hands are shaking. Not from fear. From the leftover adrenaline, the seismic shock of what just happened.

He steps off the ice, his blades clacking on the rubber mat. He feels a sting on his cheek. He must have gotten tagged.

He’s at the mouth of the tunnel. The concrete walls feel like a tomb. In a few seconds, he’ll be in the quiet of the locker room, the game still raging behind him, and the regret will start to creep in. The regret for losing his cool. For leaving his team shorthanded.

But right now, there is only one thing he needs.

He stops. He turns.

He looks up.

His eyes scan the press boxes, the luxury suites, moving past the clusters of suits and the bright team logos. He’s searching for that one specific spot. The one he knows by heart. The WAG suite.

The lights are bright. The glare on the glass is bad. For a second, his heart seizes. He can’t find you.

There.

He sees you.

You are not sitting. You are standing, pressed against the glass, your palms flat against it as if you could somehow phase through and reach him. The other wives and girlfriends are behind you, a blur of worried faces, but he only sees you.

Your face.

You aren’t angry. You aren’t cheering. Your expression is one of pure, uncut, agonizing worry. Your brows are drawn together, your mouth slightly open. He can see the glitter of tears tracking down your cheeks, bright even from this distance.

He knows that look. It’s the same look you had when he dislocated his shoulder. The same look you had when he underwent season-ending shoulder surgery last year. It’s the “my-world-is-tilting“ look.

And it guts him.

This is the comedown. The rage is gone, washed away by the sight of your tears. All that’s left is this hollow ache. He did this. He caused that look.

He needs you to know. He needs to tell you, from 100 feet away, through soundproof glass, with 17,000 people screaming, that it’s okay. That he’s okay. That he’s sorry. That he loves you. That this whole, ugly, bloody mess was because that kid dared to speak your name.

He just stands there, helmet in hand, blood on his lip, hair plastered to his forehead. He just looks at you. He pours everything into that one, desperate gaze.

I’m sorry. I’m okay. It was for you. It was always, always for you.

The world isn’t loud anymore. It’s just you and him. A  moment, playing out in the middle of a hockey war. The bad boy, ejected, locking eyes with the good girl in the stands. Except he’s not a bad boy, and you’re not just a girl. You’re his. You’re his high school sweetheart. You’re his fiancée. You’re his entire goddamn universe.

You see it. He knows you do.

Your expression softens. The panic recedes, replaced by something else. Understanding. Sadness. But overwhelming, unconditional... love.

You lift one hand from the glass. Your fingers are trembling. You bring them to your lips.

And you blow him a kiss.

It’s not a cute, flirty gesture. It’s not for the cameras. It’s a lifeline. It’s a prayer. It’s I see you. I love you. Come home safe.

He feels it land. Right in the center of his chest. It’s a physical weight. It settles him. The shaking in his hands stops.

He can breathe again.

He gives you one short, sharp nod. A promise.

Then, someone gently tugs his arm. “C’mon, Jack. Let’s go.”

Jack breaks the gaze. He turns his back to the ice, to the noise, to you. He walks down the dark tunnel, the clack-clack-clack of his skates the only sound, the image of your kiss a fragile, perfect thing burning behind his eyes.

***

The silence of the apartment is a physical thing. It’s a thick, soft blanket, a necessary antidote to the violence of the last three hours. The game is over. They lost. Jack can feel the 4-2 loss buzzing under his skin, an itch of frustration, but it’s distant, overshadowed by the throbbing in his hand and the adrenaline hangover that’s starting to settle in his bones.

The only sounds are the hum of the fridge, the distant wail of a siren slicing through the Jersey night, and the gentle clink of ice cubes against glass.

You are sitting next to him on the deep, charcoal-grey couch. He’s slumped against the cushions, boots still on because he can’t muster the energy to bend over and untie them. You are perched on your knees, your expression a delicate, heartbreaking mixture of concern and exasperation.

“Hold still,” you murmur. Your voice is soft. It always is, after a game like this.

You’re holding a small glass bowl of ice. You wrap two cubes in a clean dish towel and press it gently to the swelling cut high on his cheek.

He winces. A sharp, involuntary hiss.

“Sorry. Sorry,” you say instantly, your touch softening.

“S’fine,” Jack mutters. His eyes are closed. He just wants to absorb this. The quiet. Your smell, which is something clean and warm, like laundry and vanilla. “It’s just ... cold.”

“That’s the point, genius.” You shift, moving the ice pack from his cheek down to his hand.

His right hand. It’s a mess. The knuckles are split, swollen, and a deep, angry purple that’s already blossoming.

He opens his eyes to look at it. “Looks kinda cool, right?”

You stop. You look from his hand to his face, your eyes flat. “No, Jack. It doesn’t look ‘cool.’ It looks like you punched a brick wall. Repeatedly.”

“Kowalski’s face looks worse,” he says, a grim satisfaction in his voice.

“I saw.” You sigh, a long, weary sound that cuts him deeper than any hockey stick. You put the makeshift ice pack on his knuckles. He flinches again, but this time he clenches his jaw and takes it. “They showed the replay. A lot. They showed him in the penalty box. His nose ...”

“Good,” Jack says. The word is granite. Hard, heavy, and final.

“Jack ...” you plead softly. “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what? Be glad I shut him up? I am. I’d do it again.” He means it. He’d take the suspension. He’d take the fine. He’d do it every single night if it meant that look of panic in Kowalski’s eyes.

You just shake your head, your hair falling over your shoulder. You’re quiet for a long time, just dabbing at the blood that’s dried on his skin, your touch impossibly gentle.

He hates this. He hates the worry he puts in your eyes. He’s seen it since you were sixteen. It was there when he got his first concussion in Ann Arbor. It was there at the draft, when he was waiting for his name to be called. It was there tonight, pressed against the glass.

He has made a conscious decision. He’s not going to tell you.

He’s not going to bring that kid’s filth into this apartment. He’s not going to plant that ugly, violating thought in your head. Why would he? He handled it. It’s over. The kid will be suspended, probably sent back to Hartford, and Jack will serve his time, and that will be that. You never have to know why he snapped. It’s his job to take the hits. It’s his job to protect you, sometimes even from the truth.

“You’re going to be suspended, you know,” you say, as if reading his mind.

“Yeah. Prob’ly.” He shifts, pulling you closer with his good hand, settling you against his side. You resist for a second, then melt into him, your head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder. He runs his thumb over the skin of your arm, a repetitive, soothing motion.

“A long time?” Your voice is small, muffled by his t-shirt.

“Dunno. Two games? Maybe three? League’s a crapshoot.” He kisses the top of your head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just ... hockey.”

You pull back, just enough to look up at him. Your eyes are too smart. You know him too well. You’ve been decoding him for a decade.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper.

“Do what?”

“That. ‘It’s just hockey.’ Don’t brush me off. I’ve been watching you play since we were kids, Jack. I’ve seen you get speared. I’ve seen you get cheap-shotted by Marchand. I’ve seen you get run by Trouba. You get up. You skate away. You score on the power play. You never ever do that.”

“It was a playoff game, babe. It was the Rags. It was ...”

“It was some random nobody,” you cut him off, your voice firm. “It was an AHL call-up. And you looked ... Jack, I saw your face right before. On the jumbotron. You looked … I’ve never seen you look like that. It wasn’t anger. It was something else. Something scary.” You search his eyes. “What did he say to you?”

He holds your gaze. He can feel his heart hammering, a dull thud-thud-thud against his ribs. He can’t lie to you. He’s the worst liar on planet Earth when it comes to you. But he can omit.

“Babe, it was just chirping.” He tries for a casual tone. “The kid was trying to get under my skin. Making a name for himself. He was saying dumb shit. About my game. About, y’know. Just ... garbage.”

“What garbage?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he insists, a little too forcefully. He softens his voice. “Please. It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I’m here. You’re here. We’re good. Can we just ... can we just be good?”

You stare at him for a long, agonizing moment. He can see the calculations turning in your mind. You know he’s hiding something. But you also see the bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes, the plea for peace.

You let out a slow breath. “Okay,” you concede. “Okay, Jack. But your knuckles are still bleeding through the towel.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s gross.” You slide off the couch. “I’m getting the first-aid kit. And then you’re taking a shower. You smell like a locker room.”

“Hey,” he protests, but there’s no heat in it.

“I mean it,” you call from the bathroom. “You smell like sweat and bad decisions.”

He chuckles, the sound rusty in his chest. “Love you, too.”

He leans his head back, closing his eyes again, letting the silence settle. This is good. The crisis is averted. You’re letting it go. It’ll be a one-day story. Jack Hughes Fights AHL Call Up, Gets Suspended. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

His phone, sitting on the glass coffee table, buzzes violently. It hasn’t stopped buzzing since he got in the car. It’s been a constant, frantic vibration. His agent. Tom Fitzgerald. His mom. Luke.

He ignores it. They can all wait.

You come back, a small white box in your hand. You sit on the floor in front of him, cross-legged, and motion for his hand.

“Gimme.”

He holds it out. You are so tender, so focused, as you open a small antiseptic wipe. You clean the blood off his knuckles, your touch light as a feather.

“This is gonna sting,” you warn.

“I think I can handle it, doc.”

You press the wipe to the biggest cut. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Shit.”

“Told you.” You blow on it gently, a soft puff of air. The simple, childlike gesture makes his heart ache.

“You’re good at this,” he says, his voice thick.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” you say, not looking up. “Way. Too. Much. Practice.” You’re concentrating, applying small butterfly bandages to pull the skin together. “This one might need a stitch, Jack. I’m serious.”

“It’ll heal. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, it’s ...” You stop.

Your phone, which was on the couch cushion beside him, starts to buzz. It’s not a single buzz. It’s a deluge. A frantic, unending bzz-bzz-bzz-bzz.

You look up, frowning. “Who in the world-”

“Just leave it,” Jack says quickly. “It’s probably just ... Twitter’s probably going nuts about the fight.”

“Yeah, but. that’s Luke,” you say, leaning forward to look at the screen. “And my mom? Why is my mom texting me ‘Honey, are you okay? Call me!’ And ... oh my god, Luke’s tagged me in fifty different things.”

A cold, heavy dread spills into Jack’s stomach. It’s a feeling worse than any pre-game anxiety.

“Babe,” he says, his voice low. “Don’t. Just let’s turn ‘em off. For tonight. Please.”

“Jack, what’s going on?” You’re not asking. You’re demanding. You pick up your phone, your thumb hovering over the notification. “Luke’s text just says ‘DO NOT look at Twitter. And I’m sorry. I’m gonna kill him.’”

“Who? Kill who?” You look at Jack, your eyes wide with a new, dawning fear. “Kill Kowalski? Why would Luke ...”

“Babe, please,” Jack says, sitting up straight. The pain in his body is gone, replaced by sheer, flooding panic. “Give me the phone. Don’t look at it.”

“Why?” Your voice is trembling now. “What is it?”

You unlock the phone.

Your Twitter feed loads. And it’s a firestorm.

You don’t even have to scroll. The first thing you see is a video, posted by a national sports account. The caption reads LEAKED MIC’D UP AUDIO: Here’s exactly what Rangers’ Kowalski said to Jack Hughes to spark the line brawl. WARNING: Disgusting and indefensible.

Your blood runs cold.

“Jack ...” you whisper.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice ragged. He reaches for the phone.

But you’re faster. You flinch away from him, your hand holding the phone tight. Your eyes are glued to the screen.

You press play.

The audio is staticky. It’s full of the sounds of the arena — the roar of the crowd, the scrape of skates. But the voices, captured by the ref’s lapel mic or Jack’s own, are sickeningly clear.

The phone slips from your fingers.

It doesn’t clatter to the floor. Jack catches it, his reflexes still sharp, and he slams it face down on the couch cushion.

The silence in the room is absolute. It’s a vacuum. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can only watch you.

You don’t move. You’re still sitting on the floor, your hands frozen in the air where you were holding the phone. Your face is pale. Not just pale, but a waxy, bloodless white. You aren’t crying. You aren’t hyperventilating. You’re just ... gone. You’re staring at the spot on the rug where the first-aid kit sits open.

“Babe,” Jack whispers. His voice cracks. “Babe. Say something.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, in a voice so small he can barely hear it, you say, “He said that. About me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A fact that has just lodged itself in reality.

“Babe, listen to me,” Jack says, sliding off the couch onto the floor in front of you. He tries to take your hands. They’re like ice. “It’s nothing. It’s garbage. It’s the words of a nobody.”

“A nobody,” you repeat, your voice hollow. “A nobody who everyone ... is hearing that? Right now?”

“I didn’t want you to hear it,” he says, his voice breaking with desperation. He’s failing. He’s trying to protect you, and he’s failing. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, baby. I just ... that’s why I didn’t tell you. I never wanted you to ...”

“That’s why,” you whisper. The numbness is starting to recede. The shock is being replaced by a sickening, cold wave of humiliation. The tears well up, fast and hot. “Oh, god. That’s why y-you hit him. Because h-he said ... he implied I ...”

You can’t even finish the sentence. A sob rips out of you, a wounded, broken sound that physically hurts him.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Jack says. The words are raw, torn from his throat. He’s not speaking metaphorically. “I’m gonna end his career. I’ll find him. I’ll ...”

“No!” You grab the front of his shirt, your fists bunching the fabric. “No. No more fighting. Please.” You’re sobbing now, your face crumbling. “It’s everywhere. Everyone thinks—they’re all ... they’re all talking about me.”

“No,” Jack says, his voice fierce. He pulls you against him. You’re on your knees, and he just wraps his arms around you, holding you so tight he’s afraid he’ll break you, his chin resting on the top of your head as you cry into his chest. “No, they’re not. They’re talking about him. They’re talking about what a piece of shit he is.”

“It’s so ... vile,” you choke out. “It’s so ... personal. Why would he-”

“Because he’s weak,” Jack says, rubbing your back. “Because he’s a coward, and he wanted to get to me, and he tried to use you. Because he’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing,” you weep. “It feels ... I feel dirty.”

That word. It shatters him.

He pulls you back, grabbing your face between his hands. His battered, swollen, bloody hands are cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He forces you to look at him.

“Don’t you ever,” he says, his voice shaking with a terrifying intensity. “Ever. Say that. Do not let that fucking asshole do that to you. Do you hear me?”

You just cry, your eyes locked on his.

“You,” he says, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. “You are the best, purest, strongest person I have ever known. You are everything. Since we were fifteen. You are everything. What that garbage-can player said ... that’s his filth. It’s his shame. It’s not yours. It never will be.”

“But, Jack ...”

“No. Listen.” He’s desperate for you to understand. “He was wrong. And I was right. I’d take a twenty-game suspension for that. I’d take a season. I don’t care. He doesn’t get to say your name. He doesn’t get to imply that.”

You look at him, really look at him. His eyes, frantic and fierce and so full of a protective love it steals your breath. His cheek, cut and swelling. His hand, which you’re still holding, a wreck.

You lean forward, your whole body trembling. You press your lips, soft and salty with your own tears, to the cut on his cheek. You just hold it there for a second.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his skin.

“Stop,” he says, his voice thick. “Stop being sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, pulling back. “That you had to hear that. That this is a thing.”

“It’s a thing we’ll handle,” he says. “Like we handle everything.”

“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”

You pick up his injured hand, the one you were bandaging. You lift it to your mouth.

He flinches, but he lets you. His eyes are shining.

Your tears are dripping onto his skin, mixing with the blood.

You pull back, your eyes boring into his. The tears are still flowing, but the panic is gone. It’s been replaced by a familiar fire. The same fire he has.

“You are not soft,” you say, your voice suddenly as hard as his. “You are the strongest person I know. You are the center of my entire life. And I love you. I love you so much it makes me stupid, Jack Hughes. Don’t you ever let anyone make you feel like you have to defend me. But ... thank you.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The tension in his shoulders, the rage that’s been simmering for hours, it just dissolves. He leans his forehead against yours.

“God, I love you,” he whispers. “I just ... I’m sorry you heard it. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it from getting to you.”

“It didn’t,” you say, pulling him closer. “He didn’t get to me. We’re okay.” You take a shaky breath. “We’re okay, right?”

“We’re okay.”

He kisses you.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s not soft. It’s desperate. It’s a claiming. It’s raw, and it tastes like salt and iron and the safety of home. It’s a kiss that says You are mine and I am yours and fuck the rest of the world.

He pulls back, just an inch. “My phone’s been blowing up,” he says, his voice rough. “My agent is probably having a stroke.”

“Mine has been too,” you say, glancing at the screen, which is lit up like a Christmas tree. “It’s ... god, it’s everywhere.”

“Turn on the TV,” Jack says suddenly.

“What? Jack, no. I don’t want to-”

“Turn it on. Flip to TNT. I just ... I gotta see.”

You hesitate, then grab the remote. You click the TV on. The bright blue of the TNT studio floods the dark room.

And there it is. The panel. Liam McHugh. Anson Carter. Paul Bissonnette.

And Wayne freaking Gretzky.

Their faces are all serious. They aren’t laughing about the fight.

“... and I’m gonna say this,” Gretzky is saying, his voice firm. “We all played hard. We all said things in the heat of the moment. But there is a line. There is a code. And in my entire career, you never crossed that line. You don’t talk about a man’s wife. You don’t talk about his family. What that kid, Kowalski, did ... that’s not hockey. That’s not being tough. That’s just ... it’s cowardice.”

Bissonnette nods, his usual goofy persona gone. “BizNasty“ is gone, and “Paul“ is here. “He’s an AHL call-up, Wayne. And he just ended his own career. He’ll be lucky if he plays in the ECHL after this. You don’t do that. You just don’t. Not to a star player, not to any player. Jack Hughes ... look, I’d expect a 5-game suspension for him, easy. And he’ll take it. And I’ll tell you what, every single guy in that Devils room, and most of the guys in the Rangers room, they know Hughes was 100% in the right. Some things are bigger than the game.”

You and Jack are just staring at the screen.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Wayne Gretzky.”

“He said I was right,” Jack says, a strange, dazed look on his face.

You grab your phone, your fingers flying. You open Twitter. It’s  not what you expected. It’s not people mocking you.

It’s support.

The support is overwhelming. It’s from fans. It’s from Rangers fans. It’s from players.

“Jack,” you say, your voice thick with a new emotion. “Look.”

You show him the phone. He scrolls. And scrolls. And scrolls.

A small, shocked laugh escapes him. “Well ... shit.”

“They’re on our side,” you say, the relief so profound it makes you dizzy. “Everyone ... they’re on our side.”

“I told you,” he says, his voice full of a weary, vindicated pride. “He’s the asshole. Not us.”

“Not us,” you agree.

He reaches for the remote and clicks the TV off. The room plunges back into soft darkness, lit only by the city glow from the window.

He reaches over to the armchair and grabs both his phone and your phone. He holds the power button on one, then the other, until both screens go black. He tosses them back on the chair.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“The world,” he says, “can be loud tomorrow. My agent can wait. Your mom can wait. The entire NHL can wait.”

He pulls you from the floor, back onto the couch. He lies down, wincing as his sore muscles protest. He pulls you down on top of him, arranging you so your head is tucked perfectly under his chin, your legs tangled with his. He doesn’t care if it’s sore. This is where you belong.

He wraps his arms around you, his battered, bandaged hand resting on your back.

“You good?” He whispers into your hair.

Your voice is muffled by his shirt, but he feels the vibration of it in his chest. “Yeah. I’m good.”

You’re quiet for a long time. The only sound is his heartbeat, steady and strong under your ear.

“... Jack?” You say.

“Yeah, babe?”

“You’re definitely suspended.”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Oh, one hundred percent. Longest suspension of my career, probably.”

“Sucks.”

He holds you tighter.

“Worth it.”

[jonasiegenthaler]

usa v can | 22.02.26

[smithusiast]

ooo i’m a sucker for quinn’s gf getting close with his family but even more so his brothers and acting like the sister they always needed i feel like that would make quinn only fall for her even harder knowing she’s the one

ooo i love this! sorry for this being a shorter blurb, i still hope you like it :) thank you for requesting xx

it’s small things like jack texting y/n before him. luke always ending up beside her when she’s over at their place. the way the house feels calmer when she’s there.

she fits into the hughes family like it was always meant to happen.

at dinner, she remembers who hates onions, who drinks what drink like she’s been doing it all her life with them. jack sprawls on the couch with his head in her lap, rambling and of course she lets him as luke leans into her shoulder, smiling.

quinn watches from the kitchen chest warm.

the party’s where it really hits him.

it’s late when y/n brings jack home. quinn and luke hear the door before they see them. jack leaning heavy against her, laughing under his breath over something she said.

“easy,” she says, steadying him. “we’re home.”

she gets him inside, shutting the door behind her with her foot. jack stops walking suddenly, turning toward her like he’s just remembered something important.

“wait,” he slurs. “i love you. like, sooooo much.”

she laughs softly. “okay, buddy.”

“noooo, like i’m so serious. i’m really lucky to have you in my life, the best sister i could’ve asked for.”

“i love you too jack, now let’s get you up to bed.”

quinn freezes.

luke looks over at him, then back at y/n, watching the way she smiles and smooths jack’s hair.

“he’s not wrong,” luke says quietly. “we are lucky.”

jack nods like that settles his point, then lets y/n guide him down the hall.

quinn doesn’t say anything until later, when the house is quiet and they’re sitting outside on the porch.

“they needed you,” he says finally.

she tilts her head smiling. “yeah? and about you?”

“i’ll always need you, there’s no hesitation in that.”

she reaches for his hand as quinn laces their fingers together. “and i’ll always need you guys,”

she doesn’t just love his family.

she belongs to it.

[kirasblog01]

Quinn Hughes having a breeding kink and you’re newly married and ovulating at the lake house with his fam and he just constantly pulls you away to fill you up PLEASE WRITE THIS

girl I´m sat

The Lake House Tradition - Quinn Hughes

pairing: Quinn Hughes x female reader

summary: A newlywed getaway at the family lake house becomes a primal celebration of your marriage when Quinn's breeding kink collides with your ovulation cycle.

CW: Explicit sexual content, breeding kink, semi-public sexual encounters, possessiveness

The morning sun filters through the tall pines surrounding the Hughes family lake house, casting dappled light across the wooden deck where you're sipping coffee. Your wedding ring catches the light, a simple band that still feels foreign on your finger after three weeks of marriage. Quinn sits beside you, his large hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking circles through the thin fabric of your sundress.

"You look beautiful this morning," he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss against your temple. "Glowing."

You smile, leaning into his touch. "Probably just the lake air."

"Or maybe," his voice drops to a low whisper, "it's because you're ripe and ready for me."

Heat floods your cheeks as you glance toward the house where his mother is preparing breakfast. "Quinn! Your family..."

"Knows we're newlyweds," he finishes, his fingers tightening on your thigh. "They expect us to be insatiable."

You shift in your seat, the familiar ache beginning between your legs. It's day three of your ovulation window, and Quinn has been relentless since you arrived yesterday. This morning, he woke you with his head between your thighs, his tongue working you to a trembling climax before sliding home and filling you with his release.

"Breakfast is ready!" Ellen calls from the kitchen.

"Coming!" he yells back, though his eyes tell you he's thinking about a different kind of coming. "Later," he promises softly, squeezing your thigh once more before rising.

Breakfast is a lively affair with Jack and Ellen regaling everyone with stories from their latest hockey adventures. You try to focus on the conversation, but Quinn's hand keeps finding its way to your body, brushing against your breast as he reaches for the jam, "accidentally" grazing your nipple, tracing the curve of your spine as he stands behind your chair. Each touch sends electricity through you, a silent reminder of what awaits.

After breakfast, while everyone else heads down to the dock, Quinn pulls you into the pantry, closing the door behind you.

"I've been thinking about this all morning," he murmurs, pressing you against the shelves as his mouth claims yours. The kiss is hungry, possessive, his tongue delving deep as his hands slide down to cup your ass, pulling you flush against his already hardening length.

"Quinn, someone could walk in," you protest weakly, even as your body responds to his touch.

"Let them," he growls against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. "Let them know who you belong to."

His hands slide under your dress, finding you already wet and wanting. "Always so ready for me," he praises, fingers circling your clit before sliding inside. "Especially now, when your body is begging to be bred."

Your head falls back against the shelves as pleasure builds, his skilled fingers working you expertly. "Please," you gasp, reaching for his belt buckle.

Quinn chuckles darkly. "Eager little wife, aren't you? Desperate for her husband's cum?"

You can only moan in response as he frees himself, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist as he enters you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The pantry is cramped, shelves digging into your back, but you barely notice as he begins to move, each stroke deliberate and deep.

"That's it," he murmurs against your ear. "Take every inch. Feel how deep I can get, how perfectly I fit inside you."

His pace quickens, the sound of skin against skin mingling with your soft cries. "Going to fill you up," he promises, his voice rough with desire. "Going to make sure my seed takes root. Want everyone to know you're carrying my child."

The thought sends you over the edge, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over you. Quinn follows with a guttural groan, his release pulsing into you, hot and endless.

For a moment you stay like that, bodies joined, breathing ragged in the small space. Then reality returns, the sounds of voices outside, the knowledge that at any moment someone could walk in.

"We should..." you start, but Quinn cuts you off with another kiss.

"Not yet," he murmurs, still inside you. "Want to stay connected a little longer. Want to make sure every drop finds its way home."

Finally, he sets you down, adjusting your dress with a satisfied smile. "Now we can join them."

The afternoon passes in a haze of sun and water. You swim in the cool lake, Quinn's eyes following your every move from the dock where he sits with his brothers. When you emerge from the water, he's there with a towel, wrapping you in his arms as his mouth claims yours.

"Can't stop thinking about this morning," he murmurs against your lips. "How you felt wrapped around me, how you looked when you came."

"Quinn," you protest softly, aware of his family nearby.

"No one will see," he says, his hand sliding down to cup your ass through the thin fabric of your swimsuit.

Later, as the sun begins to set, Quinn suggests a walk along the wooded trail that circles the property. His hand is warm in yours, his thumb stroking your palm as you walk in comfortable silence.

"I was thinking," he says suddenly, stopping to face you. "About names."

Your heart skips a beat. "Names?"

"For our baby," he says simply, his eyes intense.

Tears prick your eyes. "Quinn, we don't know if..."

"I know," he interrupts, pulling you into his arms. "But I can hope. And I can do my part to make it happen."

His mouth finds yours, tender this time, full of emotion. "Want to see you round with my child," he murmurs against your lips. "Want to watch you grow, knowing I did that to you. Want our baby to have your eyes and my hockey skills."

You laugh through your tears. "Modest as always."

"Confident," he corrects, his hands sliding down to your hips. "Confident that I can give you what you need."

His fingers find the tie of your bikini bottom, loosening it with practiced ease. "Quinn! We're outside!"

"Private property," he murmurs, turning you to face a large oak tree. "And I need you again."

Your hands brace against the rough bark as he enters you from behind, one hand gripping your hip, the other reaching around to circle your clit. The position is primal, animalistic, his hips snapping against yours as he takes you with an urgency that steals your breath.

"Like this," he growls, his pace quickening. "Deep and hard, just how your body needs it when you're fertile."

Each thrust drives you against the tree, pleasure building to an almost painful intensity. "Going to fill you up again," he promises, his voice rough. "Going to make sure you're dripping with me by the time we get back to the house."

His words, combined with the skilled circles of his fingers on your clit, send you spiraling over the edge. Your cry echoes through the woods as your body convulses around him. Quinn follows with a hoarse shout, his release pulsing into you, hot and endless.

For a moment you stay like that, bodies joined, breathing ragged in the evening air. Then he gently withdraws, turning you to face him as he reties your bikini bottom.

"Perfect," he murmurs, adjusting the strings with a satisfied smile. "Now you'll carry me back with you."

Dinner is a lively affair, everyone relaxed and happy in the warm evening air. You sit beside Quinn, his hand resting possessively on your thigh under the table. Each touch sends electricity through you, a silent reminder of how he's claimed you today, twice already, with the promise of more to come.

As the evening winds down and his family retires to their rooms, Quinn pulls you toward the master bedroom, closing the door behind you.

"Alone at last," he murmurs, his hands sliding around your waist as he nuzzles your neck. "Think you have one more in you?"

You turn in his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. "For you? Always."

His smile is tender as he lowers you to the bed, his body covering yours. This time is different, slower, more deliberate, each movement infused with emotion rather than urgency.

"Love you," he murmurs against your lips, his hands tracing the curves of your body. "Love being married to you."

"Love you too," you respond, arching into his touch as he enters you, slow and deep. Again.

[neutraldilfmotel]

the ‘well what did you expect’ reaction to the u.s. mens post-win-shitshow is so frustrating cause. actually i think these are really unique circumstances we’re living in and it’s more than just oh white man is republican, and i think a lot of people are normalizing the acts of this administration by acting like it isn’t. the shit happening over here has gotten so undeniably egregious so yeah it is a bit devastating seeing them party with ultra mega super evil overlord’s henchman who is playing an active role in ripping people’s lives apart, and then going above and beyond locker room talk by also parading it around on the internet after the fact. i literally do not give a fuck how drunk they were these are grown ass men who fully know what they’re doing.

and none of that is even to mention the side issue of the hughes brothers, whose mother has played and is STILL playing an active role in the expansion of women’s sports, going on their little pr zoom calls and media availability and glazing women in sports just to turn around and punch down on them with neo-hitler himself.

nuance exists but it does not exist here. having grown up in the south as a leftist like yes it is so complicated seeing people you love turn out to be morally inept pieces of shit but these are rich white men you do not know. there’s a major difference between not really knowing where they stand vs now having it splayed out in front of you. you do not need to support them. frankly i hope not a single man in that room feels the touch of another human being for the remainder of their lifetime.

[justaxriaxa]

and also with Hughes boys laughing at Trumps misogynistic joke, is gross on so many levels, they were laughing at the team they have friends on, a team they have praised multiple times and laughing at their mum and all the work she put in. They cared and worried more about impressing a pedo than their mum. Their mum was a standout on the US women’s team but never got to be an olympian because they didn’t HAVE a women’s Olympic hockey team. She missed out. Her sons got to live out her dream and then laughed at it.

[cattyb2]

Summer Accidents

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x gf!reader

Prompt: An accident on the boat causes the younger two Hughes brothers to freak out as they bring you back to a protective Quinn

Warnings: blood, injury, swearing

The sun had just started to go down in Michigan, the lake seemed to glow in the soft light. The four of you tired, a little red from spending all day outside, but all happy. Quinn’s arm draped over you as you lay in between his thighs. The quiet was quickly cut by a rumble of Luke’s stomach, the intensity of it making you smirk.

“When is dinner?” Luke asks, sitting up and shaking his still slightly damp hair out like a dog.

“You hungry yet?” Quinn asks you, his hand making small strokes around your stomach.

“Who cares if other people are hungry? Did you not hear me? It sounds like I haven’t eaten since Christmas.” Luke complains.

“Alright, alright.” Quinn says, sitting up, your back still pressed tight to his chest. “I’ll start the grill.”

You lean your head back, looking up to your boyfriend. Sometimes you could not believe this was your life, how you managed to find not only the perfect guy, but a family that accepts you for you. Even though you’re a year older than Jack, you were adopted as Jack and Luke’s ‘little sister’.

As you stare up at your boyfriend, you couldn’t help but smile.

“Wanna hit the lake one more time?” Jack asks you.

“Oh yes, because I’ll take care of it all while you go out on the boat.” Quinn says to his brother while he looks back down at you.

“What are big brothers for?” Jack questions, his smile blooming as his older brother scoffs.

“You guys go, I’ve got dinner tonight.” Quinn states, moving his thumb under your jaw as his lips lock onto yours.

“Well now I’m not hungry anymore.” Luke states, making you chuckle into the kiss. Pulling away to death glare at the youngest Hughes. Jack turns his face away, but the heavy shaking of his shoulders wasn’t missed by you or Quinn.

“Just wait until you’re in love Lu.” You coo, standing up, the comfort of Quinn’s chest leaving you. Luke only sticks his tongue out at you in response.

“I’ll start the boat up!” Jack says, running down to the dock before Quinn can change his mind about not needing any help.

“You sure you don’t need any help?” You ask, turning around to face him. “I can stay behind and help you, turns out I’m pretty good at handling some meat.” You bite your lip, looking up to your boyfriend, who’s smirk is the biggest you’ve seen it all day.

“Oh my fucking god you guys are disgusting.” Luke says. “We’ll be on the boat, Y/N. For… whenever you’re done with whatever this is.” He says, pointing at the two of you then going to follow Jack. You swear you heard slight mumblings of ‘god’ and ‘disgusting’.

“Go have fun love, but you’ll be owning up to your words later.” He says, pointing at you. You kiss him again, moving your fingers to grab at his slightly damp hair. A groan slipping from him, causing your ego to go through the roof. There’s no denying the effect you have on him, but seeing it and hearing it are two completely different things.

“I’ve got to go,” you say pulling back as Quinn groans into your neck. “before your brothers decide to leave me behind.”

“They’d never. I think they love you more than they love me.” He jokes, pulling his head away from your neck.

—

You pull the wrap around your body tighter as you finally make it down to the boat. Jack sitting in the drivers seat, while him and Luke bicker over music. The sun was closer to the water, the laughter of the three of you carrying across the lake.

“How was that one?” Jack asks, wading in the water. You look to Luke, who shakes his head.

“A six.” Luke states.

“A six?” Jack exclaims, climbing back onto the boat, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes. “That flip was at least an eight!”

“Mmm, complaining? Now you’ve bumped it down to a five.” You say, making Luke throw his head back in laughter.

“Five?” Jack echos, “that’s cold hearted, sis.”

“Yep, a five. Can you even count that high?” You question, making Luke lose his mind.

“Oh it’s fucking on.” Jack says, before dragging you up by your arm.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” You yell before Jack shoves you off the boat, but not before you grab his hand pulling him in with you.

The cold hits you immediately but as you surface you feel it, a strange and painful throb on your thigh, it worsens as Luke cannonballs over your head. You start to grab onto the boat, not looking back at the brothers in the water.

“Oh come on sis, I’m sorry!” Jack exclaims, thinking you were upset about him pushing you. But, as you pull yourself up and your leg rests on the back of the boat you freeze.

“Holy fuck.” Luke says, wiping his eyes and swimming over to you.

That’s when the burning starts, a thick flash that seizes up your entire leg. What the hell had even happened? You didn’t feel the initial cut, but you fell way too close to the boat for comfort.

“Oh my god Y/N, I’m so sorry.” Jack starts, and you knew it was serious as soon as he started using your name. Jack had started calling you Sis as soon as you and Quinn had started dating. Not that anyone ever questioned it anyways, it made you feel apart of the family, and it made Quinn’s heart soar knowing that his brothers, who are equally his best friends, love his girlfriend.

“No, no. It’s not your fault.” You say looking down to your thigh, you didn’t normally get queasy around blood. It’s a very normal thing to see with a boyfriend and his two brothers in hockey. But something about the way the cut heavily drips down your thigh and lands on the boat makes you want to throw up.

Jack launches himself onto the boat, Luke directly behind him. But you remain, staring at the blood still running, the pain intensifying by the second. Luke grabs a towel, moving back to you and laying it over the cut.

“I have to press down on it okay?” He says softly, as if he spoke normally it would startle you.

You only nod, blinded by the pain it’s causing.

“You’ve got to get in a seat, we have to get back.” He continues with a soft tone, something you don’t normally hear from the youngest Hughes brother. You nod, not feeling fully in control of your body.

Both brothers move to your sides, gripping under your arms and as gently as they could sitting you down on one of the seats of the boat. Your leg resting straight out in front of you, as Luke moves your hand to press down on your leg. You pretend not to notice the deep red staining the light blue towel. You can’t ignore however, the red that’s staining Luke’s hand. Blood. Your blood.

Jack starts the boat up, apologizing profusely and asking if you’re okay. You did hear everything he was saying, but you couldn’t manage to make a response. The stains and rich colors surrounding you making your head feel fuzzy.

“He’s not answering.” Luke says to Jack, putting his phone back into one of the cup holders. You could see the tightness in his shoulders, another out of character trait for him. It takes a lot to raddle the brothers, but seeing both of them sharp spined and wide eyed didn’t help your growing anxiety.

“It’s okay, we’ll be back in five minutes.” Jack says, his eyes continuing to glance from you to the open water in front of him.

“Hey,” Luke says to you, trying to get your attention. Your eyes flick up to his, seeing the worry planted in them. “You’re going to be okay, we’re almost home. You can’t die because of a cut, imagine how embarrassing that would be. I’d never let you live it down”

A small chuckle leaves your lips at that, but the movement caused searing pain to run through your entire leg. Your hand is warm, the blood thick in the towel that you’re pressing down on. You were trying to stay strong, trying not to cry over a little cut. It’s just a scratch, just a scratch. And you’ll be with Quinn soon, and he’ll fix it.

It’s just a scratch

It’s just a scratch

It’s just a scratch

But the scratch has now fully coated the beach towel, and the smell of blood was shoving its way into your nose making you want to gag. You didn’t know how much longer you could take this.

“Quinn.” you say, voice cracking a little bit. You just wanted your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who made everything better, who always knew exactly what to do and how to fix everything.

“We’re getting you to him, we promise.” Jack says, maxing out the speed on the boat.

You could see the dock, see the stairs that led up to the house. The house that you loved, and the house that Quinn was currently in, not having any clue his girlfriend was currently gushing blood in his boat. As soon as Jack got to the dock Luke made a jump for it, running up the steps to get your boyfriend.

“Come on Y/N, we’ve got to get you to the house.” Jack says, moving so you can throw your arm around his shoulder. You stifle a little cry as you stand, the cut a continuous painful pulse. You lean your weight into him as he gets you both off the boat and onto the dock.

“I know, I know. I’m so sorry.” Jack says, helping you slowly but still with a sense of urgency.

“Y/N? Holy shit.” You hear, and you know that voice. You could pick it out in a crowd of thousands of people. Quinn moves fast, bolting down the steps to where you and Jack are trying to hobble your way up. “Jesus sweetheart.” He says, his eyes sizing up your thigh. The bloody towel was left behind in the boat, so now it was back to trickling down your leg, your breath starts to shake a bit. “Hey, look at me. You’re going to be okay. We just have to get you stitched up, and you’ll be good as new. Okay?” Quinn says, being careful not to scare you. He looks in your eyes, and a part of his heart cracks as he sees them filling with pain and fear. “Everything’s okay sweetheart, just breathe for me.”

“It hurts, Quinny.” You say, your body getting transferred from Jack to Quinn. He picks you up bridal style, rushing you to the car.

“Just focus on me, yeah? We’re going to get you all fixed, don’t worry I’ve got you now.” He comforts you, trying not to shake you in his arms as you get to the driveway.

“Can you guys please turn off the grill and get dinner put away?” Quinn asks as Luke opens the car door for Quinn to set you down.

“We can come-“ Luke starts, but Quinn cuts him off.

“Please.” Quinn says, looking at them.

“Y/N I’m so sorry.” Jack says, his face pale and eyes wide. You could see the regret covering all his features, and the normally outgoing and courageous man you know looked small.

“It’s okay Jacky.” You say, giving him a small smile, the only thing you could muster. You didn’t want him to feel bad, it truly wasn’t his fault. But you know him better than most, and he’ll blame himself for this. Quinn closes the car door, saying something to his brothers as he runs around to the drivers seat before hauling ass out of the driveway.

“You can cry now, they can’t see you.” He says, gripping my hand in his.

“How did you know?”

“Because I know you, love. They wouldn’t have judged you for crying in front of them. Especially given the circumstance. Hell, they wouldn’t judge you for crying about anything.” He reasons, his hand tightening ever so slightly on your own.

“It hurts like a bitch.” You whisper, eyes lining with tears. “I didn’t want him to blame himself. I thought it would be worse if I broke out in tears.”

“It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you all fixed up, and we can do whatever you want. It’s all you for the night.” He says, and the tears finally hit your cheek. “It’s all you every night, for the rest of my life.”

—

With 17 new stitches, you were finally back in Quinn’s car heading back to the lake house. You cringed getting back in the front seat, seeing the red that was soaking into the fabric.

“I don’t give a shit about the car, love.” Was his only response, shutting the guilt down in you before it could fully bloom.

Backing out of the parking spot, he hands you his phone, letting you turn on your playlist. Quinn’s phone was ringing off the hook, but he continued to ignore them all. Singing along to your favorite songs with you was more important than whoever was calling. With one hand on the wheel and the other holding your hand, he drove you both back to the lake house.

The entire hospital process Quinn didn’t leave your side, he talked to you about what’s been going on in the team group chat, this movie he heard of that he thought you’d like, keeping you updated on his book, promising to take you to all your favorite places each day for the rest of the summer. Anything he could think of to distract you, and it was the promise of taking you book shopping that you were going to hold him too. Not that he minded of course, he loved reading with you, both of you laying together in your own worlds but just doing it together was what mattered.

You have never been more thankful for him than you are now. And as you pull in the driveway, and you shift to start to get out, he gives you one look that silences that idea.

“I can get out of the car on my own.” You say, tiredly smiling at him knowing you’re battling for something you’ll never win.

“I know you can, but you’re not.” He says, coming around to the passenger door and lifting you up to carry you in the house.

“Is this what it’s going to be like until I get the stitches out?” You ask him, resting your head in between his neck and shoulder as he walked. “You carrying me around for everything?”

“I’d carry you around like this for the rest of your life if that’s what you wanted.”

“Oh my, I think somebody likes me.” You joke.

“Like you? No.” He scoffs, shaking his head as he makes it through the front door. “I’m a little far past like. In fact, I’m so in love with you that you might have to beg me not to carry you around like this for the rest of my life.”

Before you could respond, you were interrupted by two voices yelling, “Welcome back!”

Quinn chuckles, walking towards his two brothers. As you take in your surroundings, you smile brightly at the pair. The couch had been covered with blankets, and pillows lined the corner of the couch making a comfy looking spot. One of Quinn’s sweatshirts laid over the back of the cushion, luckily you had spare clothes you changed into at the hospital from Quinn’s car, but the promise of his favorite sweatshirt was too good to pass up. The tv was on, your favorite movie paused at the beginning. Pizza boxes laid out on the coffee table, plates and napkins accompanying them.

“You’ve been busy.” You say at the brothers, as Quinn sets you down in the corner of the couch, slipping the sweatshirt on over your head.

“We got all your favorites, except the ice cream situation. We couldn’t remember which flavor was your favorite, so we got five just to be safe.” Jack says, twiddling his thumbs.

“You bought FIVE?” You exclaim. “Wow Jack, I didn’t even know you could count that high.” You say, laughing at the insult that started this whole debacle.

Quinn laughs, covering you with a blanket, kissing you softly on the lips.

“Come on you rookies, you know it’s caramel cold brew.” Quinn states, sitting down next to you and putting his arm up so you could lean in.

“I fucking told you.” Luke says to Jack.

“No you didn’t. If I remember correctly you said, ‘why not just buy them all’.” Jack exclaims, turning towards the younger brother.

“Are you saying I don’t deserve them all?” You tease, the three looking at you.

“We would have bought out the whole damn store for you Sis.” Jack says, plopping down on the couch and grabbing himself a slice of pizza. Luke grabs a plate and places a few slices on it before handing it to you.

“Thanks Lu.” You say softly, sitting up just enough to be able to eat. Your thigh was numb, but pains every once in a while shot through.

You listen to all three of them talk, enjoying the comfort and food. Before you know it the house is back to being filled with laughter and bickering from all sides.

As Luke and Jack go head to head about who’s a better player, Quinn takes your empty plate from you and rests it back on the coffee table. He tucks you into his side, brushing your hair behind your ear and kissing your forehead.

“PLEASE YOU FELL OVER!” Jack yells, standing up with arms waving all around.

“Oh yeah says Mr. Can’t Stay on his Feet.” Quinn says, adding to the fray.

“Sis come on, back me up.” Jack says, looking defeated.

“I’ve seen some wipeouts in my time, but that Jacky was the worst.” You say, shrugging lightly.

“HA!” Luke yells, pointing his finger at Jack. Before the middle brother scoffs, saying he’s going to grab everyone ice cream.

“How long do you think I can milk this injury?” You ask your boyfriend.

“Probably until the day we all die.” He says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

“Good.” You say, watching Jack set bowls out in the kitchen. “Because my car needs to go in for an oil change, think I can guilt Jack into it?” You joke.

Quinn laughs, his chest rumbling. “If he tries to get out of it, just start reaching for your thigh. He’ll do whatever you want then.”

“You’re evil Quinn Hughes.” You say, tilting your chin to fully look up at him.

“No, I’m just an older brother.”

“Not just an older brother.” You state.

“No? What else am I?” He asks you, and you smile lightly before looking at the man who you love as you say,

“You’re mine.”