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.”
