Puckered Up
Luke Hughes x Reader
Summary: getting hit in the head with a puck at your first hockey game is bad enough, but when the adorably guilty defenseman who deflected it shows up to apologize, you have to decide if he’s worth giving hockey (and him) a second chance
The wall of sound hits you first.
It’s not like a stadium. Not like the open-air roar of a touchdown, a diffused, rolling thunder that echoes off the sky. This is contained. This is pressurized. It’s a thousand people screaming in a giant, refrigerated tank, and the noise vibrates in your teeth.
“See?” Liz yells, grabbing your arm. Her voice is already rough, and the game hasn’t even started. “Isn’t this insane?”
You nod, pulling your jacket tighter. “It’s insane that I’m wearing three layers and I can still feel my fillings freezing.”
“That’s the ice, silly,” Gabi says, bumping you from the other side. She’s bouncing on her toes, eyes wide and bright. “You’re basically breathing the game.”
“I think I’m breathing the guy behind me’s pretzel,” you mutter, but they don’t hear you. They’re already chanting.
This is, categorically, not your scene. You are a person of grass stains, autumn Sundays, and strategic timeouts. You understand the beauty of a tight spiral. This is chaos on skates. It’s too fast. The puck — which you can barely see — moves like an angry wasp.
“Okay, so who am I supposed to be watching?” You shout over the horn that signals the start.
“The Devils!” Liz screams. “Obviously! We’re red!”
“And Luke Hughes!” Gabi adds, her voice dropping into a dreamy sigh. “Number forty-three. He’s ... just watch him.”
“Which one is he?”
“The one who’s perfect!”
You roll your eyes, but you scan the ice. They’re all just helmets and numbers, gliding with a terrifying, unnatural speed. The sound of their skates cutting the ice is a sharp shhhk-shhhk that slides right under the roar of the crowd.
Your seats are, as promised, offensively good. You’re only four rows back from the glass. You can see the condensation, the scratches on the plexiglass from previous impacts. The players slam into the boards right in front of you, and the thud is heavy, solid, rattling the glass. You flinch every single time.
“You’re flinching,” Liz points out, laughing.
“That guy’s face just mushed against the glass like a cartoon. How are you not flinching?”
“It’s hockey! It’s just a check!”
“It looks like aggravated assault with a side of frostbite.”
The first period is a blur of whistles, sudden stops that spray snow over the glass, and your friends trying to explain rules that make zero sense.
“So, that’s icing,” Gabi says, pointing.
“Why? He just shot it.”
“Yeah, but he shot it from behind the red line, and it went past the other red line, and his teammate wasn’t there first.”
“... So they get penalized for being too good at shooting?”
“No, they get penalized for … for just … dumping it. It’s a rule.”
“It’s a dumb rule,” you declare, sipping the watery, overpriced beer you bought just to have something warm to hold. “In football, that’s called field position. That’s a good thing.”
“Just watch Luke,” Gabi insists. “Forget the rules. Just watch him skate.”
You sigh and find number forty-three. He’s tall. Taller than the others, or maybe he just skates with a fluidity that makes him seem to take up more space. He moves backwards as easily as forwards. It’s impressive, you’ll give him that. It’s the kind of effortless athletic grace that you can respect, even if the sport itself looks like a bar fight that won the lottery.
The game is tied. The energy in the building is high, a nervous, electric hum. The puck is in the Devils’ zone. A player from the other team — the white ones — winds up for a shot.
It happens in that slow-motion, hyper-focus way that trauma always does.
You see number forty-three skate across the lane. He drops to one knee, angling his body. He’s trying to block the shot.
The crack of the puck hitting his stick is louder than anything you’ve ever heard. It’s not a thwack. It’s a bang.
The puck deflects.
It doesn’t sail. It doesn’t arc. It rockets.
It comes straight up, over the glass, a black missile in a sea of white ice and red jerseys.
You don’t even have time to raise your hands.
You just register a black comet, the panicked gasp of the man next to you, and then-
Nothing.
Just a blinding, agonizing, white-hot explosion of pain right above your temple.
The world goes sideways. The roar of the crowd dissolves into a high-pitched, thin whine.
“Oh my God!” Liz is screaming. It sounds like she’s in a tunnel.
“Medic! We need a medic! MEDIC!”
Hands are on you. You’re slumping forward, your beer spilling onto the concrete floor. The pain is … it’s breathtaking. It’s not a headache. It’s an occupation. It’s taken over the entire right side of your skull.
“Hey. Hey, look at me. Can you look at me?”
You blink. Gabi’s face is swimming in front of yours. She’s pale, her eyes wide with terror.
“It hit her. It hit her in the head. The puck. It hit her right in the head.”
“Okay, miss. We’re right here.” A new voice. Calm. Authoritative. “We’re going to get you out of here. Can you stand?”
“I ... I don’t ...” you try to say, but your tongue feels thick. A hot, wet sensation is trickling down your cheek. You touch it. Your fingers come away red.
“Oh god, she’s bleeding,” Liz whispers, and her voice breaks.
“It’s okay. It’s just a head wound. They bleed a lot.” The medic, a guy with a grizzled mustache and kind eyes, shines a tiny, excruciatingly bright light in your pupils. “Yep. Pupils are a little slow. We’re gonna take a ride.”
The walk up the stairs is a humiliating, dizzy blur. You’re leaning on the medic and Gabi, a towel pressed to your temple. The game is still happening. You can hear the whistle, the roar as play resumes. People are staring. Some look concerned. Others just look annoyed that you’re blocking their view.
“I hate hockey,” you mumble, the concrete steps seeming to tilt under your feet.
“I know, honey. I know,” Gabi says, her voice trembling. “I’m so, so sorry I made you come.”
***
The medical room is aggressively quiet. It’s beige. The silence is a stark, sterile contrast to the arena, broken only by the hum of a vending machine in the hall and Liz’s nervous sniffles.
You’re sitting on an examination table covered in crinkly paper. The medic — Owen, his name tag says — is gently cleaning the cut on your hairline.
“Well, the good news is you’re going to be fine,” Owen says, his voice a gravelly comfort. “The bad news is, it’s going to swell up like a prize-winning grapefruit, and you’re going to have a headache that could stop a train.”
“It already does,” you manage, wincing as he applies a steri-strip. “Feels like my brain is trying to divorce my skull.”
“That’s the concussion talking,” he says, not unkindly. “It’s mild, but you definitely got your bell rung. That was a hard deflection.”
“It was Luke Hughes,” Gabi says from the corner. She’s been texting furiously, her face still pale. “He blocked the shot. It was his stick.”
“Gabi, I don’t think that’s helpful right now,” Liz snaps.
“No, it’s fine,” you say, closing your eyes. The fluorescent light above the table is a personal attack. “I don’t even know who that is. It could have been, I don’t know. Wayne Gretzky. I’d still feel like I got hit by a truck.”
“He’s only the best young defenseman on the team,” Gabi whispers, as if this is some great comfort.
“He’s the one with the great ass,” Liz supplies.
“Liz.”
“What? We were pointing him out. He’s number forty-three.”
You sigh, the motion sending a fresh throb behind your eye. “Great. My brain was scrambled by a nice ass. Write that on my tombstone.”
Owen finishes taping a small gauze patch over the cut. “Okay. I want you to sit here for a while. Let the game finish, let the crowd thin out. I don’t want you fighting traffic. We’ll have someone check on you. If the nausea gets worse or you feel dizzy, you tell me. I’m just outside.”
“Thank you, Owen,” you say. He nods, gives you a small smile, and leaves you, Liz, and Gabi in the beige silence.
For a few minutes, nobody speaks. Liz scrolls through her phone. Gabi just stares at you.
“What?” You finally ask, your voice flat.
“It’s really swelling.”
“Thanks, Gabi. Super.”
“No, I just … god, Y/N. I’m so sorry. This was supposed to be a fun night.”
“It’s fine,” you sigh, leaning your head back against the drywall. Bad move. The wall is cold and hard. You wince and sit up straight. “It’s an experience. I can now say I have been personally assaulted by a professional sport. It’s a fun party story for when I’m not concussed.”
“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” Liz says, looking up from her phone.
“What am I supposed to do? Scream? I tried that. It makes the headache worse.” You rub your eyes. “I just want to go home, take three ibuprofen, and sleep for a billion years.”
The door clicks open. It’s not Owen.
It’s a woman in a sharp blazer with a Devils logo embroidered on the chest. She’s holding ... a lot of things. She has the strained, high-wattage smile of someone in Public Relations.
“Hi there!” She says, her voice painfully cheerful. “Are you the young woman who took that unfortunate puck?”
“That’s me,” you say.
The PR woman’s smile tightens just a fraction. “Well, on behalf of the entire Devils organization, we are just terribly sorry about the incident. Player safety and fan safety is our number one priority.”
“Seems like fan safety is, like ... priority two,” you mutter.
Liz kicks your ankle.
“The team felt just awful about it,” the woman continues, ignoring you. She steps forward and places a brand-new, bright red hockey jersey on your lap. “They wanted you to have this.”
You look at it. It’s an authentic jersey. The number on the back is 86.
“Oh my god,” Gabi breathes, her hands flying to her mouth. “That’s a Jack Hughes jersey.”
“And,” the PR woman says, gesturing to the hallway, “the boys sent down a few things from the locker room to apologize.”
An arena attendant wheels in a small cart. On it are two hockey sticks, both with signatures scrawled all over the tape on the blades.
Liz and Gabi are on their feet, instantly mesmerized.
“Is that ... is that Timo?” Liz asks, touching one of the sticks reverently.
“The whole team signed them,” the PR woman says, beaming. “We are just so thrilled you’re okay. Is there anything else we can get for you? Another beverage? A foam finger?”
You stare at the pile of merchandise. The jersey on your lap feels stiff and synthetic. The sticks are ... just sticks.
“I’m in pain,” you say. The words are quiet, but they cut through the manufactured cheer.
The PR woman’s smile falters. “Well, yes, Owen said it was a mild concussion, but that you’re-”
“I have a splitting headache. I’m bleeding. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up on your shoes,” you say, the frustration and the pain welling up. “And you brought me … sports memorabilia.”
“It’s signed by the team,” she says, as if you’ve missed the point.
“I don’t care,” you say. And you realize you mean it. “I don’t follow hockey. I didn’t know who Jack Hughes was ten seconds ago. This is just an overpriced hirt and two pieces of wood. It doesn’t make my head hurt less.”
There is a terrible, awkward silence.
Gabi looks horrified. Liz looks like she’s trying not to laugh. The PR woman looks like she’s just swallowed a bug.
“I see,” the woman says, her voice several degrees cooler. “Well. The items are, of course, yours to keep. Our apologies. Again.”
She turns, her heels clicking sharply, and leaves the room.
The door shuts.
Liz holds the silence for one second, then two, and then she bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, Y/N. Her face.”
“It’s not funny, Liz,” Gabi says, wringing her hands. “She was just trying to be nice. Those are worth, like, thousands of dollars.”
“They’re worth Tylenol to me right now,” you grumble, pushing the jersey off your lap onto the floor. “I don’t want it. It smells like stadium.”
“You’re impossible,” Liz laughs, picking up the jersey and folding it carefully. “You get hit by a puck and your first instinct is to insult the team.”
“My first instinct was to pass out. My second instinct was to wonder why they think signatures from some random guys are a valid form of medical compensation.”
You lean your head back again, more carefully this time. The throbbing is a constant, dull drum. You can hear the game ending outside. A horn blares, followed by a huge roar from the crowd.
“Devils win,” Gabi says, checking her phone. “Overtime. Luke got the assist.”
“Good for him,” you say, closing your eyes. “Tell him his other assist is currently trying to burrow its way out of my skull.”
“You’re awfully grumpy for someone who just got a game-used stick.”
“I’m a football girl, Liz. You know this. If Josh Allen threw a ball and it broke my nose, I’d be annoyed. But at least I’d know who he was. This is just ... I’m tired. And my head hurts. And I want to be in my own bed.”
The door opens again.
You don’t even bother to look. “Owen, I swear, if you’re also here to offer me a foam finger, I’m using it to start a fire.”
“Um, Owen’s not here.”
The voice is not Owen. It’s young. It’s male. And it’s incredibly awkward.
Your eyes snap open.
Liz and Gabi both freeze. Gabi makes a sound like a deflating balloon.
Standing in the doorway, looking entirely too large for the small beige room, is a guy in hockey gear.
Well, most of his gear. He’s wearing skates, but he has guards on the blades. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat, curling around his ears. He’s holding his helmet in one hand and a bottle of Gatorade in the other.
He looks about your age. And he looks mortified.
It’s number forty-three.
“Oh,” you say. “It’s you. The ass.”
Liz chokes.
The guy’s face goes from pale to bright, crimson red. “I … what?”
“Liz said you have a great ass,” you clarify, because honestly, the concussion has destroyed your filter. “I’m Y/N. The one you tried to decapitate.”
“I-I’m Luke.” He takes a hesitant step into the room, skates clacking awkwardly on the tile. He’s looking at the gauze on your head. “Oh, god. I am so, so sorry. I was just trying to block the shot. It was coming in hot and I just got my stick on it and it just ... flew.”
He’s rambling. It’s actually kind of adorable, in a panicked-puppy-who-chewed-the-sofa sort of way.
“Yeah, it flew,” you agree. “Right into my temple.”
“I saw it,” he says, wincing, as if reliving the moment. “I saw it go up and I just—I heard the sound. I knew it hit someone. I’ve never done that. Never. I feel awful. Like, awful awful.”
“It’s fine,” you say, resigned. “I’ve been told I’m getting a free grapefruit out of it.”
He blinks. “A grapefruit?”
“The swelling,” you say, gesturing to your head.
“Oh. Right. God. Does it hurt? That’s a stupid question. Of course it hurts. I’m so sorry.”
“It hurts,” you confirm.
Gabi, who has been holding her breath, finally speaks. “Hi, Luke. We’re huge fans. I’m Gabi. This is Liz. We love your, uh, skating.”
Luke gives them a quick, distracted smile. “Hey. Thanks. But I really just came to see if you were okay.” His eyes land back on you. They’re very earnest.
“I’m okay,” you say. “Concussed, apparently. But okay. Your PR lady already came by.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” You gesture with your foot to the jersey on the floor. “She brought me a random shirt. And some sticks.”
Luke looks at the pile of merchandise. He looks at the HUGHES 86 jersey on the floor. He looks back at you.
And he laughs.
It’s not a polite laugh. It’s a real, surprised snort of a laugh. “A random shirt? That’s Jack’s jersey. He’s my brother.”
“Oh,” you say. “Well. Your brother’s random shirt is on the floor.”
He laughs again, harder this time, and the tension in the room just evaporates. Even your headache seems to pull back a fraction.
“You really don’t care, do you?” He asks, a look of genuine disbelief on his face.
“About what? Hockey?”
“Yeah.”
“Not really. No. I’m a football girl. Sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” He steps closer, leaning against the counter. He seems to be trying to figure you out. “I just ... usually when this happens — not this, but, like, when we meet fans — they’re not ... like you.”
“Disappointed?”
“No. Honest. God, that’s refreshing.” He runs his hand through his damp hair. “So the sticks didn’t help?”
“Do they dispense Advil?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
He smiles. It’s a really good smile. It’s lopsided and bright, and it makes him look his age. “Right. Okay. Good to know. Note to self: sticks are not painkillers.”
“So, you came down here right after the game?” You ask.
“Yeah. Soon as I got off the ice. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I just had to make sure. The PR team, they’re great, but it’s different. You know?”
“I do,” you say, and you find yourself smiling back, just a little. “It’s nice of you. To come check. Most people would just let the team send merch.”
“It was my stick,” he says, shrugging. “My fault.”
“It was an accident.”
“Still. A really bad accident. And it was your first game, wasn’t it?”
Your eyes go wide. “How did you know that?”
“The guy sitting next to you. When the medic was helping you up. He was yelling, ‘It’s her first game! It’s her first ever game!’” Luke winces again. “I think I ruined hockey for you. Forever.”
“I mean you didn’t help,” you say. “I was already confused by icing. This just sealed the deal.”
“It’s not always like this,” he says, almost pleadingly. “It’s not ... we don’t usually try to injure the crowd. That’s generally frowned upon.”
You chuckle, and then regret it as the pain throbs. “Ow.”
“Sorry. Sorry.” He gets serious again. “Look. I know the jersey and the sticks are dumb. If you’re not a fan, they’re just ... yeah. Wood and polyester. I get it. But I really want to make it up to you.”
Liz and Gabi have simultaneously stopped breathing. You can feel their silence.
“Make it up to me? How? You gonna teach me the infield fly rule?”
He looks confused. “The what?”
“Football. Baseball. Whatever. It was a joke. A bad one. Concussion, remember?”
“Right.” He shifts his weight, the skate guards clacking again. He’s suddenly nervous, but in a different way. Not I-injured-a-fan nervous. Just ... nervous.
“I want to, uh, I want to take you to dinner.”
The words hang in the beige room.
Gabi makes a small, high-pitched squeak.
You just stare at him. “Dinner.”
“Yeah. Like a real apology. Not this.” He gestures to the room, the merch. “Somewhere with no ice. And no pucks. And where the food doesn’t come in a plastic helmet. I’ll pay. Obviously. It’s the least I can do. I mean, I did try to kill you.”
“You didn’t try to kill me, Hughes.”
“Felt like it. So ... what do you say? Dinner. A real one. So I can apologize properly. And maybe convince you that hockey isn’t the absolute worst.”
You look at him. He’s got a small cut on his chin you didn’t notice before. His eyes are fixed on yours, earnest and hopeful. And, okay, Liz was right. He is ridiculously cute.
And you find yourself, despite the pounding in your head and the gauze taped to your skin, feeling something other than pain for the first time in an hour.
“You’d have to explain icing to me,” you say.
He breaks into a huge grin. “I can do that. I can explain it. Slowly. Many times.”
“And I’m not wearing that jersey.”
“God, no. Please don’t. Burn it. I don’t care. Just say yes.”
You look at Liz and Gabi. They are both giving you the frantic, silent YES-YES-SAY-YES-OR-WE-WILL-KILL-YOU-OURSELVES look.
You look back at Luke.
“Okay, Hughes,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your own face. “Dinner. But if any more rubber objects are hit my way, I’m leaving.”
He laughs, a bright, relieved sound. “It’s a deal. No hockey talk. Unless you ask. Okay, now I really gotta go. The guys are waiting. But can I get your number? To, you know, plan the apology dinner. Date. Thing.”
“Smooth, Hughes,” you say, but you’re already reaching for Gabi’s phone, because yours is somewhere at the bottom of your bag, and your head hurts too much to dig for it. “Here. Put it in this.”
He takes the phone, his fingers fumbling with the screen. He’s still in his giant gloves.
“Oh, god. Sorry.” He pulls one glove off with his teeth, types his name and number, and hands it back. His hand is bare. It’s warm.
“Luke,” he says, pointing to the screen. “I put my name.”
“I got it.”
“Okay. Cool.” He shoves his glove back on. “I’ll text you. Tomorrow. To make sure you’re, you know. Not dead.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Cool.” He backs towards the door, skates clacking. “Cool. Okay. Feel better. Seriously. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay, Luke.”
“Okay.” He gives one last, awkward-slash-dazzling smile, and then he’s gone, the door whooshing shut behind him.
The beige room is silent again.
You, Liz, and Gabi stare at the door.
One second. Two.
Liz turns to you, her eyes wide as saucers.
“You just got asked out by Luke Hughes. After he shot a puck at your head.”
Gabi just faints, her knees giving way as she slides silently down the wall onto the tile floor.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” you sigh, carefully swinging your legs off the exam table. “Gabi, get up.”
“I hate you,” Gabi groans from the floor, her voice muffled. “I hate you so much.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You look at the jersey on the floor. You pick up the stick, testing its weight. It’s lighter than you expected.
“So,” Liz says, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across her face. “A football girl, huh?”
You look at the door Luke just left through. The headache is still there, a dull, insistent throb. But it’s manageable.
“Yeah, well,” you say, trying to hide your own smile. “Maybe I can make a small exception for cross-training.”
