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Luke Hughes x teammate!Reader

Summary: you’re the first woman drafted to the NHL, and Luke can’t stop staring at you like you just solved quantum physics while scoring a hat trick. (Featuring: Mario Lemieux as your intimidating hockey godfather, a truly catastrophic painkiller confession, and the mortifying ordeal of being perceived by your teammate who thinks defensive zone coverage is foreplay.)

The air in the arena is thick with the ghosts of games past. It smells of stale popcorn, Zamboni exhaust, and the sharp, metallic bite of cold. It’s a cathedral of echoes, where the slap of a puck and the roar of a crowd can linger for decades. Today, the stands are sparsely populated with parents, scouts who look impossibly bored, and one man who is decidedly not.

Mario Lemieux sits in a plastic blue seat, a paper cup of lukewarm coffee held loosely in one hand. He’s here as a favor, a celebrity guest for the Lemieux Foundation Youth Invitational. He’s shaken a hundred small, sweaty hands, posed for twice as many pictures, and is now dutifully watching the Bantam championship game. The Northwood Knights versus the Allegheny Badgers.

He’s seen this game a thousand times. A handful of kids with real potential, a dozen more who are just having fun, and a few who were pushed here by fathers living out vicarious dreams. He watches with a polite, professional detachment.

Until he sees you.

You’re number twelve for the Knights. You move differently. While the other boys on the ice are all sharp angles and explosive, often clumsy, force, you are fluid. You don’t skate, you flow. Your edges are silent, your turns are seamless curves, and your stick seems less like a tool and more like an extension of your own arms.

The play is in your defensive zone. A hulking Badger defenseman winds up for a slapshot from the point. It’s a cannonball, a prayer hurled toward the net. Your goalie flinches. But you’re already moving. You slide, not with desperation, but with a preternatural understanding of geometry, your stick perfectly angled. The puck deflects off the blade, not into the corner with a violent crash, but softly, landing flat on the ice right in front of you as if you’d called it by name.

You’re up in an instant. Two quick strides and you’re at top speed. The other players seem to be moving through molasses.

Mario leans forward, the coffee forgotten. He squints, trying to get a better look. Your helmet, a standard Bauer model, obscures your face. But there’s something about your frame, the way your jersey hangs.

“Who’s twelve?” He asks the tournament organizer sitting beside him, a portly man named Dale whose tie is just a little too tight.

Dale consults his program, his finger tracing a line of names. “twelve … let’s see. Y/L/N. Best on the team. Best in the league, probably.”

On the ice, you weave through the neutral zone. A Badger forward tries to line you up for a check along the boards. It’s a foolish, telegraphed move. You see it coming a mile away. At the last possible second, you dip your shoulder, pulling the puck back with the toe of your blade. The boy crashes into the plexiglass with a hollow thud, his momentum utterly wasted. You don’t even look back.

You cross the blue line. Two defensemen converge on you. It’s a pincer movement, a classic trap. For anyone else, it would be the end of the play. You look to your right, a subtle head fake that sells the pass. Both defensemen bite, their weight shifting for a fraction of a second.

It’s all the time you need.

You pull the puck between your own legs, a smooth, slick motion that happens so fast it’s almost an illusion. You emerge on the other side of them, alone with the goalie.

A murmur goes through the small crowd. Mario feels a genuine smile touch his lips for the first time all day.

The goalie comes out to challenge you, making himself big. You skate straight at him, stickhandling lazily, almost disrespectfully. You’re baiting him. He takes it, dropping into his butterfly, anticipating the shot. But you don’t shoot. You glide, out-waiting him, your patience a weapon. At the last moment, you deke to your backhand, slide the puck around his outstretched pad, and tap it into the empty net.

The goal horn blares, a sad, tinny sound in the mostly empty arena. Your teammates mob you, a flurry of gloves tapping your helmet. You accept their praise with a simple nod, your posture unchanged. You skate back to the bench, your face a mask of pure, unadulterated focus.

And as you turn, the light from the rafters catches the two long, thick braids of hair spilling out from the back of your helmet.

Mario’s breath catches in his throat.

“twelve,” he says, his voice low. “That’s a girl.”

Dale the organizer nods, a weary look on his face. “That’s her. Y/N Y/L/N. Told you she was the best in the league.”

“The best in the league?” Mario repeats, his eyes never leaving you. “Dale, that kid might be one of the smartest players I’ve seen at this age. Period. Boy or girl.”

The rest of the game is more of the same. You don’t score again, but you control everything. You break up plays before they can start. Your passes are crisp, perfect, always leading your teammates into open ice. You are the quarterback, the conductor, the heart, and the brain of the team. The Knights win 3-1. Your goal was the game-winner.

As the teams shake hands, you’re just one of the players. But as they skate off, a clear line is drawn. The boys in white jerseys peel off to the left, toward their locker room, a wave of whoops and hollers echoing down the concrete hall.

You turn right, alone.

You skate to a small, unmarked door at the far end of the rink, push it open with the butt of your stick, and disappear inside.

Mario stands up. “Where’s their coach?”

“Probably in the locker room,” Dale says, gathering his papers.

“Show me.”

***

The coach’s office is less of an office and more of a glorified closet. It smells of sweat, old leather, and that specific dampness that never seems to leave hockey rinks. A single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. A man in his late forties with tired eyes and a kind face looks up as Mario ducks through the doorway.

“Coach Walker,” Dale says, gesturing. “This is Mario Lemieux. He wanted a word.”

Coach Walker’s eyes widen slightly. He wipes a hand on his jeans before shaking Mario’s. “Mr. Lemieux. An honor. Really.”

“Mario, please,” he says, his large frame making the small room feel even smaller. “I just watched your team. You’ve got a hell of a player in number twelve.”

A look of immense pride, mixed with a familiar exhaustion, settles over the coach’s face. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Once in a lifetime talent. I’ll never have another player like her.”

“Why isn’t she playing at a higher level?” Mario asks, cutting straight to the point. “With her hockey IQ? She should be in a Triple-A program, at the very least.”

Coach Walker lets out a short, bitter laugh. He gestures to a corkboard on the wall, buried under game schedules and practice plans. Pinned to the corner are three letters, their edges curled and worn.

“Those are from the three top youth programs in the state,” Walker says, his voice losing its cheerful edge. “All rejection letters. We sent them tapes. They saw what you saw.”

“Then I don’t understand,” Mario says, genuinely confused.

“Oh, they were interested,” the coach continues, his tone hardening. “Very interested. Phone calls, emails, ‘we’d love to have him for a tryout.’ Right up until the moment they realize Y/N stands for Y/N. That the phenom on the tape is a girl.”

“What?”

“Suddenly, the rosters are full. Or they have concerns about ‘her safety.’ Or my personal favorite,” he says, pointing a finger at one of the letters, “they cite a lack of ‘appropriate changing facilities.’” He spits the words out like they’re poison. “They’ll take a boy who can barely skate backwards over a girl who could quarterback their power play from the blue line tomorrow.”

Mario feels a slow burn of anger in his chest. He’s seen politics in hockey. He’s lived it. But this is different. This is blatant, infuriating prejudice.

“So where does she get changed?” He asks quietly.

“The women’s restroom. The one for the public,” Walker says, shaking his head. “Drags her whole damn hockey bag in there before and after every game and practice. Never complains. Not once. She just wants to play.”

The door to the office is ajar, and from down the hall, they can hear the muffled sounds of the Knights celebrating their victory — shouts, laughter, the sound of sticks banging on the floor. A world you’re not a part of.

“She’s fourteen?” Mario asks.

“Turned fourteen last month.”

“And she’s playing with boys her age? Some of those kids are huge.”

“She’s smarter than they are,” the coach says simply. “Faster, too. She knows how to avoid the big hits. She has to. She knows they’re gunning for her, the parents on the other teams whispering, telling their sons to ‘finish the check on the girl.’ She hears it. She just … uses it.”

There’s a moment of silence in the tiny office, the sounds of celebration down the hall feeling a world away.

“This is ridiculous,” Mario says, his voice a low rumble. “The bureaucracy … the old boys’ club. It’s always been there, but to shut down a talent like that? Before she even gets a chance?”

“Tell me about it,” Coach Walker sighs. He slumps into his worn-out office chair. “I’ve done everything I can. I’ve made the calls. I’ve yelled at league commissioners. Nobody wants to be the first. Nobody wants to rock the boat.” He looks up at Mario, a glint of desperation in his tired eyes. “They’re going to waste her, Mr. Lemieux. They’re going to let the best player this state has seen in a decade fall through the cracks because she was born a girl.”

Mario looks back at the corkboard, at the official letterheads and the polite, dismissive words. He thinks of you on the ice, the effortless grace, the fierce intelligence. He thinks of you skating alone to a public bathroom while your teammates celebrate together.

“Maybe,” Mario says, a new resolve hardening his voice, “they just need a bigger boat.”

***

The hallway is cold and smells of wet concrete. The celebratory noise from the Knights’ locker room is a dull roar behind a closed door. You push open the heavy door of the women’s restroom, the oversized hockey bag slung over your shoulder, its weight familiar and comforting.

Your hair is damp, combed back from your face. You’re wearing jeans and a simple grey hoodie. Without the helmet and pads, you look your age. Young. The ferocity you display on the ice is replaced by a quiet, observant calm.

You take a deep breath, the adrenaline from the game slowly beginning to fade, leaving a pleasant exhaustion in its wake. It was a good game. You close your eyes for a second, replaying the goal in your head. The fake, the deke, the slide of the puck over the line. A small, satisfied smile touches your lips.

“Y/L/N.”

Your eyes snap open.

Leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest, is a man so tall he has to duck his head slightly to avoid the low-hanging pipes. He’s dressed in a simple black coat, but he carries an aura of importance that seems to fill the empty hallway.

You know who he is. Every kid who has ever held a hockey stick in Pennsylvania knows who he is. Mario Lemieux.

Your mind races. Is he here for a fundraiser? Did his kid play in the tournament? You give a small, polite nod, unsure of what to say.

“That was some game,” he says, his voice a deep, calm baritone. He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward you. He doesn’t offer a hand, just stands there, observing you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice coming out a little quieter than you intended. You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“The move in the second period,” he continues, “the head fake to sell the pass to the wing before you pulled it between your skates. Did you practice that?”

You’re taken aback. He wasn’t just watching, he was analyzing.

“Sometimes,” you say with a shrug. “It just seemed like the right thing to do. The D-men were flat-footed.”

“They were flat-footed because you made them flat-footed,” he corrects you gently. “You controlled their skates for them. That’s not something you can teach.”

A faint blush rises on your cheeks. This isn’t like when parents say, ‘Good game!’ This is praise from a god of the sport, and it’s specific. It’s real.

“I just try to see the ice,” you murmur, looking down at your sneakers.

“I was just talking to your coach,” he says, his tone shifting slightly. It becomes more serious. “He was telling me about some of the … noise you’ve been dealing with. Off the ice.”

Your stomach tightens. You immediately know what he’s talking about. The letters. The phone calls that go unanswered. The whispers in the stands. A familiar wall of defensiveness goes up inside you. You’ve learned to protect yourself from the disappointment.

“It’s whatever,” you say, the casualness of your tone a well-practiced defense. “I don’t really care.”

“I think you do,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “And I think you should. It’s not right.”

You look up at him, really look at him. There’s no pity in his eyes. There’s something else. Anger. Recognition.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” You ask, and for the first time, a sliver of the frustration you keep so carefully buried leaks into your voice. “It’s always been like this. ‘There are no facilities.’ ‘We’re worried about your safety.’ It’s just excuses.”

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding slowly. “They are. They’re excuses from people who are afraid of what they don’t understand. People who are comfortable with the way things have always been.”

He takes another step closer. The sheer size of him is intimidating, but his demeanor is anything but.

“I’ve dealt with my share of hockey bureaucracy, Y/N. I’ve sat in boardrooms with men who think they know what’s best for the sport, men who would rather protect their own little kingdoms than let the game grow.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours. “Talent is talent. It doesn’t matter if it’s in a boy or a girl. And what I saw on that ice today … that was talent.”

The word hangs in the air between you. You’ve been called good. You’ve been called a great player ‘for a girl.’ But the way he says ‘talent,’ it feels different. It feels like a fact. Unqualified. Absolute.

A knot forms in your throat. You swallow hard.

“Your coach says he’s hit a wall,” Mario says.

You just nod, unable to speak.

“I’d like to make a few phone calls,” he says simply. “Talk to some people. See if we can’t knock that wall down.”

Your head snaps up. You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the words. Mario Lemieux wants to make phone calls. For you.

“Why?” The question slips out before you can stop it. It’s small, vulnerable.

He offers a slight, wry smile. “Because I hate seeing good hockey go to waste. And because, selfishly, I want to see what a player like you can do when the doors are actually open.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a sleek, simple business card. He flips it over, takes a pen from his other pocket, and scribbles something on the back.

“This is my direct number,” he says, holding the card out to you. “Not my agent, not my assistant. Mine. I want you to call me tomorrow. We can talk more then. No pressure. Just a conversation.”

You stare at the card in his hand. Your own hands are trembling slightly. You shift the weight of your hockey bag and take it from him. The card is heavy, the lettering embossed. On the back, in neat, block handwriting, is a phone number.

It feels like the most valuable object in the world.

“Okay,” you whisper. The word is barely audible over the thump of your own heart.

“Okay,” he repeats with a nod. He gives you one last, appraising look. “Get some rest. You played a great game.”

And with that, he turns and walks down the long, empty hallway, his footsteps echoing until he disappears around the corner.

You stand there for a long time, alone in the quiet corridor. The sounds of your team celebrating down the hall have faded, the door likely closed now. It’s just you, your oversized bag, and the small, rectangular piece of paper in your hand.

You look from the number to the closed locker room door and back again. For the first time, the distance between your world and theirs doesn’t feel like a chasm. It feels like a problem that might just have a solution. And that solution is a phone number, resting in the palm of your hand.

***

That phone call is the most terrifying ten seconds of your life.

You sit on your bed, the business card slick with sweat in your hand, staring at the number he wrote on the back. Your thumb hovers over the call button on your beat-up flip phone.

“Just do it,” your dad says, leaning against your bedroom doorframe. “The worst thing he can say is that he changed his mind.”

“That’s a pretty bad worst thing,” you mumble, but you press the button anyway.

It rings twice.

“Hello?” The voice is unmistakable. Deep, calm.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Lemieux,” you stammer, your heart trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “This is … this is Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N,” he says, and his voice warms instantly. “I was hoping you’d call. You have a minute to talk?”

That minute turns into four years.

Four years is a lifetime. It’s a blur of phone calls, rink-side meetings, and doors that were once welded shut suddenly creaking open. Mario’s name is a master key, and he uses it without hesitation. First, it’s a spot on a national-level U16 boys’ team. The whispers are there, louder now. The scrutiny is intense. Every mistake is magnified, every success is qualified with “… for a girl.”

You respond the only way you know how: on the ice. You lead the league in assists. You are the smartest player on any sheet of ice you touch.

At sixteen, Mario makes the big push. The Ontario Hockey League and the Western Hockey League hem and haw, citing the same old tired excuses. But the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League — the ‘Q’ — is different. Perhaps it’s their history of high-flying, creative players. Perhaps it’s the persuasive power of a legend making a personal appeal to their commissioner. A team, the Shawinigan Cataractes, agrees to let you try out.

Before the training camp, Mario flies you out to meet someone. You walk into a glass-walled office in Los Angeles and shake hands with Pat Brisson. The Pat Brisson. He represents Sidney Crosby, Nathan MacKinnon, a roster of gods.

He looks at you, then at Mario, then back at you.

“So this is the one,” Pat says, a shrewd, calculating look in his eyes.

“This is the one,” Mario confirms.

“They’re going to be brutal,” Pat says, his focus entirely on you now. “The media, the other players, the fans in the cheap seats. They’ll chirp you. They’ll test you. They’ll do everything they can to get under your skin.”

“I can handle it,” you say, your voice steady.

“I know you can,” Pat says with a sharp nod. “But we’re not going to hide from it. We’re going to lean into it. Our entire strategy is going to be simple. We’re going to let everyone know you’re a girl. And then you’re going to go out there and prove you’re better than every single boy they put in front of you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” you say.

It becomes your mantra. The headlines are relentless. You step on the ice in Shawinigan and the chirps are merciless, a mix of crude English and even cruder French.

“Go back to the kitchen!” One player screams from the bench during your first exhibition game.

The next shift, you strip the puck from him at your own blue line, turn him inside out with a move so filthy the crowd gasps, and score on a breakaway. As you skate past his bench, you don’t say a word. You just meet his eyes. It’s more than enough.

You don’t just make the team. You become its star.

By seventeen, you’re an alternate captain. By eighteen, you’re the first female captain in the history of the Canadian Hockey League. You lead the Cataractes to a Memorial Cup championship, and you are named tournament MVP. You finish your final season with 121 points. You are not just the best player on your team; you are the best player in the entire league. The debate about whether a girl can play at this level is over. You ended it.

And now, a new debate begins.

***

The first draft is in Ottawa. The Professional Women’s Hockey League. The stage at the Hard Rock is bathed in purple and black light. It’s a historic moment and there’s a palpable energy of excitement and progress in the air.

You’re proud of it. Truly. You see the young girls in the audience holding signs, their faces painted, and you understand the importance of this. But as you sit in the front row between your mom and dad, a knot of anxiety is tangled in your gut.

There’s no suspense. The commissioner walks to the podium.

“With the first overall selection in the inaugural PWHL Draft,” she announces, her voice ringing with significance, “the New York Sirens are proud to select, from the Shawinigan Cataractes … Y/N Y/L/N!”

The room erupts. You stand, smooth down your dress, and hug your parents. You walk to the stage, shake the commissioner’s hand, and hold up the teal and orange jersey. You smile for the cameras, the flashbulbs popping like fireworks. You say all the right things in the interviews.

“It’s an incredible honor.”

“What this league is doing for women’s hockey is monumental.”

“I’m just so grateful for this opportunity.”

Later that night, in the hotel bar, you’re sitting in a quiet corner with Mario. He swirls the ice in his glass of water, watching you.

“You did good up there,” he says. “You handled that with class.”

“Thanks,” you say, picking at the label on your bottle of soda.

“You’re happy about it,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement that’s fishing for a contradiction.

“I am,” you insist, meeting his gaze. “It’s amazing. It is. But …”

“But it’s not the dream,” he finishes for you.

You look down at your hands. “Is that awful? To feel that way? All those people … they’re building something incredible. And I feel like I’m looking past it.”

“It’s not awful,” he says, his voice firm. “It’s honest. You can be proud of what they’re building and still want to follow your own path. The dream was never to be the best female hockey player in the world. The dream was to be the best hockey player in the world. Period.”

He leans forward slightly. “And that path goes through one place. Las Vegas. In three days.”

***

Three days later, you’re sitting at a table inside the Sphere.

The place is an assault on the senses. The world’s largest LED screen wraps around and above you, displaying a dizzying array of team logos, player highlights, and shimmering graphics. The air conditioning is arctic. The anxiety is thick enough to choke on.

You’re wearing a simple, elegant dark green dress. Your hair is down, styled in loose waves. Beside you, your dad is fidgeting with his tie for the hundredth time. Your mom is clutching your hand, her knuckles white. And next to her, a rock of calm in a sea of tension, is Mario.

On the massive screen, the broadcast begins. The commentators’ faces, fifty feet tall, loom over the arena.

“Welcome to the 2025 NHL Entry Draft,” the host, Kevin Weekes, says. “An incredible venue for an incredible class of prospects. But of course, the story everyone is talking about is Y/N Y/L/N.”

Your highlights from the QMJHL flash across the screen — goals, assists, the Memorial Cup celebration.

“No one questions the skill,” another analyst, Cheryl Pounder, chimes in. “The hockey IQ is off the charts. She’s arguably the best playmaker in this draft. The question, and it’s the one every GM is asking, is how does her game translate to the size and speed of the National Hockey League?”

“It’s the physicality, Cheryl,” a third commentator adds. “Can she survive an 84-game season against men who are bigger, stronger, and faster than anyone she’s ever faced? It’s an unprecedented situation. No one knows where she’s going to go. Some scouts have her in the top ten, others have her falling to the second round. It is the great unknown of this draft.”

A cold dread begins to pool in your stomach. You knew this was coming, but hearing it broadcast to millions of people makes it sickeningly real.

Gary Bettman walks to the podium. The draft officially begins.

“With the first overall pick, the New York Islanders are proud to select …”

Matthew Schaefer, no surprise there.

Pick two. A center from the OHL.

Pick three. A Swedish phenom.

With every pick that isn’t you, your mom squeezes your hand a little tighter. You keep a placid, neutral expression on your face, a mask you perfected years ago. Inside, your nerves are shredding.

Pick four. Pick five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The top ten is gone. Pat had told you there was a good chance you’d go somewhere between eight and twelve. The first pang of real doubt hits you.

“And now, on the clock, with the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins,” Bettman announces.

This is it. Mario’s team. The team you grew up watching. The team whose practice facility you’ve skated at a dozen times. Kyle Dubas appears on the giant screen from their draft room in Pittsburgh. The story is perfect. It’s written in the stars.

“The Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select …” he begins.

You hold your breath.

“… from the Calgary Hitmen, Benjamin Kindel.”

The air goes out of you in a silent rush. It’s a physical blow. You manage a polite clap as the young Canadian stands up from his table. You glance at Mario. His jaw is set like granite.

He leans over to you, his voice a low, angry whisper only you and your parents can hear. “I’m going to have a long talk with Kyle tomorrow. Maybe fire him.”

It’s meant to be a joke, to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work. The seed of fear has been planted. What if they’re all passing on you? What if the commentators were right? What if this was all for nothing?

Pick twelve. The Philadelphia Flyers. Not you.

Pick thirteen. The Detroit Red Wings. Not you.

Pick twelve. The Columbus Blue Jackets. Not you.

The first round is halfway over. The cameras keep panning to your table, catching your forced smiles, your stoic facade. You feel like an animal in a zoo. The girl who might get picked. The novelty act.

The familiar humiliation starts to creep in, the same feeling you got standing outside the boys’ locker room all those years ago. You are separate. You are other. You are a risk nobody is willing to take.

You look at your parents. Your dad is trying for a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t reach his worried eyes. Your mom looks like she’s about to cry. You feel a wave of guilt. You brought them here. You put them through this.

Maybe the PWHL is where you belong after all. Maybe that’s your ceiling. The thought is a bitter pill.

On the podium, Gary Bettman is speaking again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a trade to announce.”

A hush falls over the Sphere. The graphics on the screen swirl and change.

“We have a trade between the Vancouver Canucks and the New Jersey Devils.”

You barely register it. A mid-round pick swap, probably. Teams jockeying for position later on.

“The Vancouver Canucks trade the fifteenth overall selection to the New Jersey Devils,” Bettman continues, and now your head snaps up, “in exchange for the fiftieth overall selection in this year’s draft, a second-round selection in the 2026 draft, and the rights to prospect Seamus Casey.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. That’s a haul. A third, a second, and a top prospect … to move up for one pick? Whoever the Devils want, they want them badly.

On the main screen, the feed switches to the New Jersey Devils’ war room. General Manager Tom Fitzgerald walks to their podium, flanked by his staff. He looks calm, confident. He looks like a man who just got exactly what he wanted.

The camera in the Sphere pans, sweeping over the remaining top prospects. It lingers on a big defenseman from Finland. It shows a speedy Canadian winger.

And then it finds your table.

Your face is now fifty feet high, broadcast for the whole world to see. You can feel thousands of pairs of eyes on you. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. This is it. This is the moment. It’s either the culmination of a dream or the beginning of a nightmare.

Tom Fitzgerald leans into the microphone. He doesn’t drag it out. He doesn’t build the suspense.

“The New Jersey Devils are proud to select …”

He pauses, and in that one second of silence, you live an entire lifetime of hope and fear.

“… from the Shawinigan Cataractes, Y/N Y/L/N.”

The word hangs in the air for a split second before the Sphere erupts.

The sound is a physical force, a wave that washes over you. It’s a roar of cheers, applause, and surprised shouts. For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to connect the sound of your name to the reality of the moment.

Then your mom is crying, grabbing you in a fierce hug. Your dad is yelling something incoherent, his face split by a grin of pure joy. You turn to Mario. He’s not smiling. He has a look of solemn satisfaction on his face. He simply puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, a gesture that says everything. I knew it. I told you.

You stand up on shaky legs. The world feels like it’s tilting. You make your way to the stage, moving through a dream. Someone hands you a jersey. It’s red and black. You hold it up, and the flashbulbs are blinding.

You put it on. The fabric is heavy, the crest on the front stiff and new. It feels … right. It feels like coming home to a place you’ve never been.

You walk off the stage, dazed, and find your way back to your family. Pat is there now, a wide smile on his face as he talks on his phone.

Mario pulls you into a hug, a real one this time. He’s so tall he envelops you completely.

“They didn’t just draft you,” he says, his voice rumbling in your ear. “They traded up. They paid a price because they were afraid someone else was going to take you right before them. They didn’t take a chance on you, Y/N. They targeted you.”

He pulls back, holding you by the shoulders, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re not the girl who got drafted,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the fifteenth overall pick in the NHL Entry Draft. Now go show them why they should have taken you first.”

***

The moment you step off the stage, you’re swallowed by a vortex of managed chaos. A smiling woman from the league’s PR department with a headset and a clipboard gently steers you down a hallway. The roar of the draft floor fades behind you, replaced by the sterile hum of backstage corridors.

“Right this way, Y/N,” the woman says brightly. “We’re just going to do a few quick interviews, some photos, and then we’ll get you to the Devils’ media team.”

It’s not quick.

First, it’s a sit-down with ESPN. The lights are hot, the questions are a predictable mix of “How does it feel?” and “What do you say to the skeptics?” You give the polite, media-trained answers Pat drilled into you, your voice steady even as your hands tremble in your lap.

Then it’s Sportsnet. Then the NHL Network. You feel like you’re saying the same five sentences on a loop.

“It’s a dream come true.”

“I’m just excited to get to work.”

“I’ve always believed in my ability.”

“The Devils are a great organization.”

“I can’t wait to meet my teammates.”

You’re mid-sentence with a blogger from a popular hockey site when a different PR person, this one wearing a Devils polo shirt, rushes over.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “We need her. Phone call.” He hands you your phone, which has been in their safekeeping. The screen is a blinding, strobing mess of notifications. But there’s a call coming through from an unknown number.

“Who is it?” You ask, your brain feeling fuzzy from the lights and repetitive questions.

“It’s your captain,” he says, a grin spreading across his face.

Your breath hitches. You swipe to answer, your thumb barely connecting with the screen. You press the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Y/N?” The voice on the other end is calm, with a slight, charming Swiss-German accent. Nico Hischier.

“Yes,” you manage to say. “Hi.”

“Hey, Nico Hischier here. I just … wow. Welcome to New Jersey,” he says, and you can hear the genuine smile in his voice. “A bunch of us are together watching. When we saw Fitz traded up, we were all trying to guess who it was for. Nobody guessed this. In a good way! We’re all so excited.”

The background noise behind him is a low murmur of voices and then a distinct shout of “NICO! TELL HER DAWSON SAYS SHE BETTER BE A GOOD PASSER!”

Nico laughs, a warm, easy sound. “You’ll have to excuse Dawson. He’s already thinking about the power play. But seriously, on behalf of all the guys, we’re thrilled. What you did in the Q was incredible to watch.”

He’s not talking to you like a history project or a media spectacle. He’s talking to you like a hockey player. A teammate. It’s the first time all night that the reality of the situation truly sinks in, cutting through the surreal haze. You’re not just a draft pick. You’re a New Jersey Devil.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. You turn away from the PR reps, seeking a sliver of privacy. “Thanks, captain. That … that really means a lot.”

“Of course,” he says. “I know tonight is going to be crazy for you. Probably the next few months will be. Just … try to enjoy it. And know that when you get to camp, we’ve got your back. You’re one of us now. The media, the noise, we’ll handle it as a team. You just worry about playing hockey.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them away furiously. “I will. Thank you, Nico.”

“Alright. I’ll let you go. Get some rest when you can. And hey, welcome to the Devils.”

The line clicks off. You stand there for a moment, the phone pressed to your ear, the sincerity of his words a soothing balm on your frayed nerves. He didn't have to call. He certainly didn't have to say any of that. But he did.

“Ready for social?” The Devils PR guy asks, breaking the spell.

***

The next hour is a blur of manufactured fun. You are introduced to a perky twenty-something named Maddie who runs the Devils’ TikTok account.

“Okay, Y/N, this is going to be amazing for engagement!” She says, her energy both infectious and exhausting. “First, we’re going to do the one where you point at different text bubbles that pop up on screen. So the first one will say ‘First Woman Drafted,’ and you just point up and smile. Got it? Great!”

You do it. You point. You smile.

“Perfect! Now, we’re going to do a transition Reel. We have your Shawinigan jersey here. You’re going to hold it up in front of the camera, then pull it away, and you’ll be wearing the Devils jersey! We’ll edit it, it’ll look sick.”

You change jerseys. The camera rolls. You feel ridiculous.

“Now one for the league’s account,” another social media manager says, stepping forward. “We want to do a ‘get to know you’ thing. I’ll fire some questions, you just give quick answers. Favorite pre-game meal?”

“Pasta with chicken.”

“Favorite artist right now?”

“Sabrina Carpenter.”

“Celebrity crush?”

You freeze. Pat’s voice rings in your ears from one of your media training sessions. Never answer that. Keep your private life private.

“Don’t really have one,” you lie smoothly.

“Okay, okay, last one!” Maddie chirps, holding her phone up again. “We’re doing a video where you look into the camera and say, ‘Hey, Devils fans. I’m here. Let’s go.’ But like, with intensity.”

You stare into the tiny lens of her iPhone, summon the last dregs of your adrenaline, and deliver the line.

“Hey, Devils fans. I’m here. Let’s go.”

“Amazing!” She squeals. “The comments are going to go crazy!”

You’re finally released, your head swimming, your cheeks aching from smiling. You feel less like a hockey player and more like a content creation machine. As you’re led toward the green room where your family is waiting, you pass a TV screen. It’s showing a replay of the draft commentary.

“… and there it is,” you hear Cheryl Pounder saying, “The New Jersey Devils make history. But Tom Fitzgerald wouldn’t have made that trade if he didn’t believe Y/N Y/L/N can be an impact player in the National Hockey League.”

Your step falters. An impact player. The words cut through the noise of the TikToks and the flashbulbs. That’s what matters. That’s the goal.

***

You push open the door to the private room and the world comes rushing back in.

“There she is!” Your dad shouts, his eyes red but his smile a mile wide.

Your mom engulfs you in a hug, still crying softly into your shoulder. “Oh, sweetie, we are just so, so proud of you.”

Over her shoulder, you see Mario. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers so enormous it’s comical. It’s a breathtaking explosion of white roses, lilies, and hydrangeas. He looks immensely pleased with himself.

“Had to make sure they were bigger than any bouquet the number fourteen pick got,” he says with a deep chuckle as you finally detach from your mom. “Just a little reminder from me to Pittsburgh about what they missed out on.”

You laugh, a real, genuine laugh for the first time in what feels like hours. “Still thinking about firing Dubas?”

“The thought has crossed my mind every thirty seconds since then,” Mario says with a completely straight face, which only makes you laugh harder.

In the corner, Pat is a whirlwind of activity. He has his cell phone pressed to one ear and a second one in his hand that he keeps glancing at.

“No, a full-page ad is fine, but we need creative control,” he says into the phone. He sees you looking and gives you a huge, triumphant wink. He covers the receiver. “Nike is on hold. They want to talk about a signature line. Not just a skate. A whole line. Bauer is scrambling. Gatorade wants to make you a pillar of their next global campaign. And a reporter from Vogue wants to know who you’re wearing.”

He gestures to your green dress. “Who are you wearing, by the way?”

“It’s from a mall,” you say, feeling completely overwhelmed. “I don’t even know.”

“We’ll say it’s custom,” he mutters before turning his attention back to his call. “Listen, I have to call you back.”

Mario steps forward, gently taking the massive bouquet from his own hands and placing it in yours. The scent is intoxicating.

“Alright,” he says, his voice cutting through the celebratory chaos. He puts a hand on your shoulder and one on your dad’s. “That’s enough business for tonight. Pat can make you rich tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate. I have a car waiting and a reservation at a restaurant where no one will bother us. My treat.”

The relief is so profound it almost brings you to your knees. A quiet dinner. Your family. Your mentor. It’s all you want in the world.

***

Meanwhile, at a lake house in Michigan …

The setting sun paints the surface of the lake in fiery shades of orange and pink. Inside a sprawling, modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows, the only light comes from the massive television screen displaying the NHL draft. Empty chip bags and beer bottles litter the coffee table.

Quinn is lounging on an armchair, scrolling through his phone. Luke is stretched out on the floor, idly tossing a foam puck into the air. Jack is perched on the edge of the sofa, his focus laser-sharp on the screen, his posture radiating a nervous energy even from a thousand miles away.

“This draft is boring,” Luke says, catching the foam puck. “Wake me up when something interesting happens.”

“The kid from Saginaw is going to be good,” Quinn says, not looking up from his phone. “San Jose got a stud.”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s a stud,” Jack mutters, his eyes narrowed on the TV. “Let’s see what Fitzy does. He’s been quiet.”

They watch as the picks tick by. Pittsburgh is on the clock.

“Here we go,” Jack says, leaning forward. “He’s gotta take a center.”

The Penguins select Benjamin Kindel.

“Good pick,” Jack says with a decisive nod. “Smart.”

A few more picks go by. Luke is starting to doze off. Then, the announcement.

“We have a trade to announce.”

Jack sits bolt upright. “Okay, here we go. Fitz is cooking.”

Luke props himself up on his elbows. “Who’s trading?”

“Vancouver and New Jersey,” the commissioner says.

Quinn’s head shoots up from his phone. “What? No one told me we were trading our pick.”

“The fifteenth pick … to the Devils,” the announcer clarifies.

“Whoa,” Luke says, now fully awake. “Fitz gave up a lot. A second, a third, and Casey? Who the hell is he trading up for?”

“It’s gotta be one of the Russian kids,” Jack theorizes, rattling off names. “Or maybe that big D-man from Finland. Someone must have been trying to jump us.”

The broadcast cuts to the Devils’ war room. Tom Fitzgerald is at the podium.

“Alright, Fitz, who’d you get for us?” Jack says to the screen.

“The New Jersey Devils are proud to select … from the Shawinigan Cataractes … Y/N Y/L/N.”

A stunned silence fills the room, broken only by the sound of the television.

Luke is the first to speak. His voice is a disbelieving whisper.

“No. Way.”

Quinn is just staring at the screen, his mouth slightly agape, looking back and forth between your smiling face holding up a Devils jersey and his brothers.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a long time. His face is a blank mask of concentration. He’s not shocked. He’s processing. He’s running simulations in his mind, calculating angles, reconfiguring power-play units. He’s a hockey supercomputer booting up a new, unprecedented variable.

Finally, he speaks. “Holy shit.” He says it quietly, with a sort of reverence. “Fitz actually did it.”

“What does this even mean?” Luke asks, sitting up completely. He looks genuinely bewildered. “Like … for the team? For the locker room? What are we supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to treat her like a teammate,” Quinn says, his voice taking on the authoritative tone of a captain. He’s looking at Jack and Luke, his expression serious. “You guys need to get ahead of this. Every team in the league is going to circle your games now. Every scrum, every post-whistle … they’re going to test her. And they’re going to test you to see if you have her back.”

“Of course we’ll have her back,” Jack scoffs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He pulls out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. “She’s a Devil.” He finds your highlights from the Memorial Cup. The clip of you turning a defenseman inside out plays on the small screen. “Look at that. The poise. The vision.”

He looks up at Luke. “She’s a playmaker. That’s a puck-moving player who can feed our transition game. That’s what matters.” He pauses. “The media is going to be an absolute circus, though. We’re gonna have to shut that down from day one. Set the tone.” He’s already in leadership mode, protecting the sanctity of the room.

“So … I have a question,” Luke says slowly, a classic Luke expression of earnest confusion on his face. “And I’m not trying to be a jerk, I’m serious. Where does she, like … get changed?”

Jack and Quinn both look at him.

Quinn sighs. “They’ll add a curtain around her stall or something, Luke. The Prudential Center has the budget.”

“Oh. Right. Cool,” Luke says, nodding as if this is a perfectly normal piece of team logistics. He thinks for another second. “Man, I wonder if she’s any good at Catan. We need a fourth for game nights on the road.”

Jack isn’t listening. He’s still watching your highlights, a slow grin spreading across his face. He sees the head fake. He sees the no-look backhand pass to the slot. He sees a player who thinks the game on his level.

“Dude,” he says to Luke, finally looking up from his phone, a spark of genuine excitement in his eyes. “I think our power play just got a lot better.”

***

The celebratory dinner is a pocket of impossible calm after the storm of the draft. At a secluded corner table in a dimly lit, absurdly expensive steakhouse off the Las Vegas strip, the four of you finally have a moment to breathe. The conversation is easy, filled with stories from your childhood hockey days, your parents recounting tales of 6 a.m. practices and tournaments in frozen northern towns. For a few hours, you’re not a historic draft pick or a brand-in-the-making. You’re just their daughter.

The feeling, however, is fleeting. Real life, and the reality of what just happened, comes at you fast. The weeks after the draft are a whirlwind. Pat’s office secures a condo for you in a high-rise in Jersey City with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. Boxes are packed and unpacked. Endorsement deals are signed. You do a photoshoot for a magazine, the feeling of the designer clothes foreign and strange against your skin, a stark contrast to the familiar weight of hockey pads.

But amidst all the noise, there is one singular focus, a beacon guiding you through the haze of your new life: Development Camp.

***

One Week Before Development Camp …

Dougie Hamilton is on his couch in Toronto, watching a movie, when his phone buzzes. He glances at it. A WhatsApp notification.

Unknown Number has added you to “A Friendly Reminder”

He frowns. A new group chat. He sees the names of his teammates appearing in the chat list. Nico Hischier. Jack Hughes. Timo Meier. Ondrej Palat. Every single player on the Devils’ roster, right down to the guys on two-way contracts in Utica.

Dougie Hamilton: Who is this?

Before anyone else can type, a video appears in the chat. No caption. Just a play button. Dougie taps it, intrigued.

The video is portrait-style, clearly filmed on a phone. It’s a close-up of a man’s face, a face every single person in this chat knows. The lighting is low, but the eyes are intense, missing nothing. It’s Mario Lemieux. He doesn’t blink.

“This message is for the New Jersey Devils,” he begins, his voice a low, even rumble. It’s the calmest, most terrifying sound Dougie has ever heard. “In a few weeks, a rookie is coming to your camp. My player. Y/N Y/L/N. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”

He pauses, letting the silence hang heavy.

“Let me be perfectly clear. She is not a media spectacle. She is not a locker room distraction. She is a hockey player. A damn good one. And she is your teammate. You will treat her as such. You will make her feel welcome. You will give her a fair chance to earn her spot, just like any other prospect. And when the time comes, you will protect her on the ice as you would any other member of your team.”

His gaze seems to pierce through the screen.

“I have a long memory and a lot of friends in this league. If I hear — from anyone — that she has been treated with anything less than the full respect a teammate deserves, you will find that your careers, your reputations, and your future contract negotiations will become … complicated.”

He leans a fraction of an inch closer to the camera.

“Enjoy the rest of your summer. I’ll be watching.”

The video ends. A moment later, a new message appears in the chat.

This video will self-destruct in two minutes.

The chat immediately explodes.

Timo Meier: Was that who I think it was?

Ondrej Palat: How the hell did he get all our numbers?

Jonas Siegenthaler: I feel like I just got threatened by the Godfather.

Jack Hughes: LMAO FITZ IS GONNA HAVE A HEART ATTACK

Nico Hischier: Everyone relax. He’s just being protective. The message is simple: be good teammates. We were going to do that anyway. This doesn’t change anything.

Jack Hughes: It kinda changes things. Now I’m terrified of Lemieux. Which is fair.

Two minutes later, precisely as promised, the video vanishes from the chat history. A moment after that, the group itself is deleted, the unknown number disappearing into the digital ether. The players are left with nothing but the chilling memory of Mario Lemieux’s promise.

***

You know nothing about this.

When you walk into the RWJBarnabas Health Hockey House for the first day of development camp, all you feel is a tidal wave of nervous excitement. The building smells of fresh ice and new equipment. You’re handed a bag full of gear, everything crisp and new, emblazoned with the Devils logo. Your practice jersey is white, the number 21 stitched on the back in red. Twelve, your number in the Q, is taken by a veteran. Twenty-one feels new. A clean slate.

You find your assigned stall in the prospects’ locker room, a temporary space for the week. Your name is printed on a placard above the stall. Y/L/N. It feels real.

The other prospects file in, a mix of recent draft picks like you and players who have been in the system for a year or two. Some guys come over and introduce themselves, offering handshakes and welcoming smiles. Others watch you from a distance, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. They’re your competition.

You’re taping the knob of a new stick when you hear it. The comment isn’t meant for you to hear, but the acoustics of a locker room carry whispers. It’s a seventh-round pick, a big, lumbering defenseman named Gauthier, talking to another prospect a few stalls down.

“You see the media circus out front?” Gauthier says, his voice low. “It’s all for her. It’s a publicity stunt, man. Fitz is trying to sell jerseys. There’s no way she cracks the main roster. The women’s league is waiting for her.”

The words are a punch to the gut, a cold splash of the same doubt you’ve been swimming against your entire life. Your hands still for a moment. You don’t turn around. You don’t acknowledge that you heard. You just take a slow, deep breath, and a familiar, icy resolve settles over you.

You finish taping your stick, your movements precise and controlled. Fine. Let them think that. You’ve been proving people wrong your whole life. This is just a bigger stage with brighter lights.

On the ice, you let your play do the talking. The first few drills are simple skating and puck-handling exercises. You’re fluid, your edges sharp, your hands soft. You don’t just execute the drills, you master them.

The coaches put you in a 3-on-2 rush drill. You carry the puck over the blue line, two teammates on your wings. The two defensemen are the hulking Gauthier and another prospect. Gauthier fixes his eyes on you, clearly intending to make a statement, to prove you can’t handle the physicality.

You see him coming. You see the angle he’s taking. It’s a classic, aggressive play to force you to the outside. Instead of fighting it, you invite it. You skate hard toward the boards, drawing him with you. At the last possible second, just before he can plaster you into the glass, you drop the puck behind you into the empty space you just created — a perfect drop pass — and pivot hard.

Gauthier, his momentum carrying him forward, is completely taken out of the play. Your teammate scoops up the puck and walks in on a 2-on-1 against the remaining defenseman. He scores easily.

As you skate back up the ice, you don’t even glance at Gauthier. You just get back in line for the next rep, your face an unreadable mask of focus. But across the ice, a few of the Devils’ coaches are murmuring to each other, nodding in approval. You made the right play. Not the flashy play, not the selfish play. The smart play.

The ‘publicity stunt’ just created a scoring chance.

***

When the veterans arrive for the main training camp a week later, the entire atmosphere of the building shifts. The pace is faster, the passes are harder, the intensity is tenfold what it was at development camp. These are no longer boys trying to make a team, these are men trying to win a Stanley Cup.

You feel the difference immediately. The windows to make a play are smaller, the physical battles in the corners are fiercer. But you adjust. You have to.

The veterans are, to your surprise, incredibly welcoming. Nico makes a point of skating with you during warmups, asking you how you’re settling in. Dougie gives you a tap on the shin pads and a “nice pass” after a crisp breakout drill. They’re professional, respectful, and inclusive. You’re so focused on earning your spot that you don’t even notice they’re being pointedly nice, their interactions colored by the ghost of a self-destructing video.

It’s during a small-area possession drill that you’re paired with Luke. The drill is simple: two teams of three fight for the puck in a confined space. The goal is to maintain possession for thirty seconds. Your team is you, Luke, and another prospect. The other team is Jack Hughes, Timo Meier, and Jonas Siegenthaler. It’s a ridiculously unfair matchup.

The puck is dropped. Timo Meier, a human wrecking ball, immediately out-muscles the prospect for the puck. He cycles it down low to Jack, who is already spinning, looking for an opening. Luke moves to pressure him.

You read the play. You see Jack’s eyes dart to Siegenthaler creeping down from the point. It’s the obvious pass. So you don’t cover the passing lane. You go to the net, right into the space Jack wants to go. You take away his second option before he even knows it’s his second option.

Jack, seeing the obvious pass to the point is covered by Luke’s long reach, instinctively tries to cut to the net for a wraparound. But you’re there, your stick perfectly positioned, deflecting the puck off his blade and into the corner.

Luke, surprised but recovering quickly, pivots to get the loose puck. He looks up, ready to move it to the prospect.

“Hughes! Boards!” You call out.

He doesn’t hesitate. He rims the puck hard around the boards behind the net. You’re already there to pick it up, having anticipated the entire sequence. You shield the puck from a charging Timo, spin away from the pressure, and slide a perfect backhand pass into the now-open space where Luke has circled. Possession maintained.

The coach’s whistle blows. Thirty seconds are up. Your team won the rep.

Luke skates over to you, breathing hard, a look of genuine astonishment on his face.

“How did you know Jack was going to the net?” He asks.

You shrug. “He’s a left shot. He had the puck on his forehand behind the goal line. His only two options were a backhand pass to the point or a forehand wraparound. You had the pass, so I took the net.” You say it like it’s as simple as tying your skates.

Luke just stares at you. He sees the flush on your cheeks from the exertion, the stray strands of hair that have escaped your helmet, the intense, analytical focus in your eyes. He’s seen pretty girls before. He’s a professional athlete. But he’s never seen that particular look on a girl before. That hyper-competent, I-just-outsmarted-your-superstar-brother look.

And it does something to his brain. It’s like a circuit shorts out and reconnects in a new, confusing way. A strange, warm feeling spreads through his chest.

“Right,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Smart.”

He skates away to get a drink of water, feeling oddly flustered. He keeps glancing back at you as you talk with a coach. He’s seen you in interviews. He thought you were pretty then, sure. But this is different. This isn't about looks. This is about watching you execute a complex defensive read under pressure against two of the best players on the team and then explaining it like it was simple arithmetic.

He’s so distracted that in the next drill, a simple passing sequence, the puck hits his skate and skitters away. He never misses that pass.

Across the ice, Jack sees it all. He saw the play you made to strip him of the puck. He saw Luke’s dumbfounded expression. And he definitely saw Luke flub the next easy pass while staring at you.

Later, in the locker room, as Luke is untying his skates, Jack ambles over to his stall, a sly grin playing on his lips.

“Little rusty today, Lukey?” Jack asks, leaning against the adjacent stall. “That pass in the star drill … woof. Looked like you were back in mites.”

“Shut up,” Luke mumbles, pulling off a skate. “Lost an edge.”

“You didn’t lose an edge,” Jack says, his grin widening. “You lost your brain. You were a little distracted, weren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Luke says, pointedly not looking at his brother.

“Oh, I think you do,” Jack pushes, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You were watching number twenty-one. Pretty impressive what she did to me on that last shift, huh? Little embarrassing for me, but impressive.”

“She’s a good player,” Luke says, trying to sound casual. “She sees the ice well.”

“‘She’s a good player,’” Jack mimics in a high-pitched, mocking voice. “Is that what we’re calling it? You were staring at her like she was the last bottle of water in the desert. You’ve been watching her all practice.”

“I’m just … observing the new prospect,” Luke says defensively. “Trying to see how she fits in.”

Jack lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Observing. Right. Dude, it’s written all over your face. You’ve got a thing for her.”

Luke’s head snaps up, his cheeks flushing a bright red. “I do not!”

“You do,” Jack says, his eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s that look you get. It’s a mix of ‘wow, she’s good at hockey’ and ‘oh no, she’s pretty.’ It’s your kryptonite, little brother.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re totally smitten with the rookie,” Jack fires back. He pats Luke’s shoulder, his grin now impossibly wide. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”

He walks away, chuckling to himself, leaving Luke staring at his skates, his mind racing, his face burning. He replays the drill in his head. Your voice calling his name. Your perfect pass. Your explanation.

Oh no, he thinks, the realization dawning on him with horrifying clarity. Jack’s right.

***

The preseason is a gauntlet. It’s a blur of charter flights to anonymous cities, half-empty arenas, and a rotating cast of teammates as the coaching staff makes its cuts. You play in three of the six exhibition games. In the first, you look tentative, your timing a fraction of a second off as you adjust to the sheer speed of NHL veterans. In the second, you find your rhythm, picking up an assist and playing sound defensive hockey. In the third, against the Rangers at Madison Square Garden, you score, a quick snapshot from the slot on the power play that beats the goalie clean.

You do everything right. You’re the first one on the ice and the last one off. You study film until your eyes burn. You ask questions. You listen. You block shots. You finish your checks. You make the smart, simple play every single time. You do everything you can to prove that you’re not a publicity stunt, but a hockey player who can help this team win.

And still, on the final cut-down day, your stomach is a tangled knot of dread.

You’re summoned to the coaches’ office after the morning skate. The walk down the hallway feels a mile long. This is the room where dreams die. You’ve seen dejected prospects, kids you played with just yesterday, leaving this office with their equipment bags already packed.

You knock.

“Come in.”

Sheldon Keefe is sitting behind his desk, his expression unreadable. Tom Fitzgerald is in a chair beside the desk, a folder in his lap. They don’t smile. The room is silent for a beat, the tension thick enough to suffocate.

You stand before them, your hands clasped behind your back, your posture ramrod straight. You brace yourself for the inevitable. “You had a great camp, but we feel it’s best if you go back to juniors …”

Fitzgerald is the one who speaks first. “Close the door, please.”

You do, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot. This is it.

“Well, you didn’t make it easy on us,” Fitz says, his tone level.

Your heart plummets.

“You made it impossible,” he continues, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Impossible to cut you. You earned your spot, Y/N. You’re on the opening night roster.”

The air rushes out of your lungs. You feel lightheaded, your knees weak. You grip your hands tighter behind your back to keep them from shaking. You try to formulate a response, to say thank you, but no words come out. Just a choked, emotional sound.

“Don’t thank us,” Keefe says, his gravelly voice softening for the first time. “You earned it. You’re a smart player, you’re responsible in your own end, and you create offense. You make our team better. That’s the end of the discussion.” He leans forward, his gaze direct and serious. “The work starts now. This league is hard. It’s a grind. Are you ready for it?”

You find your voice, and it’s stronger than you expected. “Yes, Coach. I am.”

“Good,” Fitz says, standing up. He extends a hand. “Welcome to the New Jersey Devils. Officially.”

You shake his hand, then Keefe’s. As you turn to leave, Fitz adds one more thing.

“Your stall has been moved to the main room. Find your spot.”

That, more than anything, makes it real.

You walk out of the office, your mind in a daze. You push open the doors to the main locker room. It’s quiet, most of the players having already left. But your new stall is there, nestled between Dawson Mercer and Simon Nemec. A permanent, engraved nameplate is affixed above it: 21 - Y/L/N.

Your equipment, which the trainers have already moved, is neatly arranged. This is your home now. You run a hand over the smooth, cool metal of the nameplate, the letters grounding you. You made it. You’re here.

A slow clap breaks the silence. You turn. Jack is leaning against his stall across the room, a towel around his neck, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Knew it was coming,” he says. “Fitz would’ve had a riot on his hands if he cut you. Me. I would have rioted.” He pushes off the stall and walks over, clapping you on the shoulder. “Congrats. Now you get to feed me one-timers on the power-play unit for real.”

Luke appears from the trainer’s room, his hair damp from the shower. His face breaks into a genuine, beaming smile when he sees you.

“You made it! Awesome!” He says, his enthusiasm boyish and infectious. “I mean, we all knew you were going to. But still. It’s official. That’s so cool.”

Nico emerges from the gym, his expression calm and steady as always. He gives you a firm, approving nod. “Welcome to the team. For real this time. You earned this. Now, let’s go win some hockey games.”

The support is overwhelming, a wave of acceptance that washes away the last of your anxieties. The whispers of the skeptics, the ghost of Gauthier’s comment, they all fade into the background. These are your teammates. This is your room.

You finally allow yourself a real, true smile. “Let’s go.”

***

The season opener in Raleigh is a full-blown media event. The morning skate is packed with reporters, their cameras and microphones all pointed at you. Your parents and Mario fly in that afternoon, their presence a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos. You meet them in the lobby of the team hotel.

“Try not to throw up from the nerves,” your dad says, pulling you into a tight hug. It’s the advice he’s given you before every major game of your life.

“We are so, so proud of you, no matter what happens tonight,” your mom says, her eyes already welling with tears as she kisses your cheek.

Mario waits until they’ve stepped back. He puts his hands on your shoulders, his expression serious.

“You’ve done the work,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’ve proven you belong here. There’s nothing left to prove. Don’t go out there tonight and try to be a hero. Don’t try to be the first woman in the NHL. Just be number twenty-one for the New Jersey Devils. Play your game. The rest will take care of itself.”

His words are a release valve for the pressure that has been building inside you. He’s right. Just play hockey. It’s the one thing you know how to do.

Walking into PNC Arena that evening is a sensory overload. The roar of a hostile crowd, the flashing lights, the sheer scale of it all. This isn’t the QMJHL anymore. This is the show.

The puck drops, and the game moves at a speed you’ve never experienced. It’s not just the skating, it’s the thinking. Decisions are made in microseconds. Passes are zipped through impossibly small windows. And the physicality … it’s a promise of violence in every puck battle.

Early in the first period, you’re chasing a puck into the corner. You get there first, but you hear a freight train coming. It’s Andrei Svechnikov. You have just enough time to brace yourself before he finishes his check. The impact is jarring, a full-body shock that rattles your teeth. You stay on your feet, absorbing the blow, and manage to chip the puck up the boards to your defenseman before he can pin you.

It’s a small play, but an important one. You took a heavy, clean hit from a power forward and you didn’t just survive it; you made the right play. On the bench, you hear your linemate, Ondrej Palat, tap his stick on the boards. A sign of respect. Atta girl. Way to eat that one.

You settle in. Midway through the period, you make your mark. Jack carries the puck into the zone on a 3-on-2. You’re driving the far lane, pulling a defenseman with you. Jack cuts to the middle, drawing your man as well. He sees it, and at the last second, he drops the puck into the space they’ve all vacated. It lands right on the tape of the trailer, Timo Meier. Timo winds up and unleashes a cannon of a slapshot that nearly tears a hole in the net.

Goal, New Jersey.

You skate to the celebration, mobbing Timo with the rest of the line. It’s your first official NHL point. An assist. On the way back to the bench, Jack skates by and gives you a glove tap. “That’s what I’m talking about. Create that space.”

The first goal comes early in the second period. It’s a broken play in the Carolina zone. A shot from Dougie Hamilton at the point is blocked and the puck caroms right to your stick in the high slot. There’s no time to think. You just react. You snap the puck on net, a hard, low shot aimed for the far pad, hoping for a rebound. But the goalie is still scrambling back into position from the first shot. The puck slips right through his five-hole.

The red light flashes. The horn blares, a sound you’ll never forget.

You’re momentarily frozen, unsure if it actually went in. Then Dawson Mercer is tackling you in a hug, lifting you off the ice. The rest of the team piles on. Your first NHL goal. You can’t stop smiling. As you skate past the bench, you see Luke, stick in the air, a massive, genuine grin on his face. You give him a nod, your heart hammering in your chest.

The game is a back-and-forth affair. Carolina ties it late in the second. It’s 2-2 heading into the third, the tension in the building ratcheting up with every shift.

With six minutes left to play, you find yourself on the ice for a critical shift. The play is in your own end. You intercept a pass along the half-wall, look up, and see Jesper Bratt taking off through the neutral zone. You thread a perfect stretch pass, hitting him in stride at the far blue line. He’s in on a breakaway.

He dekes, shoots … and hits the post. The puck ricochets hard off the iron and comes flying back out, right into the high slot. You’ve been trailing the play, busting your gut to get up the ice. The puck lands right in front of you. The goalie is down and out, still sprawled from the first attempt. You have a wide-open net.

You don’t rush it. You settle the puck, take a deep breath, and wire it into the top corner.

Goal. 3-2, New Jersey.

The arena falls silent, stunned. Your teammates erupt. But this time, your celebration is different. It’s not the wide-eyed shock of the first goal. This is pure swagger.

You drop to one knee in a classic power slide, gliding toward the corner glass. As you come to a stop, you push yourself up. You turn to face the silent, hostile crowd. You slowly, deliberately, take the end of your long braid, which has fallen over your shoulder, and you theatrically flip it back. Then, with a smirk, you blow a kiss to the stands.

It’s a statement. I’m here. I’m a girl. And I’m better than you tonight.

On the bench, the camera finds Luke.

And his brain simply ceases to function.

He’s on his feet, ready to cheer, his mouth open to yell. But then he sees the celly. He sees the hair flip. He sees the kiss. And everything short-circuits. His mouth hangs slightly agape. His eyes are wide, locked on you, a look of dumbfounded mesmerization on his face. He looks like a computer that has just been handed a problem it cannot compute. He is completely and totally buffered.

Jack, standing right next to him, sees it all. He sees your celebration on the ice, and then he turns and sees the expression on his brother’s face. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his own. This is comedy gold. He nudges Luke hard in the ribs.

“Dude, close your mouth,” Jack snickers. “You’ll catch flies.”

Luke blinks, snapping out of it. He shakes his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “What? I was just … great goal. Great celly.”

“‘Great celly,’” Jack mocks. “You looked like you saw a unicorn score a goal and then solve a Rubik’s cube. It was pathetic. And adorable.”

Luke just shakes his head and tries to pretend he wasn’t just mentally rebooting for ten straight seconds. But it’s too late. A dozen cameras caught it. By the time you get back to the bench, a GIF of Luke’s slack-jawed expression is already making the rounds on Hockey Twitter with the caption: Find someone who looks at you the way Luke Hughes looks at Y/N Y/L/N.

The Devils hang on to win the game, 3-2. Your second goal is the game-winner. In the locker room, it’s pandemonium. You’re mobbed, your helmet getting knocked off in the joyous scrum. Nico hands you the team’s player-of-the-game award, a vintage leather Devils jacket.

“Two goals, one assist, and the game-winner in your first NHL game,” Nico announces to the room, his voice full of pride. “Not a bad start. Jacket’s yours.”

The room erupts in cheers and stick taps. You’re beaming, overwhelmed, and happier than you’ve ever been in your life.

***

After the media interviews and the post-game cool-down, you finally head for the exit, the borrowed player-of-the-game jacket feeling warm and heavy on your shoulders. Your parents and Mario are waiting for you in the family area, a quiet hallway outside the locker room.

Your mom is crying, obviously. Your dad just pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. “Two goals!” He keeps saying, over and over again. “Two!”

Mario is standing back, a look of profound, quiet pride on his face. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a nod that speaks volumes. It says, I told you so. I knew you could do this.

Just then, Jack and Luke emerge from the locker room, their gear bags slung over their shoulders.

“Hey, there she is!” Jack says, grinning. “Rookie of the year campaign is off to a hot start. Don’t forget about us little people when you’re famous.”

You laugh. “Wouldn’t have happened without your pass on the first one.”

Luke steps forward, his eyes finding yours. He looks a little flustered. “Yeah, seriously, great game. That was … that was amazing to watch.” He’s trying to be a normal, supportive teammate, but his gaze is a little too intense, his smile a little too wide.

And then he makes the mistake of glancing past you. His eyes meet Mario’s.

Mario hasn’t moved. He’s just standing there, arms crossed, his expression neutral. But his eyes … his eyes are fixed on Luke. There is no warmth in them. It’s a laser-like stare, an unnervingly perceptive gaze that seems to peel back every layer of Luke’s brain and analyze the raw data underneath. Mario doesn’t look angry. He looks like he’s calculating the precise trajectory of a satellite from a million miles away. He looks like he knows. He knows about the buffering. He knows about the competency kink. He knows every thought that has crossed Luke’s mind in the last three hours.

Luke’s blood runs cold.

His friendly smile freezes on his face. He feels like a bug under a microscope. He can almost hear Mario’s voice in his head, a low, threatening rumble from that self-destructing video.

He immediately averts his eyes, his gaze darting around the hallway as if looking for an escape route. His brain goes into full-blown panic mode.

Don’t think about her. Don’t think about the celly. Don’t think about how cool she is. He can hear you thinking. He’s Mario freaking Lemieux. Think about something else. Anything else. The Pythagorean theorem. The Devils’ defensive zone coverage. The lyrics to the national anthem. Anything.

Jack sees the silent, one-sided psychic battle taking place. He sees the color drain from Luke’s face. He sees the beads of sweat forming on his brother’s brow. And he finds it absolutely, unequivocally hilarious. He decides to pour a little gasoline on the fire.

“Yeah, Lukey here was really impressed with that second goal,” Jack says, clapping his brother on the back a little too hard. “Weren’t you, buddy? Said it was the best celly he’s ever seen.”

Luke shoots Jack a look that could kill, a silent plea of shut up shut up shut up.

Mario’s gaze doesn’t waver. A muscle in his jaw twitches. It’s the only sign of … something. Disapproval? A warning? It’s impossible to tell, which only makes it more terrifying.

You, meanwhile, are completely oblivious to the high-stakes telepathic drama unfolding. You just hear the compliment.

“Oh, thanks, Luke!” You say, beaming at him. “I don’t know, the first one felt pretty good too.”

Your genuine, clueless smile is the final blow. Luke just manages a tight, strangled nod, unable to form words. He grabs his bag, mutters a hasty, “Gotta go, bus is leaving,” and practically flees down the hallway, Jack trailing behind him, shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

You watch them go, a little confused by their abrupt departure.

“Well,” you say, turning back to your family. “They were nice.”

Mario finally breaks his stare, his focus returning to you. The intimidating aura vanishes, replaced by a warm, paternal smile. “Forget them,” he says, draping an arm around your shoulder. “Let’s go get some food. I think a two-goal performance deserves a very expensive dessert.”

As he guides you and your still-crying parents down the hall, you have no idea that you didn’t just win a hockey game. You won a permanent, rent-free space in Luke Hughes’s head and landed him squarely on Mario Lemieux’s very intimidating radar. The season is just beginning.

***

The first month of the season is a revelation. The NHL is a different beast — faster, stronger, smarter. Every night is a battle against the best players in the world. You learn to survive, then you learn to thrive. You’re not just a historical footnote, you’re a contributing member of the team. You’re a fixture on the third line, you kill penalties, and you quarterback the second power-play unit. The points come in respectable, rookie-season numbers, but more importantly, the coaches trust you in your own end. You are reliable. In the unforgiving meritocracy of professional hockey, that’s the highest compliment you can earn.

You find a routine. Morning skate, post-practice workout, video sessions, home-cooked meals in your quiet Jersey City apartment, sleep, repeat. Your life is hockey. It’s simple, it’s focused, and you like it that way.

Which is why, when Maddie from social media calls a “fun content meeting,” you immediately have a bad feeling about it.

“Okay, team!” She chirps, standing at the front of a conference room. A handful of players are present — you, Nico, Jack, a very reluctant-looking Luke, and a few others. “So, we want to launch a new video series to boost engagement on YouTube and TikTok. Something authentic, something that shows the fans your personalities.”

She clicks a button on her laptop, and a slide appears on the screen behind her. It reads: THE DEVILS’ LIE DETECTOR CHALLENGE!

A collective groan goes through the room.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” Maddie insists. “It’s super popular online. We’ll hook you up to a real polygraph machine, have a professional operator ask some questions, and see what happens!”

“What kind of questions?” Nico asks, his captain’s voice laced with skepticism. He is the sworn enemy of anything that could be classified as a “distraction.”

“Easy stuff!” Maddie says reassuringly. “Like, ‘Is pineapple an acceptable pizza topping?’ or ‘Have you ever cried during a movie?’ We can even let you guys suggest some questions for each other. It’ll be light, I promise.”

Jack, who had been slouched in his chair looking bored, suddenly sits up straight. A dangerous, mischievous glint appears in his eyes. He has just been handed a stick of dynamite and a book of matches.

“You know what, Maddie?” Jack says, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I think that’s a fantastic idea. A real chance to build team chemistry through honesty.” He turns to his brother. “Luke would be perfect for this. He’s the most honest guy I know. Can’t tell a lie to save his life.”

Luke, who had been trying to blend into the wall, stiffens. “I, uh, I don’t know,” he stammers, looking desperately for an escape route. “I think I have a … a thing. With the trainer. My shoulder feels weird.”

“Your shoulder is fine,” Jack says, waving a dismissive hand. “You have to do it. For the fans. You love the fans, right?”

It’s a perfectly laid trap. Luke is cornered. He glances around the room, but no one offers him a lifeline. You’re just watching the exchange, a little amused by the brotherly dynamic, completely unaware of the speeding train that is about to hit him.

“Yeah,” Luke says, his voice barely a whisper. “For the fans.”

“Great!” Maddie claps her hands. “We’ll start filming next week!”

***

The set is a small, black-curtained room in the depths of the Prudential Center. Two cameras are pointed at a single chair. A stern-looking man in a cheap suit, the polygraph operator, is setting up his machine. It looks intimidatingly official.

Jack, of course, goes first. He lies with the effortless charm of a seasoned con artist and gets caught every time, laughing it off.

“Did you, Jack Hughes, eat the last of Dougie Hamilton’s specially imported protein cookies?” Maddie asks from off-camera.

“Absolutely not,” Jack says, looking deeply offended. “I respect a man’s personal cookie stash.”

The operator, a man of few words named Stan, grunts. “Lie.”

Jack just shrugs and grins at the camera. “Worth a shot.”

Then, it’s Luke’s turn.

He sits down in the chair, looking like a man on his way to the gallows. Stan the operator begins attaching sensors to his fingers and a band around his chest.

“Just relax and answer truthfully,” Stan says in a monotone voice.

“Okay, let’s start with some baselines,” Maddie says. “Is your name Luke Hughes?”

“Yes,” Luke says, his voice tight.

“Truth,” Stan confirms.

“Are you a defenseman for the New Jersey Devils?”

“Yes.”

“Truth.”

“Okay, fun ones now,” Maddie says, and you can practically hear her smile. You know for a fact that Jack was whispering in her ear for five straight minutes before Luke’s turn. “Luke, have you ever stolen your brothers’ equipment?”

Luke hesitates. “No.”

“Lie,” Stan says instantly.

Luke’s face flushes. “Okay, maybe once or twice. In high school when I ran out of sticks.”

The small crew laughs. Maddie continues. “Do you secretly think you would have been a better first-overall pick than your brother Jack?”

“No,” Luke says firmly.

“Truth,” Stan says.

A wave of relief washes over Luke’s face. He’s getting the hang of this. Maybe he’ll survive.

“Okay, last one, Luke,” Maddie says, her voice taking on a playful, deliberate tone. “Simple yes or no. Are you currently, and be honest, harboring a secret crush on one of your teammates?”

The question hangs in the air.

Luke’s entire body goes rigid. The needle on Stan’s machine jumps erratically. A bead of sweat traces a path down his temple. This is it. This is the nightmare scenario. He can feel Jack’s smug energy radiating from across the room.

He tries to laugh it off, but the sound that comes out is more like a strangled cough. “A crush? On a teammate?” He says, forcing a smile. “What, like … like Marky or something? No. That’s insane. No.”

He says the final “no” with as much conviction as he can muster. He looks Stan dead in the eye, pleading with his entire being for the operator to just let this one slide.

Stan watches the needles on his machine. He looks at Luke’s rapidly beating heart rate on the monitor. He looks at the sweat on his brow. He purses his lips. The silence stretches for an eternity.

Finally, Stan looks up, his expression completely deadpan.

“… That’s a lie.”

The room explodes. Jack lets out a full-throated howl of laughter so loud it echoes down the hall. Maddie is covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking with giggles. The cameramen are trying, and failing, to hold back their own amusement.

Luke goes from red to ghost white. “No! It’s not! This thing is broken!” He says, frantically trying to pull the sensors off his fingers. “You didn’t calibrate it for … for my specific athletic heart rate! It’s a known variable! Look it up!”

Stan just raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “The machine is functioning within normal parameters. The subject is exhibiting signs of deception.”

“I want a lawyer!” Luke yells, only half-joking, as he finally frees himself from the chair and flees the room, the sound of his brother’s triumphant laughter chasing him down the corridor.

***

You are blissfully unaware of any of this.

You’re in your apartment on an off day, going through your normal routine. You’ve just finished a workout and are making a protein smoothie when your phone, which has been resting on the counter, starts to vibrate. Then it vibrates again. And again. And again. It buzzes with a frantic, insistent rhythm that’s far beyond the usual trickle of notifications.

You wipe your hands and pick it up. The lock screen is a chaotic mess of Instagram tags, Twitter mentions, and text messages. You frown, confused, and unlock it. The first thing you see is the Devils’ latest Instagram post. The thumbnail is a picture of Luke, looking horrified, with the words “THE TRUTH COMES OUT!” in bold letters.

The caption reads: We hooked the guys up to a LIE DETECTOR and things got … interesting. 🤫 FULL VIDEO LINK IN BIO!

You roll your eyes, but you’re intrigued. You tap the link and the YouTube video starts to play. You chuckle as Jack gets caught lying about the cookies. You smile at some of the other guys’ answers. Then, Luke’s segment begins.

You watch him squirm. You see the final question about having a crush on a teammate. You hear his panicked denial.

“No.”

And Stan’s deadpan response.

“That’s a lie.”

You let out a short laugh. Poor Luke, you think. That’s brutal. You feel a pang of secondhand embarrassment for him. It’s a funny, harmless prank. You close the app, thinking nothing more of it, and go back to your smoothie. It’s just team content. It has nothing to do with you.

But your phone won’t stop buzzing.

You ignore it for a while, but the sheer volume of notifications is impossible to ignore. Curiosity piqued, you open Instagram again and look at the comments under the Devils’ post.

The first few are standard fan reactions.

LMAO LUKE’S FACE

The admin is an evil genius for this 😂

But then you start seeing your own username. Over and over again.

@Y/N_Y/L/N come get your man!

So we all agree the teammate is @Y/N_Y/L/N right? 👀

Someone needs to edit this with the clip of him watching her celly in the Carolina game.

A cold, confusing feeling starts to creep into your stomach. You keep scrolling. Someone has already made the edit. It’s a side-by-side video. On the left is Luke in the lie detector chair, sweating as he says “No.” On the right is the clip from opening night — you scoring, the hair flip, the kiss to the crowd, and the camera cutting to Luke on the bench, his jaw slack, his brain clearly buffering.

The pieces are there, but they don’t quite fit. It’s just fan speculation, right?

Then you see a message notification from a name you haven’t seen in a while. It’s Olivier, your old captain from the Shawinigan Cataractes.

Olivier Gagnon: Hey Y/N, congrats on the hot start. Knew you’d kill it. Also, saw that lie detector video your team put out. That Hughes kid looks absolutely sick over you lol. Reminds me of half the guys on our bus who were too scared to talk to you. Some things never change eh? Good luck against the Flyers this week.

Your blood runs cold. This isn’t just anonymous fans anymore. This is someone who knows you, a fellow hockey player. Looks absolutely sick over you.

Your perception of the video shifts entirely. It’s not a funny, abstract prank anymore. It’s personal.

You go back and watch the clip of Luke one more time. But this time, you’re not just watching. You’re analyzing. You see the way his eyes widen in genuine panic when Maddie asks the question. You see the way he swallows hard before he answers. You see the frantic, desperate denial. It’s not the playful squirming of someone caught in a harmless fib. It’s the raw terror of someone whose deepest secret has just been exposed to the entire world.

And you think back. You think about the way he always seems to be near you in the gym. The way he sometimes stammers when he tries to talk to you about a play. The way you always seem to catch his eye from across the room, an intense, observant gaze that you had always just interpreted as professional curiosity. The way his face lit up, a little too brightly, when you made the team.

The puzzle pieces don’t just click into place. They slam together with the force of a slapshot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

A wave of heat washes over you. You’re not angry. You’re not even necessarily flattered. You’re just … flustered. Completely flustered. This is your teammate. This is your workplace. This is a pristine, professional environment you have fought tooth and nail to be a part of. And it has just been complicated by a viral video and a very obvious, very public crush.

What are you supposed to do now? How are you supposed to act tomorrow at the rink? The simplicity of your routine — skate, work, eat, sleep — has just been shattered.

***

The next morning, you walk into the locker room with a sense of deep trepidation. The atmosphere is … charged. A few of the guys give you knowing smirks. You pointedly ignore them.

Luke is nowhere to be seen.

You get dressed and head out to the rink for the morning skate. You find him there, already on the ice, going through drills by himself. He’s wearing a hoodie under his helmet, the hood pulled up, as if it could somehow make him invisible.

He doesn’t see you until you’re right beside him.

“Hey, Luke,” you say, your voice softer than you intended.

He jumps as if you’d tasered him. The puck he was stickhandling goes flying. “Oh! Hey. Y/N. What’s up?” He won’t meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on a spot on the boards somewhere over your shoulder.

“Just wanted to see if you were okay,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “You know … after the video.”

His face goes pale under his helmet. “The video? Oh, that. Yeah, no, I’m fine. It was hilarious, right?” He lets out a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. “That machine was such a piece of junk. Total carnival game. They probably paid the operator to say that stuff. For the clicks, you know? It’s all fake.” He’s talking a mile a minute, rambling, his words tripping over each other in their haste to escape his mouth.

“Luke,” you say, cutting him off gently. “It’s okay.”

“No, really, you should have seen the wires, they were all frayed,” he continues, not hearing you. “And the guy, Stan, I think his name was, I saw him eating a tuna sandwich right before, the mercury from the fish can interfere with the electrical signals, it’s basic science-”

“What’s basic science?”

A new voice cuts in. Jack glides over, a Cheshire Cat grin plastered on his face. He drapes an arm over Luke’s shoulders, who flinches as if he’s been branded.

“Are we talking about the 100% accurate, scientifically validated polygraph test that got two million views in twelve hours?” Jack asks cheerfully. “I was just watching it again this morning. My favorite part is the little vein that pops out on your forehead when you lie, Lukey. It’s very telling.”

Luke looks like he wants the ice to open up and swallow him whole. He shoots a helpless, pleading look at you.

You stand there, caught between a brother who is enjoying this far too much and a brother who looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack. And for the first time, you have absolutely no idea what to say.

A piercing whistle slices through the air, signaling the start of a drill. The moment is shattered. Luke, saved by the bell, practically teleports to the other side of the ice. Jack gives you a theatrical shrug and a wink before skating off, leaving you standing there with the ghost of a conversation hanging in the cold rink air.

The next few weeks are a masterclass in professional awkwardness.

On the surface, everything is normal. You’re teammates. You practice together, you play together, you win and lose together. But underneath, a new, unspoken current runs between you and Luke. He avoids being the last one in the dressing room with you. He makes sure there’s always another player between you during team meetings. If you’re at the same table for a team meal on the road, he directs all his conversation to Dawson Mercer or Simon Nemec.

It’s not hostile. It’s … careful. He’s a fawn that’s been spooked, and you’re the sudden noise in the woods he’s trying to avoid.

You, for your part, try to act as if nothing has changed. You pass him the puck in practice with the same precision as always. You talk about defensive zone coverage in the film room. You’re determined to not let a silly, viral video — and the very real feelings it exposed — complicate the dream you’ve worked so hard to achieve.

Jack, of course, does nothing to help the situation. He takes every opportunity to make quiet, cutting remarks in Luke’s presence.

“Hey Y/N,” he’ll say as you’re all stretching, “Luke was just saying he thinks you should take more shots on the power play. He thinks your shot is really pretty. I mean, effective. Pretty effective.”

Luke will just turn a shade of crimson and suddenly become intensely focused on stretching his hamstrings.

It’s a strange, silent dance that the whole team pretends not to notice. And it might have gone on forever if not for a frozen piece of vulcanized rubber traveling at one hundred miles per hour.

***

It’s a Saturday night, a home game against the Rangers. The rivalry adds a bitter, electric edge to the air in the Prudential Center. The game is fast, chippy, and brutally physical. Late in the second period, with the Devils on a penalty kill, you and Luke are on the ice.

The Rangers are cycling the puck, setting up Mika Zibanejad for a one-timer from his office in the left faceoff circle. You read the play, your stick extended, cutting off the passing lane to the slot. Luke sees Zibanejad winding up and knows there’s no time to get a stick on the puck. He does the only thing a defenseman can do. He makes himself big.

Zibanejad unleashes a rocket.

The sound is sickening, a sharp, wet thwack that isn’t the sound of puck hitting shin pads. It’s the sound of puck hitting bone. Luke goes down in a heap, dropping his stick and clutching his right ankle, his face contorted in a mask of pure agony.

The whistle blows. The trainer is over the boards in an instant. Jack is already there, his face tight with concern. You skate over, your stomach churning at the sight of Luke on the ice. He’s trying to be tough, but you can see the tears welling in his eyes from the sheer, blinding pain.

He can’t put any weight on it. Two trainers have to help him limp off the ice, his arms slung over their shoulders, his head bowed. A grim silence falls over the arena.

He doesn’t return for the third period. The official word comes down from the press box: lower-body injury, will not return. After the game, a 4-2 win you barely feel like celebrating, Sheldon Keefe tells the media that Luke has gone to the hospital for X-rays.

***

A few hours later, he’s back in his own apartment, his leg propped up on a mountain of pillows. The diagnosis is, thankfully, not a break. It’s a deep, severe bone bruise and a high ankle sprain. He’ll be out for a few weeks, but his season isn’t over.

The prescription, however, is for some very serious, hospital-grade painkillers.

Which is why, when you, Jack, Nico, and Dawson let yourselves in with the spare key Jack has, you find Luke floating somewhere in the stratosphere.

He’s lying on his couch, a goofy, blissed-out grin on his face. His pupils are the size of dinner plates.

“Hey guys!” He says, his words slow and syrupy. “You came to my party. I didn’t know I was having a party.”

“How you feeling, buddy?” Nico asks, trying to sound serious but clearly fighting a smile.

“I feel … floaty,” Luke announces. “My ankle is a cloud. A fluffy, angry cloud. But it’s okay. The nice doctor gave me the good stuff.” He giggles.

Then his eyes find you, standing near the doorway. His goofy grin softens into a look of profound, wondrous awe.

“Y/N,” he breathes, his voice full of reverence. “You’re here. You came to my cloud party.”

You offer a small, sympathetic smile. “Hey, Luke. You really took one for the team. That was a brave block.”

“She’s so pretty, Jack,” Luke says, his gaze never leaving you. He’s talking to his brother, but it feels like a public service announcement for the entire room. “Isn’t she pretty? Her eyes are like … like two perfectly polished hockey pucks. But, like, sparkly.”

You feel a blush creep up your neck. Dawson is trying very hard to study a spot on the ceiling. Nico looks like a captain desperately trying to keep control of a mutiny.

Jack, on the other hand, is slowly pulling his phone out of his pocket, his face alight with the gleeful, predatory focus of a wildlife documentarian who has just stumbled upon a rare, exotic bird.

“And she’s so good at hockey,” Luke continues, his voice rising with drugged enthusiasm. “Like, so good. Did you see her on that PK? Before I died? Her stick positioning was perfect. She baited the pass and then took away the lane. It was so smart. That’s so hot.” He sighs, a deep, contented sound. “A girl who’s pretty and understands defensive zone systems? That’s everything, man. That’s the whole package.”

Jack has the phone up now, the red recording light glowing brightly.

“Oh yeah, Lukey,” Jack says, goading him on. “Keep going. This is fantastic stuff. Tell us more about the whole package.”

Luke finally seems to notice the phone. His eyes widen. The goofy grin melts away, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror as the fog in his brain momentarily parts.

And his face just crumples. He begins to cry. Not quiet, dignified tears. These are huge, gasping, hysterical sobs.

“No!” He wails, pointing a trembling finger at the phone. “Jack, stop! You can’t! Mario is gonna see it! He’s gonna kill me! He has spies everywhere, Nico! He threatened us!”

Nico shoots Jack a death glare. “Jack, put the phone away. Now.”

“He’s gonna kill me and I’m gonna be dead!” Luke sobs, his voice cracking. “And I’ve never even won the Stanley Cup! I just wanna touch the Cup before I die! Is that too much to ask?”

It’s the most tragic, pathetic, and hilarious meltdown anyone in the room has ever witnessed. Dawson is choking back laughter. Nico is rubbing his temples, probably questioning all of his life choices that led him to being captain of this chaotic team. Jack is still filming, tears of mirth streaming down his own face.

You’ve had enough.

You walk forward, gently taking the phone from Jack’s hand. He’s laughing so hard he offers no resistance. You end the recording and slide the phone into your pocket. You walk over to the couch and sit on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of a still-sobbing Luke.

“Luke,” you say, your voice calm and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

He sniffles, his teary, drugged-out eyes finding yours.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “No one is going to kill you. You’re going to be fine. And you’re going to win a Stanley Cup someday.” You reach out and gently pat his good leg. “You need to get some rest.”

He hiccups, his sobs subsiding into confused whimpers.

You stand up, your gaze sweeping over the other three men in the room. “He needs to sleep. We should go.”

You turn to leave, but then you pause in the doorway. You look back at Luke, who is watching you with the wide, trusting eyes of a golden retriever. A small, almost imperceptible smile plays on your lips.

“And hey,” you say, your voice clear and direct. “Tomorrow, when you’re not high as a kite … you can tell me all that again.”

The room falls silent. Jack’s jaw, which had been open in a silent laugh, snaps shut. Dawson’s eyes widen. Nico just stares.

You don’t wait for a response. You turn and walk out of the apartment, leaving a wake of stunned silence and the echo of a challenge hanging in the air.

***

The next afternoon, you’ve just gotten home from practice when there’s a soft knock on your apartment door. You know who it is before you even open it.

Luke is standing in the hallway, leaning heavily on a crutch. He’s not wearing a goofy grin anymore. He looks exhausted, pale, and more nervous than you’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a plain grey hoodie and sweatpants. He looks young, vulnerable, and completely sober.

“Hey,” he says, his voice raspy.

“Hey,” you reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your fluffy, angry cloud?”

A faint blush colors his pale cheeks. “I couldn’t,” he says, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Not after last night. And not after what you said.” He finally forces himself to look up and meet your eyes. “You told me … you told me to tell you again.”

You don’t say anything. You just cross your arms, your expression unreadable, and wait. You’re not going to make this easy for him.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Look,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. “What I said last night … it was embarrassing, and I was on another planet, but it was true. All of it. I’m sorry if I’ve made things weird for you since that stupid lie detector video. I’ve been trying to be normal, but I’m really bad at it.”

He shifts his weight on his good leg. “The truth is, I think you’re incredible. And not just because you’re a hockey player. But that’s a big part of it. You’re one of the smartest, most skilled people I’ve ever shared the ice with. Watching you play, watching you think the game … it’s amazing. And I respect that more than I can even say.”

He pauses, swallowing hard. “And yes. I also think you’re beautiful. And funny. And the fact that you’re all of those things at once just … it’s a lot. For my brain. It kind of short-circuits everything.” He gestures vaguely with his hand, a look of pure, agonizing sincerity on his face. “I’ve been a complete idiot about this whole thing, and I get it if you just want me to back off and be a normal teammate. I can do that. I will. I just … you told me to tell you, so I’m telling you.”

He finishes, his chest heaving slightly, having laid all his cards on the table. He waits for your verdict, bracing himself for the rejection.

You let the silence hang in the air for a long moment, just watching him. You see the fear in his eyes, but also the courage it took for him to stand here and say all that.

A slow, genuine smile finally spreads across your face.

“You are,” you say softly, “a complete idiot.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “Yeah, I know.”

“But,” you continue, your smile widening, “for what it’s worth … your stick positioning on the penalty kill is pretty good, too.”

His head snaps up, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

You uncross your arms and push the door to your apartment open wider, creating an unmistakable invitation.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask. “We can watch some film. Or you could just tell me all of it again. Without the hysterical crying this time.”

For the first time all day, a real, true smile breaks through his nervousness. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated relief.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice full of warmth. “I’d like that.”

He maneuvers his crutch through the doorway and follows you inside. The door clicks shut behind him, closing out the rest of the world, leaving just the two of you, finally, at the beginning.

#luke hughes x reader

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