If you wouldn't take the help? - Quinn Hughes
After a crushing 7-0 loss to the Golden Knights, Quinn Hughes spirals, putting immense pressure on himself and shutting everyone out. When his teammates and coaches fail to get through to him, they call his childhood best friend (the reader) and fly her out from Michigan. She confronts Quinn, reminding him that he can’t become a better player or person if he won’t take the help being offered. He finally lets his guard down, breaking down in her arms. - The Neighbourhood , How
Quinn Hughes x Reader , ft. Canucks players
Warnings: Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of anxiety, self-imposed pressure.
Note// I got carried away….
The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂
The locker room was suffocating.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat and defeat—the kind of defeat that clung to the walls and weighed heavily on everyone’s shoulders.
The Canucks had been completely outplayed. Every shift felt like an uphill battle. The mistakes piled up, one after the other. Turnovers. Bad reads. Missed coverage.
And Quinn Hughes felt every single one of them like a weight on his chest.
He sat on the bench long after the game ended, his skates still on, staring blankly at the floor. The rest of the team had already begun to file out—some hitting the showers, others slumping into their stalls in bitter silence.
He just sat there, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, fingers tangled in his damp hair.
His chest felt tight. His throat burned. His vision blurred slightly from how hard he was blinking.
His hands curled into fists.
He knew it wasn’t entirely true. He knew they lost as a team. But in his head, the errors—the ones that led to the goals—were his. The misstep on the blue line. The puck he should have cleared. The coverage he lost track of.
If I had just played better…
The self-loathing festered.
The next few days were rough.
Quinn was quieter than usual at practice. More withdrawn. More irritable.
The boys noticed immediately.
Tyler Myers gaze lingered on Quinn when he didn’t so much as crack a smile during a chirp-filled drill. Petey gave him wary glances when he noticed Quinn staying late on the ice by himself. Brock tried to get him to go out for dinner after practice, but Quinn just shook his head.
The boys didn’t miss the way he was pulling away.
By the time the next game came around, Quinn was gripping his stick so tightly his knuckles were white. He was trying to play perfectly—too perfectly. Overthinking every pass. Second-guessing every zone entry.
And it made everything worse.
When he sat back down on the bench, after missing 3 passes, he slammed his stick hard against the boards, cursing under his breath.
None of them had ever seen him this rattled.
When the game ended, Quinn left without saying a word.
And that’s when the guys decided enough was enough.
They tried to talk to him—first as teammates, then as friends. Tyler sat with him after practice, offering words of advice that Quinn barely acknowledged. Petey tried to lighten the mood in the locker room, hoping to at least get him to crack a smile. Brock gave him space but kept a watchful eye.
Even Tocchet tried pulling him aside in his office.
No matter what anyone said, no matter how much they tried to be there for him, Quinn kept waving them off.
Kept brushing them aside.
And when it became clear that Quinn wouldn’t take the help they were offering, the boys made one final call.
You barely had time to process it.
You were sitting on your couch in Michigan when your phone rang. The moment you saw Brock’s name flash on the screen, you knew something was wrong.
And before you could even ask, he was already explaining everything—the game, the weight Quinn was carrying, the way he was shutting everyone out.
You didn’t even hesitate.
The next morning, you were on a plane to Vancouver.
Quinn had no idea you were coming.
He didn’t expect the knock at his apartment door late that night. He figured it was one of the guys. Maybe Brock, checking in again.
So when he swung the door open and saw you standing there, he blinked, stunned.
For the first time in days, he truly didn’t have the words.
“Hey, Q,” you said softly, offering a small smile.
He stared at you for a beat too long.
And then, before you could even say another word, he reached for you.
Without thinking. Without hesitation.
His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him.
And you let out a soft breath against his chest as he clung to you tighter than he probably meant to.
You felt his heart pounding faintly against your cheek, too fast, too unsteady.
For half a second, he didn’t move.
But then you felt it—the slight tremble in his arms.
And you realized he was barely holding it together.
Your arms tightened around him.
“Let me in?” you whispered softly against his collarbone.
Without a word, he stepped back and let you inside.
You sat cross-legged on the couch while he sat stiffly on the opposite end, his hands running restlessly over his knees.
He was still wearing his hoodie from practice, but his hair was still slightly damp from a recent shower. You could see the faint redness around his eyes—the barely-there evidence of the frustration and exhaustion clinging to him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Watched the way his fingers curled and uncurled. The slight bounce of his knee. The tension in his shoulders.
And finally, softly, you broke the silence.
“You’re shutting them out.”
“You’re shutting everyone out.”
His eyes flicked to yours for half a second before he shook his head slightly.
“No, you’re not,” you said softly.
He inhaled sharply through his nose, the muscle in his jaw clenching slightly.
You slowly uncrossed your legs, shifting closer, resting a gentle hand over his.
“Quinn,” you whispered. “How do you expect to be a better player… a better person… if you wouldn’t take the help?”
His fingers twitched slightly beneath yours.
And for a second, you thought he was going to brush you off again.
But instead—his face just crumpled.
The tension in his jaw loosened. His shoulders dropped slightly.
And then, without a word, he exhaled shakily, slumping forward.
Your breath caught softly when he leaned into you. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and you felt his breath hitch unevenly against your collarbone.
Your arms slipped around him immediately, holding him tightly against you.
And for the first time in weeks—he let himself break.
You felt his grip tighten around your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie. His breaths were uneven, shaky, shallow against your neck.
Your fingers slowly ran through his hair, the way you had when you were kids—the familiar motion easing the tension from his shoulders, loosening the knot in his chest.
After a long moment, you felt him exhale softly, his breath warm against your skin.
You shifted slightly, gently nudging him back just enough to meet his eyes.
And the moment you saw them—red-rimmed, glassy, and vulnerable—you felt your chest tighten.
Your hand slowly slid up to his face, your thumb brushing softly along his cheekbone.
And you saw it—the way his breath caught slightly at your touch.
The way his eyes lingered on your lips for half a second too long.
But neither of you said anything.
You just sat there—his forehead resting against yours, your breaths softly intermingling, hearts barely steadying.
For a fleeting moment, you thought he might kiss you.
You thought about closing the small space between you.
Instead, you slowly brushed his hair back from his eyes, your fingers lingering slightly longer than necessary.
And softly, barely above a whisper, you murmured,
