Easy Tiger
Quinn Hughes x Reader
Summary: you’re the sweet baker who brings cookies to treat your boyfriend’s team. They think they know exactly who you are: wholesome, soft-spoken, innocent. Then Quinn takes his shirt off in the locker room after practice, and suddenly everyone's assumptions are getting torn apart (literally). The thing is, you’ve been together since you were sixteen. They really thought you just held hands this whole time?
(This was written before the trade and I don’t have the energy to go through and change pretty much everything, so it takes place in Vancouver)
The morning sun barely breaks through the Vancouver clouds when Quinn walks into Rogers Arena, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. He’s smiling at his screen — that soft, private smile that makes his teammates exchange knowing glances.
“Texting the missus?” Brock calls out, already half-dressed in his stall.
Quinn doesn’t even look up. “Maybe.”
“It’s eight-thirty in the morning,” Petey observes, pulling his practice jersey over his head. “Doesn’t she have a bakery to run?”
“She’s already been up for two hours,” Quinn says, finally pocketing his phone. That smile hasn’t left his face. “Friday means cinnamon rolls.”
“God, I love your girlfriend,” Demko groans from across the room. “Those cinnamon rolls are insane.”
“Those cinnamon rolls are mine,” Quinn corrects, but there’s no heat in it. He’s too busy being disgustingly happy, as usual.
Garland snorts. “Dude, you guys are like something out of a Hallmark movie. High school sweethearts, she bakes, you do the whole hockey thing. It’s almost gross how wholesome you are.”
“Remember when she brought those cookies shaped like little hockey sticks for the charity event?” Myers adds, shaking his head. “My wife still talks about how cute that was.”
“She spent three days on those,” Quinn says, and there’s so much pride in his voice that Brock actually clutches his chest like he’s been wounded.
“Make it stop,” Brock wheezes dramatically. “The wholesomeness is killing me.”
Quinn just rolls his eyes, setting his coffee down on the bench. He reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one smooth motion.
The locker room goes silent.
Like, completely silent.
Quinn tosses his shirt into his stall, reaching for his practice gear, and that’s when he seems to notice the sudden lack of noise. He turns around, eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Holy shit,” Brock breathes.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Demko asks, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
Quinn’s back is a canvas of red scratches — long, deliberate lines that rake from his shoulders down to his lower back, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Some are fading to pink, others are still angry red. When he turns fully, his chest isn’t much better. There are marks at his collarbone, distinctive bruises that can only be one thing, and more scratches across his ribs.
“What are you talking about?” Quinn asks, genuine confusion on his face.
Petey points, his mouth hanging open. “Did you … did you get attacked by a bear?”
“Or fall into a thorn bush?” Garland suggests weakly.
“Multiple thorn bushes,” Hoglander corrects.
Quinn looks down at himself, and for a moment there’s a flicker of something in his expression. Then it smooths out into an unreadable mask. “Oh. That.”
“‘Oh, that?’” Brock repeats, his voice climbing an octave. “THAT? Dude, you look like you went ten rounds with a mountain lion!”
“And lost,” Demko adds.
Quinn shrugs, and even that movement makes some of the marks on his shoulders more visible. “Didn’t lose.” There’s something in his voice — something almost smug — that makes everyone lean in.
“Hold on,” Garland says slowly. “Those are-”
“Yep.”
“From-”
“Yep.”
The locker room erupts.
“NO WAY!”
“Sweet little Y/N did THAT?”
“The girl who brings us cookies?”
“The one who blushes when we swear around her?”
Quinn is pulling on his practice jersey now, and there’s this tiny smile playing at his lips. Not the soft, private one from earlier. This one is different. Satisfied. Maybe a little bit proud.
“I don’t believe it,” Brock announces, but he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Show me your back again.”
“No.”
“Come on!”
“No,” Quinn repeats, but he’s fighting a laugh now.
Petey is shaking his head slowly, like his entire worldview has just been shattered. “She made hockey stick cookies.”
“She did,” Quinn confirms.
“She always asks about our families.”
“She does.”
“She literally said ‘oh fudge’ when someone dropped a puck at the charity gala.”
“That sounds like her.”
“And she-” Petey gestures helplessly at Quinn’s torso, now mostly covered by his practice jersey. “She did that to you?”
Quinn’s smile widens just a fraction. “We’ve been together since we were sixteen. You think we held hands for ten years?”
“I mean, kind of, yeah!” Demko exclaims. “You guys are like the poster children for wholesome relationships! You literally walked her to class! Every. Single. Day.”
“Still do,” Quinn says. “Well, to the bakery now.”
“This is breaking my brain,” Garland mutters, sitting down heavily on the bench. “This is like finding out Santa Claus is a cage fighter.”
“Or that Bambi has a criminal record,” Hoglander adds.
“You guys are being dramatic,” Quinn says, but there’s laughter in his voice now. Real laughter.
Brock points at him accusingly. “You like that we’re freaking out.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Oh my god, you’re smug about this!” Brock’s grin is enormous. “Quinn Hughes is smug! Someone get this on video!”
“Don’t you dare,” Quinn warns, but he’s still smiling.
“I’m never going to be able to look at her the same way again,” Petey announces. “She brought us homemade granola bars last week. GRANOLA BARS. With little notes that said ‘good luck tonight’ with a smiley face!”
“She’s thoughtful,” Quinn says simply.
“She’s a menace,” Demko corrects. “A sweet, cookie-baking menace.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Garland interrupts, holding up his hands. “How does this even work? Like, she seems so …”
“Gentle?” Hoglander offers.
“Innocent!”
“Soft!”
Quinn just looks at them, and something in his expression makes everyone shut up. It’s not angry, it’s just knowing. “You guys don’t know her like I do.”
“Clearly!” Brock yelps.
“She’s still all those things,” Quinn continues, his voice dropping a little. Getting more serious. “She’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. She cries at those videos of soldiers coming home to their dogs. She saves spiders instead of killing them. She writes thank-you notes for everything.”
“But?” Petey prompts.
Quinn’s smile returns, softer this time. More private. “But she’s also mine. And what happens between us is between us.”
“Except we can literally see the evidence!” Demko points out.
“Not my fault you guys all change in here.”
“IT’S A LOCKER ROOM!”
“Should I start changing in the bathroom?” Quinn asks innocently, and the smug look is back.
“Oh, he’s enjoying this,” Brock says to the room at large. “Our quiet, responsible captain is loving this.”
“Maybe,” Quinn admits.
Garland is still shaking his head. “I can’t believe this. She brings us baked goods.”
“She does.”
“She asks about our kids.”
“She likes kids.”
“She volunteers at the children’s hospital!”
“Every other Saturday.”
“And she’s secretly a-” Garland waves his hands around, trying to find the words.
“A wildcat?” Hoglander suggests.
“A tigress?”
“A very enthusiastic lover?” Quinn offers, and now he’s definitely trying not to laugh.
Petey drops his head into his hands. “This is too much information.”
“You literally asked!”
“I asked what happened to your back! I didn’t ask for an existential crisis about the nature of innocence and wholesome relationships!”
“That seems like a you problem,” Quinn says, and there’s something almost younger in his voice now. Like he’s finally letting them see a side of him that’s been there all along, just hidden under the captain’s responsibility and the careful public image.
Brock leans back against his stall, studying Quinn with new eyes. “How long has this been going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“The whole … this,” Brock gestures vaguely. “The not-so-innocent thing.”
Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Like I said. We’ve been together since we were sixteen.”
“SIXTEEN?”
“We waited a bit,” Quinn says mildly. “We’re not that young and dumb.”
“But-”
“But we’ve been together for ten years,” Quinn finishes. “That’s a long time. We grew up together. Figured things out together.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes the teasing die down a little. Because yeah, Quinn and his girlfriend are that couple that everyone points to as relationship goals. High school sweethearts who actually made it. Who supported each other through college and draft days and building a bakery from scratch and the pressures of the NHL.
“She really loves you, huh?” Demko says, and it’s not teasing anymore. It’s genuine.
Quinn’s entire face softens. “Yeah. She really does.”
“And you’re clearly obsessed with her,” Petey adds.
“Have been since I was sixteen,” Quinn agrees easily. “Probably before that, actually. I just didn’t have the guts to do anything about it until junior year.”
“What made you finally ask her out?” Hoglander asks.
Quinn laughs, a real one that lights up his whole face. “She did. She asked me.”
“No way!”
“I was being too slow about it,” Quinn explains. “She brought me cookies after a game and just … asked if I wanted to go to homecoming. Said she was tired of waiting for me to figure out that she liked me.”
Brock clutches his chest again. “That’s actually adorable.”
“It was,” Quinn admits. “I think I said yes before she even finished the question.”
“And now she’s leaving scratch marks that would make a UFC fighter proud,” Garland marvels. “Character development.”
“Relationship development,” Quinn corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Clearly.”
Quinn starts lacing up his skates, and for a moment, the locker room is quieter. Not silent — there’s still the usual sounds of guys getting ready, tape being ripped, skates being sharpened — but the frenetic energy has mellowed into something more thoughtful.
“You know what the weirdest part is?” Brock says finally.
“What?”
“This somehow makes you guys cuter.”
Quinn looks up, surprised. “What?”
“Like, before you were wholesome and sweet and we all kind of assumed you were boring,” Brock explains, ignoring Quinn’s offended “Hey!” “But now we know that you’re wholesome and sweet and also clearly very happy and honestly? Good for you, man.”
“Yeah,” Demko agrees. “I mean, I’m never going to be able to look at Y/N without blushing now, but good for you.”
“She’s going to be mortified if she finds out you guys saw,” Quinn says, and there’s real concern in his voice now.
“We won’t say anything,” Petey promises immediately. “That’s … that’s private. We’re just giving you shit because we’re your teammates and it’s our job.”
“But we won’t make her uncomfortable,” Brock adds. “She’s too nice. And those cinnamon rolls are too good.”
Quinn nods, visibly relieved. “Thanks. She’d die if she knew.”
“Our lips are sealed,” Garland promises. “Though I might need therapy to process this information.”
“Dramatic,” Quinn mutters, but he’s smiling again.
“One question,” Hoglander says.
Quinn sighs. “What?”
“Does she know? That she’s … that you have visible marks?”
And there Quinn’s smile turns into something else entirely. Something knowing and warm and so clearly in love that it makes everyone a little uncomfortable in a different way.
“Oh, she knows,” he says simply.
The locker room erupts again.
“NO!”
“Sweet Y/N knows?”
“And she let you come here like that?”
Quinn just shrugs, standing up and adjusting his practice jersey. “I told her I was going to be careful with my undershirt. She said, and I quote, ‘That’s your problem, not mine.’”
Brock actually has to sit down. “I can’t. I cannot process this.”
“She’s got a mouth on her when it’s just us,” Quinn says, and there’s so much fondness in his voice it’s almost embarrassing to hear. “Always has. She just … doesn’t let most people see that side of her.”
“Why not?” Petey asks, genuinely curious now.
Quinn thinks about that for a moment, his expression turning more serious. “Because people make assumptions. Sweet girl, baker, volunteers at hospitals — they think they know who she is. And she lets them think that because it’s easier than explaining that you can be kind and also have depth. That you can be soft and also be strong. That you can make cookies and also be complicated.”
“But you know all of her,” Demko says quietly.
“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, and his voice is soft now. Private. “I know all of her. And she knows all of me. That’s the point, isn’t it? Finding someone who sees everything and stays anyway?”
The locker room has gone quiet again, but this time it’s different. It’s the kind of quiet that comes when something real has been said. Something that matters.
“Okay, that’s actually really beautiful and I hate you for it,” Brock announces, breaking the moment. “Can we go back to making fun of the scratch marks?”
“Please don’t,” Quinn says, but he’s laughing.
“Too late! Hey, Huggy Bear, did you try fighting back? Or did you just surrender immediately?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“That means he surrendered,” Garland stage-whispers.
“Probably said ‘thank you’ too,” Hoglander adds with a grin.
Quinn’s cheeks actually turn a little pink at that, which makes everyone lose it completely.
“HE’S BLUSHING!”
“QUINN HUGHES IS BLUSHING!”
“Oh my god, you DID say thank you!”
“I’m leaving,” Quinn announces, standing up and heading toward the tunnel to the ice. “You’re all children.”
“Says the guy who looks like he lost a fight with a rose bush!” Brock calls after him.
“A sexy rose bush!” Garland adds.
Quinn flips them off over his shoulder without turning around, and the laughter follows him all the way to the ice.
Behind him, the team is still processing, still joking, still marveling at the fact that their quiet, responsible captain has a whole entire life that they knew nothing about. A life with the sweet baker who brings them treats and asks about their families and apparently has a wild side that nobody saw coming.
“I’m definitely going to need therapy,” Petey mutters.
“I’m going to need to find my own Y/N,” Hoglander sighs.
“Good luck,” Brock says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Girls like that are rare. Girls like that who also look like innocence personified while secretly being a tiger? Unicorns, man. Actual unicorns.”
“Quinn’s a lucky guy,” Garland agrees.
And out on the ice, warming up with that same small smile on his face, Quinn would absolutely agree. He’s been lucky since he was sixteen years old and a girl with flour in her hair asked him to homecoming. He’s been lucky every day since.
Even if his teammates will never look at either of them the same way again.
Especially if his teammates will never look at either of them the same way again.
He skates a little faster, already thinking about tonight. About going home to the apartment that smells like vanilla and cinnamon. About you waiting with that smile that’s just for him. About all the parts of your life together that no one else sees. The private jokes, the late-night conversations, the way you fit against him like you were made for it.
His back stings a little as he takes a sharp turn, and he can’t help but smile wider.
Yeah. He’s a lucky guy.
***
The Canucks win 4-2 against the Oilers, and the locker room is electric. Music blares from someone’s speaker, guys are chirping each other about goals and assists, and the social media team is making their rounds with cameras, capturing the post-game energy.
Quinn is sitting in his stall, still riding the high of a two-assist night. His hair is sweat-damp, cheeks flushed from exertion, and he’s mid-conversation with Petey about a play in the second period when he reaches up to pull off his jersey and pads.
The camera catches him at exactly the wrong — or right, depending on perspective — moment.
Jersey off. Pads off. Shoulder pads hitting the floor. And then there’s Quinn Hughes, captain of the Vancouver Canucks, shirtless in his stall with his head tilted back mid-laugh at something Petey said, looking loose and happy and completely unaware that his entire torso is visible.
Including the very obvious scratch marks that rake down his back and chest.
“Huggy, great game tonight!” The media coordinator says from behind the camera.
Quinn looks over, grinning. “Thanks! Team played well, just gotta keep this momentum going.”
“Two assists, could’ve had three if Brock had buried that pass in the third.”
“Hey!” Brock yells from somewhere off-camera. “That was a bad bounce!”
Quinn laughs, that genuine laugh that makes him look younger. “Sure, Boes. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
The camera lingers for maybe ten more seconds — Quinn reaching for a towel, still smiling, still completely at ease — before moving on to Demko’s stall.
The video gets posted to the Canucks’ official Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok at 10:42 PM with the caption That winning feeling 💙💚 #Canucks
By eleven PM, it has five thousand likes.
By midnight, fifty thousand.
By the time Quinn is home and asleep with you curled against his side, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding online, the video has been viewed over two million times.
***
You wake up to your phone absolutely losing its mind.
It’s 6:00 AM. You have to be at the bakery by 6:30 to start the morning prep, and your phone is vibrating so aggressively on the nightstand that you think there’s an emergency.
Instagram notifications. Twitter notifications. Text messages. Missed calls.
“What the hell?” You mumble, reaching for it blindly.
Quinn stirs beside you, his arm tightening around your waist. “S’okay?” He slurs, still half-asleep.
“I don’t know, my phone is-” You unlock it and your eyes go wide. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Quinn props himself up on one elbow, blinking sleep from his eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks adorable and confused and you’re about to ruin his morning.
“Quinn.” Your voice comes out strange. High-pitched. “Quinn, you need to see this.”
“See what?” He takes the phone you thrust at him, squinting at the screen. You watch his face go from sleepy to confused to horrified in about three seconds flat.
“Oh. Oh no.”
“‘Oh no’ is right!” You’re scrolling through your own notifications now, and they just keep coming. Your bakery’s Instagram account — Sweet As Can Be, with its modest twelve thousand followers — has gained three thousand overnight. Your mentions are flooded. “Quinn, everyone can see your back!”
“And chest,” he adds weakly, still staring at your phone. “And … yeah. Everything.”
The video is everywhere. Twitter, TikTok, Instagram Reels. But it’s the comments that are truly something else.
Um is no one going to talk about Quinn Hughes’ back???
HELLO???? THOSE ARE SCRATCH MARKS
okay but WHO is doing that to quinn hughes and how do i apply for the position
Y’ALL I CANNOT BREATHE
this is the most action i’ve seen in a hockey locker room since … wait no this is THE MOST action i’ve seen in a hockey locker room
someone’s girl was feeling FERAL and honestly good for her
THE WAY HE’S JUST CASUALLY LAUGHING LIKE HIS BACK DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A SCRATCH POST
Quinn drops his head into his hands. “The team is never going to let me live this down.”
“The team already knows,” you remind him, trying very hard not to laugh. “Remember? This morning? When you flashed them all?”
“That was private locker room humiliation,” he groans. “This is public.”
“Very public,” you agree, scrolling through more comments. “Quinn, there are Reddit threads. Multiple Reddit threads.”
“No.”
“Yes. ‘Let’s discuss Quinn Hughes’ back’ has four thousand upvotes and counting.”
“I’m retiring.”
“You’re twenty-six.”
“I’m retiring,” he repeats, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “This is it. My career is over. I’ll be known as the guy with the scratched back forever.”
You can’t help it anymore — you start laughing. Real, genuine, can’t-catch-your-breath laughing.
Quinn lifts his head to glare at you. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You’re the one who-” He gestures vaguely at his torso. “You did this!”
“You didn’t seem to mind at the time,” you point out, still giggling.
“I’m never taking my shirt off again.”
“That seems impractical for a professional athlete.”
“I’ll wear a wetsuit under my gear.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.” You lean down to kiss his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. “It’s fine. It’ll blow over.”
“Will it, though?” Quinn asks, but he’s softening under your kisses, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. “This is the internet we’re talking about.”
“Okay, it probably won’t blow over completely,” you admit. “But maybe we just … lean into it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Lean into it how?”
You bite your lip, an idea forming. A completely ridiculous, probably stupid idea that would definitely make this whole situation worse before it gets better. But also … kind of funny?
“Let me think about it,” you say finally. “I need to get to the bakery.”
“You’re not going to do anything crazy, right?” Quinn asks, suspicious now.
“Define crazy.”
“Babe.”
“I’m not promising anything,” you say, kissing him once more before rolling out of bed. “But I’m also not going to make it worse.”
“That’s not reassuring!”
But you’re already heading for the shower, your mind spinning with possibilities.
***
By the time you get to the bakery, the video has hit mainstream sports news. ESPN has posted about it. Barstool Sports has made a graphic. Someone on TikTok has set the video to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails and it has a million likes.
Your assistant, Jamie, is already there when you arrive, and she takes one look at your face and bursts out laughing.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“I haven’t said anything!”
“You’re thinking it very loudly.”
“Can you blame me?” Jamie pulls out her phone, showing you yet another tweet. “Twitter is having a collective meltdown. They’re calling you a cryptid. An enigma. A legend.”
“They don’t know it’s me.”
“Everyone knows it’s you,” Jamie corrects. “You’ve been together for eight years. You’re not exactly a secret.”
She’s right, of course. You and Quinn aren’t private, exactly — you just don’t post much on social media beyond the occasional game day photo or sweet caption. Your bakery account is professional, focused on pastries and business hours and the occasional behind-the-scenes content. Your personal account is locked, friends and family only.
But people know you exist. Hockey fans have seen you at games, at charity events, in the background of other players’ posts. There are entire Reddit threads dedicated to WAGs, and you show up in them occasionally, usually described as “sweet” or “wholesome” or “the cute baker.”
You have a feeling those descriptions are about to change.
“Okay,” you say, tying on your apron with perhaps more force than necessary. “Let’s just focus on work. We have three wedding cake consultations today and-”
Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Brock.
BROCK: Tell me you’ve seen the video
BROCK: Twitter is LOSING IT
BROCK: Quinn won’t answer his phone
BROCK: He’s probably hiding under the bed
BROCK: This is the funniest thing that’s ever happened
You snort, typing back quickly.
YOU: He’s not hiding, he’s just in denial
BROCK: Can you blame him???
BROCK: His back looks like a topographical map
YOU: I’m aware
BROCK: I have so many questions
YOU: And I’m answering exactly zero of them
BROCK: Fair
BROCK: For what it’s worth? You guys are trending
YOU: That’s not comforting
BROCK: #ScratchGate is the number one trend in Canada
YOU: WHAT
But you’re already opening Twitter, and sure enough, #ScratchGate is right there at the top of the trending topics. You click on it against your better judgment.
The tweets are … something.
I need whoever is responsible for Quinn Hughes’ back to drop their workout routine
NO BECAUSE THE WAY HE’S JUST SITTING THERE SMILING??? sir are you not in PAIN???
quinn hughes really said ‘yeah i’m getting the best head of my life and what about it’
I’M SORRY BUT THE CONFIDENCE??? just sitting there shirtless with visible evidence of extracurricular activities??? KING BEHAVIOR
someone check on sweet wholesome Y/N she must be so embarrassed—wait
That last one has a thread attached. You click on it, curiosity winning out over self-preservation.
okay so i’ve been following Y/N’s bakery account for a while and she’s always posting these cute cookies and sweet captions and asking about people’s days
she literally made HOCKEY STICK SHAPED COOKIES
she volunteers at children’s hospitals!
she posted a photo of a stray cat last week asking if anyone knew who it belonged to!
AND SHE’S OUT HERE DOING THAT TO QUINN HUGHES???
the duality of woman
character development
plot twist of the century
You’re biting your lip so hard you might draw blood, trying not to laugh. Jamie has abandoned all pretense of working and is reading over your shoulder.
“Oh, you have to respond,” Jamie says.
“What? No.”
“Yes! This is perfect! You’re viral anyway, you might as well own it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on,” Jamie wheedles. “What’s the worst that could happen? You’re already the talk of the internet.”
She has a point. You’re already in this mess. What’s a little more chaos?
You open the Twitter app and switch to Sweet As Can Be’s account. Find one of the most viral tweets — the one with 150k likes that says I need to know who’s responsible for Quinn Hughes looking like he fought a tiger and LOST — and hit reply.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. This is stupid. This is so stupid. Quinn is going to kill you.
But also … it’s kind of funny.
You type The tiger won, but Quinn didn’t seem to mind
You stare at it for a solid thirty seconds. Delete it. Retype it. Delete it again.
Jamie snatches the phone from your hand and hits send before you can stop her.
“JAMIE!”
“You were overthinking it!”
“I was having second thoughts!”
“Too late!” She’s grinning like a maniac, refreshing the page. “Oh my god, it’s already getting likes.”
You grab the phone back, watching in horror as the notifications start rolling in.
Ten likes.
Fifty.
Two hundred.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Jamie corrects. “This is amazing. You’re a legend.”
By the time you’ve finished mixing the dough for the morning’s cinnamon rolls, your tweet has fifteen thousand likes and has been screenshotted and reposted across every social media platform imaginable.
Your phone starts ringing. It’s Quinn.
“Hi, honey,” you answer sweetly.
“BABE.”
“Yes?”
“DID YOU JUST-” He’s clearly trying not to laugh, which makes his outrage significantly less effective. “Did you just tweet about being a tiger?”
“I implied I was a tiger,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not!”
“Are you mad?”
There’s a pause. You can hear voices in the background — he must be at the rink for morning skate. “I’m … processing,” he says finally. “Everyone here is losing their minds. Tatcher just fell off the bench laughing. Petey dropped his stick.”
“I can delete it,” you offer, even though the thought makes you a little sad now. Because the responses are kind of incredible.
EXCUSE ME MA’AM
SHE SAID WHAT SHE SAID
NOT THE BAKERY ACCOUNT
THE HEART EMOJI IS SENDING ME
Quinn Hughes is the luckiest man alive confirmed
everyone shut up the tiger has entered the chat
“No,” Quinn says, and you can hear the smile in his voice now. “Don’t delete it. I just … I’m going to get chirped about this for the rest of my life, aren’t I?”
“Probably,” you admit. “But hey, at least they’ll remember you had a good time?”
He laughs, real and loud. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You love me.”
“I really do,” he agrees, softer now. “Even when you’re causing chaos on social media.”
“Especially then,” you correct.
“Especially then,” he concedes. “I have to go, Coach is giving me a look. But we’re talking about this when I get home.”
“Talking?” You ask innocently.
“Among other things,” he says, voice dropping lower, and oh. Oh.
“Quinn Hughes, are you flirting with me?”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.”
“Then yes.” He pauses. “I love you. Even though you just made us the most talked-about couple in hockey.”
“I love you too. Try not to get checked into the boards because you’re distracted by your viral fame.”
“No promises,” he says, and hangs up.
You stare at your phone, watching the notifications continue to explode, and can’t help but smile.
***
By lunch, your tweet has 200k likes. By dinner, it’s been featured on Barstool Sports, hockey Twitter has created an entire lore around you being a secret badass, and someone has made fan art of you as an actual tiger.
Quinn sends you the fan art with the caption Hanging this in our living room
You reply: Absolutely not
QUINN: Too late already ordered a print
QUINN: It’s going right above the couch
YOU: I’m dating a child
QUINN: You’re dating a viral sensation
QUINN: Get it right
The bakery has its busiest day in months. People keep coming in, some genuinely wanting pastries, others clearly just trying to catch a glimpse of the girl who broke hockey Twitter. You’re polite to everyone, deflecting personal questions with practiced ease while still being friendly enough that they leave happy.
One girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, works up the courage to ask, “Are you really Quinn Hughes’ girlfriend?”
You smile, sliding her order across the counter. “I am.”
“And you really-” She gestures vaguely, blushing furiously. “The tweet?”
“The tweet was accurate,” you confirm, and she practically runs out of the store, already pulling out her phone.
Jamie is having the time of her life. “This is the best day ever,” she announces during a rare lull. “We’ve sold out of cinnamon rolls, we have three new catering orders, and someone asked if we do tiger-striped cookies for bachelorette parties.”
“Please tell me you said no.”
“I said I’d ask the owner,” Jamie grins. “So? Do we?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Your loss. That would’ve been hilarious.”
By the time you close up at six, you’re exhausted but also kind of exhilarated. The whole day has been surreal — the notifications, the customers, the way something so private became so incredibly public and somehow turned into this weird, wonderful thing.
Quinn is already home when you get there, sprawled on the couch in sweats and a t-shirt, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you walk in, and his entire face softens.
“Hey, tiger,” he says.
You throw a pillow at him. “Don’t start.”
“Too late. It’s your name in my phone now.”
“Quinn!”
“What? It’s accurate!” He’s laughing, pulling you down onto the couch beside him. “Besides, you’re the one who tweeted about it.”
“I’m aware.” You curl into his side, letting out a long breath. “Today was insane.”
“Tell me about it. I got stopped by three different reporters asking about my ‘personal life’ and ‘relationship dynamics.’” He makes air quotes with his free hand. “I told them all to mind their business.”
“Very diplomatic of you, Captain.”
“I try.” He tilts your chin up, kissing you slowly. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “For what it’s worth? I thought your tweet was perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m never going to hear the end of it from the guys. Brock has already made me a playlist called ‘Tiger Vibes’ and Petey changed my contact name to ‘Scratching Post.’ But …” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I kind of love that everyone knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That we’re not just the wholesome high school sweethearts everyone thinks we are. That there’s more to us than what people see.” He runs his fingers through your hair, gentle and familiar. “That you’re not just sweet, you’re everything. And I’m lucky enough to know all of it.”
Your throat feels tight. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me want to kiss you until neither of us can breathe.”
His smile turns wicked. “I fail to see the problem.”
So you kiss him. Long and deep and with eight years of history behind it. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, and Quinn’s hands have migrated to your hips, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt.
“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “we’re trending again.”
“Are we?”
“Someone made a compilation of every time I smiled today with the caption ‘This man is living his best life.’” He kisses your jaw, your neck. “They’re not wrong.”
You laugh, breathless. “We broke the internet.”
“We really did.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and warm and so full of love it makes your chest ache. “No regrets?”
You think about it. About the video and the tweets and the chaos. About the way your private life became public in the most spectacular way possible. About tomorrow, when you’ll both have to face the continuing aftermath of going viral.
But then you think about Quinn’s laugh this morning, sleepy and surprised. About the way he defended you to reporters without hesitation. About eight years of loving each other, of learning each other, of building this life together.
About the fact that everyone now knows that the quiet captain and the sweet baker are just as complicated and passionate and real as anyone else.
“No regrets,” you say firmly. “Except maybe that I didn’t make the tweet from my personal account.”
Quinn laughs so hard he nearly falls off the couch, and you catch him, both of you tangled together and happy and viral and so incredibly in love.
And somewhere on the internet, #ScratchGate continues to trend, people continue to marvel at the duality of the wholesome baker and her scratched-up captain, and a new generation of hockey fans learns that sometimes the sweetest love stories are also the wildest ones.
But in your apartment, curled up on the couch with Quinn’s arms around you and his laugh in your ears, none of that matters quite as much as this: the two of you, together, exactly as you’ve always been.
Just a little more public about it now.
