everythingsab

[everythingsab]

𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — following jack’s perceived betrayal, you try your hardest to move on and put everything in the past. unfortunately, he isn’t too keen on letting you go, and a night at the bar brings the two of you together, in explosive fashion. the second part of second best.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — angst, reader feeling inferior, jack being an oblivious idiot, miscommunication, crying? drinking? being embarrassingly drunk, happy ending!

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — jack hughes x fem!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — welcome back my loves! i’m deadass so sorry for the wait. life has been kicking my shit DOWN give a bitch a break. anyway! here we are with the second part of second best. thank you for all the lovely comments & reposts, yall are dolls. anyway, let me know how you guys like this one <3 all my love, emme.

₊⊹ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @dancerbailey3, @bellstwd, @kashee-h, @crazycat-ladys-blog, @brucewaynegfreal, @love4dlr, @jackhughesily , @leavethemonsteralive, @loveforaugust , @43hughes, @nathandoe , @choppedlamphandscowboy y, @bunting58 , @angelayse , @ru-kru , @sleepretreat , @nonsensical-nonsence , @maih23 , @toasttt11 , @womanestyles , @bunbunbl0gs , @5secondsofonedirection222 , @dianascherryy , @qb1calemakar , @sarareblogsstuff , @reapstheduck , @poufsouffle21 (if your name is white, i couldn’t tag you!)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ; 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You needed to get away.

Somewhere. Anywhere. Just not there.

Not where Jack and his not-girlfriend girlfriend were currently doing God knows what in his apartment.

Images came to your mind—all unwanted, all hurling a new wave of bile up your throat.

Keys fumbling in your fingers, you managed to slip into your car, prayed to God that Brooke hadn’t mentioned your embarrassing arrival at his front doorstep, with hopeful eyes and a foolish heart that worked too slowly for its own good.

There did exist a small part of you, beaten down and ignored, that wished to see Jack’s figure silhouetted in your rear view mirror, frantically running, trying desperately to explain, or get you to stop, or anything.

But he wasn’t there. Just the lonely road, cast in the melancholic gloom of the moon.

Traffic lights and the shine of other cars blurred behind a wall of tears, crystallizing at your waterline. Heartbeat thundering like a racehorse, fingertips trembling with such force you had to white-knuckle the steering wheel to avoid crashing—you weren’t sure if anything had ever hurt this badly, not when Jack had tried to teach you to skate, which left you with a twisted ankle and him with heaps of guilt. Not even when Jack had forgone your years-long plan of boycotting senior prom in favor of taking Kaylee Hills.

It was funny, retrospectively; every hurt, every wound, every moment you looked back on to compare this pain to was tied ineffably to Jack.

Just as you were.

It wasn’t seeing Brooke, hair messed and eyes blown that cleaved your chest in two. No. It was the fact that Jack had asked you there, set a time, and forgot? Lied? Which was worse? Both equally managed to reach in and sink claws into your barely working heart, both conveyed the inexcusable message that Jack Hughes did not care about you, or your feelings.

Yellow shifted red. Feet working, brakes squealing, you barely managed to stop your car at the line. A part of you knew you shouldn’t have been driving in this condition, knew it could lead to a crushed car and broken bones—maybe even death, but right now, with a mind void of rationality, you didn’t care.

Had he done it purposefully? Your reeling mind flashed back to the night that crumbled the last bit of stability out from under you, when you’d overheard Brooke complaining to Bianca—maybe finally she’d gotten the exact same message to Jack, and maybe this was his way of severing all ties, even if it was the coward’s way out.

Flashing lights of a bar’s sign caught your watery eyes. Everything told you to ignore, ignore, ignore—speed back to your dorm and cry all night in Kaylen’s arms.

But you were mad, heartbroken, and in desperate need of something to distract you; something that would balm the burn traveling its way to the center of your heart. It made for a detrimental coalition—one you’d regret in the morning, when your mind dusted off the layer of rage and betrayal that currently chased away any semblance of reason.

But right now, it hadn’t dissipated. And right now, you needed a drink.

Eyes feathered to you. Neon lights of old-timey signs lit up your face, branded with the remnants of tears and ruined mascara. Normally, the attention would’ve rendered you self-conscious, made you think twice and just leave. Not tonight. Tonight wasn’t about having fun, or finding some boy that looked suspiciously like Jack to hook up with. It was about forgetting, and you weren’t doing a very good job at it right now.

Sliding onto one of the bar chairs, you saw the look of the bartender—a kindly middle-aged women with one too many tattoos on her left arm. Hair likely disheveled, face marred with the evidence of a breakdown, you knew you weren’t winning any beauty competitions.

Wiping your cheeks, you leant yourself on the bar top and sighed. “Um—just a gin and tonic, please.”

Had her gaze lingered any longer, you would’ve been able to see the pity, the foreknowledge only people who had lived possessed; you didn’t want any pity. The woman nods, setting down the bar glass she was wiping before going to make your drink.

Questions cleaved a cavern in your chest—one you were afraid couldn’t ever be closed, not by your desperate hands, the blood already pooling at your feet, drowning you.

Why?

That was the main one. Why had Jack invited you over if Brooke was there? To rub it in your face? A white flag of surrender he’d never waved, never keen enough to read into your hopeful looks and wanting touches; perhaps the realization had come, and with it, the itching desire to peel away the old blanket of childhood and finally toss it. Love always existed between Jack and yourself—but it wasn’t the same. Never had been. Foolish hearts plead otherwise, bent at your knees hoping for a miracle, anything that could bring you the heart of the boy I’d kept in your mind for all your life.

To Jack, you was the comfort of an old film—unchanging, seen over and over that the lines branded into his mind, jokes lost their luster. You should’ve given up when his heart fell into the claws of another, but, of course, you was nothing if not wishful. Something that was biting you in the ass at current.

Music blurred into a track of static in your head. Bodies came and went at the barstools beside you, ghosts, likely wondering about the girl hunched over the bar, halfway in the grave. The soft burn of liquor became nothing compared to the sear of heartbreak—such a visceral feeling you understood why now people claimed to die of a broken heart. Every heartstring felt a moment away from snapping, sending your barely-beating life-force into the abyss Jack had cracked inside of you.

Fraying memories, once the softest comfort, a reminder that you mattered enough to hold a place in Jack’s life became soured by the burn of new perspectives. Nights spent in his room, the glow of his TV playing some movie we weren’t paying attention to, rather captured by the conversations we’d rehashed a million times. Yet, somehow, they never got old. You thought that you’d cemented my place in Jack’s world, erected an effigy of your relationship that could never be struck down.

Regimes don’t last forever. His heart was conquered by another. And here you were, standing on the outskirts of a kingdom you’d been exiled from.

Lights smeared into multicolor, suffocating fog rolling into your headspace—it’s then the bartender ceased giving you drinks, when already you’d lost any shred of self-decency that remained in your unfortunately still-alive body. Hands on your shoulders made you start, before the kind voice of the bartender rings in your ears.

When had she come to you?

“Alright, honey,” she murmurs, helping you off the barstool and over to a booth hidden in some alcove, shielded slightly from the music and people—a migraine was already splitting open your skull. “You’ve had enough, yeah? Let’s take a seat.”

In no condition to argue, you obliged. How had I even ended up here, stood at the funeral of a love that’d never even been realized? Mourning the loss of something you’d never even had? Pathetic, obsessive—yearning for the best yet always handed the worst. Your cards were long shown, hand folded; you’d given up the game long ago, yet couldn’t escape the table, forced to watch it go on, to see the winners cheer and take home the prize.

Losing Jack’s friendship was unfathomable. Your safety net since high school, since before everything. How had one girl toppled the castle you’d built, brick by brick, lain into the framework of your heart?

Unrequited love wasn’t kind. No prisoners would be taken—killed on sight by the deadly blow of rejecting words. Jack didn’t even know. You’d never even had the chance to tell him what happened, why you’d phased from his life like a forgotten memory. Maybe that was for the best.

Maybe that was my closure.

“Okay, sweetheart—do you have anyone who could come get you? Emergency contacts?”

Jack.

Traitorous mind. Hopeful heart. He wouldn’t come, not when hooks held him back, ones he’d willingly sunk into his flesh.

You groaned, offering the bartender your phone. Only a few contacts were favorited—close friends, some family. Jack.

Barely registering the bartender dialing a number, living in the ignorance alcohol brought, you remained heartbreak of your own making, transformed into an unrecognizable mess by the rejection of a love that still remained in the shadows of your heart.

It was sad, really.

Did you even deserve to cry? When, all along, you knew this waited for you at the end? If Jack loved you—really loved you, in the way you did him—none of this would’ve happened. But the road was of your own paving, the long haul finding its end, straight off a cliff.

The bartender sets your phone down on the table, patting your arm. “Okay, I called your boyfriend to come get you. He said he’d be here soon.”

If your heart was still beating, even barely, you were sure then it absolutely stopped.

Boyfriend.

Boyfriend?

Only one contact in my favorites was a man. One currently preoccupied by his not-girlfriend girlfriend. No…

Jack absolutely could not come here. He couldn’t see you like—this. Rended down the middle by a melancholy he caused, even if unintentionally and unknowingly. Because then questions would come, ones far too difficult for your state of mind and being. All of it would flood out, barriers stolen by inebriation, left vulnerable by sorrow and the heady rush of collapsing love schemes.

Hidden in the darkness in the corner of the bar, you waited, and waited. Each moment felt like a death knell, the call of the executioner, feet carrying you to the gallows.

If he’d come, where was Brooke?

If he’d wanted to talk, why have Brooke over?

If he loved you—

“Jesus Christ.”

Cement laid into the grooves of your spine. And so swung down the executioners axe, severing the last of your strings and truly freeing your heart from its holding in your chest. Head kept down by the terror of facing your own slow-working poison, you stayed slouched, hoping the hole in your body would materialize and suck you straight down.

Too bad you never got what you wanted.

Fingers grab your face, settling on the warm, reddened flesh of your cheek. And so there he was, in all of his devastating beauty that once opened the gates of your heart. Cast into a time-warp, an eerie similarity to similar moments from high school, when one too many drinks left your head swirling and body buzzing—moments Jack would scoop you up and bring you home.

Always the white knight.

Always the hero.

But it wasn’t just for you. It never had been. Those hints you once believed lead to the key to his heart were nothing more than a nicety—the comfort of a friend. Hopeful people saw what they want, and you surely had.

“Hey, look at me,” Jack murmurs, forehead creased in concern. You wanted to tell him to relax—that he’d only give himself wrinkles, but kept a tight lock on your lips. “C’mon. I really don’t want to take you to get your stomach pumped.”

Did he care? Or was it the candied lies of a guilty man, the confessions of a criminal on trial? He had to have known—Brooke likely laughed that you came by, the stupid girl you were, and Jack might’ve laughed, too. Or he’d reddened, like always when he was nervous or panicked, recalling that it was you who was meant to invade his home that night—not his not-girlfriend girlfriend.

Mumbling a string of incoherent annoyances, you shook Jack’s hands off and wriggled away, far as the booth would allow. “No—‘m fine. Go away.”

A sigh rattled Jack’s chest. “You’re clearly not,” he grunts, hand running through his hair. Uninterested in seeing the pity you knew would be in his gaze, you kept your eyes down. “The hell were you thinking, getting this drunk?”

An argument of ‘I’m not drunk’ dies on your lips almost as quickly as it materialized—because, well, he wasn’t wrong. There was no explanation you figured would satisfy his concerned curiosity. None you wanted to give him.

Any route lead to a confession you’d locked in the vault of your heart. One you’d prepared to open to him tonight, only for him to turn away before there was any chance.

Without much thought, you found your legs, wobbling a bit before sending a glare Jack’s way. Blue eyes, ones once so adored by you, seemed a sore comfort now—with the worry swimming in them, one you saw through as a falsity. Conjured slights and fabricated feelings made you bitter. Had he ever cared? Was it a long-con he’d never managed to weasel out of until now? You’d always wondered why he’d kept you around.

Maybe Bianca had been right. Maybe it was a charity case, a memory of childhood that’d dragged on too long, unrecognizable yet unwilling to be shook off, because you hadn’t let go.

But if it was a mutual untethering, then there’d be nothing left. Clinging to a fraying rope only worked for so long; you couldn’t try and pull yourself up anymore without it snapping off completely.

“Whatever,” came your bitter response, walking past Jack on unsteady legs, made weak by heartbreak and other awful emotions. “Just… go. I—I’m fine. I don’t even know why she called you.”

Warm fingers clamp around your wrist. Part of you figured Jack wouldn’t have followed. “What? Are you serious?” Movements halted by a strong tug, Jack whirls you to face him, stood near the entrance of the bar. “Maybe it has to do with the fact that you’re shitfaced. You can barely stand up on your own, and you’re telling me to leave?”

Resisting the urge to stomp your foot like a petulant child, to shout at Jack to drop the facade—it wasn’t needed, not anymore, not with you—you instead resigned to offer a short-lived glare. “I didn’t ask for your help. She called you—not me. And I’m telling you I don’t need your help.”

Once more you darted for the escape. Night met you with the kiss of a cold wind, cars blurring by, headlights momentarily catching you in the light of sorrow. Not many people walked the sidewalk you found yourself down, hoping to escape the lingering emotions Jack carried with him, an unshakable storm cloud.

You didn’t want to be mean. To push him away. But the hurt he’d brought, the strike of a wounded and cornered animal, it was all on him.

“Would you—?” Jack calls, each footstep ringing like church bells before a funeral. “Stop. Jesus—why are you running? What the hell did I—”

His words made any restraint snap. You round on Jack. “What did you do? Oh, let me think,” you hiss. Never once had Jack and I argued—not really. Minuscule things over the years, but never had felt this much anger at him. For his obliviousness. For his failure to see who you could be. “Remember when I texted you, asked to talk? Do you remember what time you told me to come over?”

White bled into Jack’s cheek, a crook who was caught. Any doubt that he didn’t know, any assumption that he’d not intended for you to see Brooke faded into nothing.

Your fingers itched, their desired destination the bloodless flesh of Jack’s cheek.

You should’ve known. Really, it was on you. Beloved, desired Jack Hughes—the face of a franchise, the player ushering in a new era of hockey; and you? A face from his past, self-proclaimed best friend, the lackluster net of his hometown that only served to cage him, where once you thought it comforted.

“Yeah. Thought so.”

Again you made to turn, to run, flee the scene of the crime, where blood splattered over years of friendship and likely left it to die. How could you ever face Jack again, when your heart still held onto the small piece he’d offered you so many years ago?

“Wait, no—” A plea, the desperate call of a forgotten worshipper. “It wasn’t… I didn’t—”

“Save it, Jack,” you interject. Burning tears made home on your lashes, ones you refused to give Jack. He’d laid claim to far too many of your sorrows.

His presence was unfortunately sobering. Chasing away any head rush, instead plaguing you with the bite of reality and understanding that the hatchet was already in the heart of your friendship, what was seemingly a simple misunderstanding on Jack’s part was a monumental discovery on your own.

That your value, your shine—none of it was worth it for him anymore. Not enough to care about making things right over finding pleasure in some other girl.

Maybe that was jealousy, the green-laced words of the part of you that wished Jack could want you in the same way he did other girls, but that was a concept to consider another time.

Steps quickened. Another pair did as well.

“Go home,” you snap, unwilling to cast a glance at the ghost you knew was biting at your heels. Streetlights flickered above head, as if sparked by the tension woven in the air between you two.

Silence met your words.

Perhaps Jack had given up. Finally. Came to an understanding that what he’d done—no matter how small to him—had unmoored your entire concept of our friendship. A body without a heart could only last so long before the rot set in—buried before the flesh had even gone cold.

The part of you, a stark betrayal of your current philosophy, prayed Jack would fight. Raise up his swords and cut down your defenses as he had when you first met, molding you into who you were now.

A simple confirmation that he did still care. No matter how little that spread now.

But his silence wasn’t promising.

If he even was still behind you. No strength came to cast a look—to confirm two very different, yet equally terrible things: that he didn’t care anymore and simply walked away, uninterested in arguing with a girl who refused to be swayed, or that he was still behind you, caring enough to fight but not enough to have remembered a simple time.

Arms curl around your waist mid-step. Corded with muscle, a familiar warmth, familiar strength. A soft yelp escapes your lips, feet unsteadied and dragged back—straight into Jack’s chest.

He heaves. “Stop running away from me,” he mutters, “and let me explain.”

Despite the confirmation that he was trying to fix things, you still writhe—still fight being sewn back together. “Explain what? I thought you broke up with her. Yet there she is, at your apartment, when I’m supposed to—”

Clearly lacking patience, Jack’s hand covered your mouth, his annoyed breaths fanning over your ear. “We did. I broke up with Brooke. For one moment in your life, be quiet, and let me explain.”

The desire to bite his head off made your blood molten, but the desire to hear him out—whatever excuse he’d conjure, was far stronger.

Ceasing your thrashing, you found content in his arms—despite the irritation flooding you, all focused on Jack, he was still, for now, your closest friend. Someone whose neck had been stained with the mark of your tears, whose arms were molded into the shape of your body. Anger, resentment—it could exist, it did, but it didn’t erase the years between the two of you.

You desperately hated that nothing would. That even if this became ash, withered by the flames of rejection and despair, nothing would ever wash the mark Jack had branded into the flesh of your heart.

When assured you wouldn’t fight him, or try to argue, Jack turns you in his arms, chin tilted down to look into your eyes—remnants of tears made marks on your cheeks, painted red under your eyes. A mess of his own making, undone by the simple idea that he didn’t—or couldn’t—love you back like you did him. Sad, embarrassing, but the truth. One you were done running from.

Maybe there was no room in Jack’s life for you anymore. Maybe the past served only as a childhood bedroom he’d outgrown. Maybe Bianca and Brooke were right.

Losing Jack would be losing apart of yourself. For years, so many years, you’d built a fortress around your friendship, the mere idea of it being lost an unfathomable thing that made sickness swell in you. Now, it seemed so definite.

How could you explain your hurt, without telling him you loved him?

Simple answer: you couldn’t.

It was terrifying. Picturing the fall of Jack’s face, a defeated soldier, realizing he’d lost his closest friend to the claws of an unrequited love. A necessary death. One gun, two graves, burial of something you thought would be lifelong.

Jack’s shoulders sag. “I broke up with Brooke,” he restates. “I wasn’t lying. I wouldn’t—I’d never lie to you.”

You wish you could stop your lip from quivering, but you can’t. “So why was she at your apartment?”

“She showed up,” he responds, eyes darting, looking for answers he knew he wouldn’t find in the sorrowful lines of your face. “She—God, I don’t know. Something about grabbing clothes, or whatever, but then she answered the door and—”

Years of knowing Jack, yet you’d never seen him look as devastated as he did now. Not when the Devils got eliminated from the playoffs last year. Not when injuries cut his seasons short.

Somehow, that made it all the worse.

“I had no idea it was you,” he whispers. Cars blur by, capturing Jack momentarily in their headlights, the halo he’d always had—from everyone around us, worshiping at his alter. “If I had known… if I had known…”

Eyes falter a moment. From your watery gaze to your trembling lips. Heat blooms, such an inappropriate time for uncaged moths to eat at the lining of your stomach, but that was just what Jack did. Weathered every defense you had, bullet after bullet, finding the cracks in your armor even you hadn’t seen.

He always saw.

He always saw you.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Jack continues softly, a low sigh leaving him. “I know I did—I know things have been… weird between us lately, and I don’t know why. I—I just want to figure this all out. It feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m losing you.”

If any words could’ve effectively killed any fight left you had, it was those. You wanted to scream it was him—that he’d caused this, opened the rift that set you two across canyons, lit the fire under your bridge and left nothing but an empty ravine between the two of you, but how could he know any of that?

Jack didn’t know you loved him.

He didn’t know being around him wedged the knife deeper. Seeing him in love, devote himself to another in a way you wished he’d worship you, it only made it all the worse.

He deserved an answer. If this really ended it all, this night, unremarkable in every way other than its possible end, then he deserved to know why.

“I…” You stumble over your words a moment, blockade erecting in your throat. “It’s… hard, Jack.”

A lame response, but what more could you give? He’d taken every other piece of you.

Desperate eyes find yours. Hands follow, holding your cheeks with such delicacy you could’ve sobbed. “What is? I… I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me. You know I don’t want to lose this—you. So help me, give me something.”

The dam in my throat doesn’t stop the sob from falling out. “I don’t understand, Jack. Why do you keep trying? You’re different now—you… you’re this NHL golden boy. I’ve never met a person who didn’t like you. I just—I don’t get why I’m still the person you choose. It doesn’t make sense.”

Jack’s eyebrows crinkle. For a moment, he looks lost for words, tongue severed by your pleading blow. You weren’t sure what you wanted from him. To see realization dawn on him as he finally understood that this—this friendship—had overstayed its welcome, or reassurance, confirmation that no matter what happened, he’d never see you as anything less than his best friend.

And unfortunately—what started this whole mess—he’d never see you as more.

“What?” Jack shakes his head. “You don’t understand? You are my best friend. Time, money, whatever—that’s not changing that. Why the hell would I leave you behind because I’m some big-shot now?”

Couldn’t he see?

Something changed. When first he’d brought Brooke to you—when he’d gushed over their perfect first date and her perfect personality and perfect face, it all came to a halt. Because living in a world where Jack was tethered to another wasn’t one you wanted to live in, regardless of how selfish and pathetic and ignorant that made you sound.

You had always been Jack’s. He’d just never been yours.

“That’s—not my point,” you mumble, casting a glance at the stars, given light by the lack of clouds, sharing the sky with the new moon. “I’m sorry… for being distant, and not communicating. I’ve been dealing with… things.”

This conversation was devolving as time went on. You were desperately trying to avoid him digging to the root of this entire problem. Of why you’d been so hurt, of what you’d been dealing with, of why being near him made you want to tear your hair out.

Everyone saw it.

Everyone but him.

“What things?” Jack asks softly, thumb stroking the tear-tracks marred on my cheeks. “You know you can talk to me. About anything.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. Was it better to speak or take the the grave the one thing that you knew could kill any friendship between you? Choose dignity over cowardice? Safety over flames?

A pause, and then, “Why’d you break up with Brooke?”

Something flashes in Jack’s eyes, but he looks away. Hides, like always—Jack never was good with emotions, with vulnerability. He hated being picked apart, being read; but you always managed to.

“She…” he pauses, again finding your gaze. A click of bone accompanies his shifting jaw. “She said some things. About you.”

Not a shock. Brooke, for good reason, hated you since the moment she met you. Competition, another star that shone bright enough to capture attention—there was no reassurance you could ever give.

Still, she’d always seemed smarter than Jack’s other exes. Clearly, she knew of where you ranked in his life, an untouchable position if scraped would lead to consequences. Over the years, you’d seen it all—girlfriends, friends, all severed from his life because of a disparaging comment about you. That was one thing Jack had never tolerated.

Brooke kept her mouth shut about you. Until now, apparently. And it cost her Jack. Sick satisfaction wells in you like a wave, a reminder that you were important to Jack—even if not in the way you wanted.

The unfurling of your assumed truth of the situation gave clarity—but questions remained.

“So I broke up with her,” Jack mutters, the casual tone doing more harm for your delusions than good. Shouldn’t he be more upset? “I’m not going to let people talk about you like that.”

He confessed.

It was your turn.

The possibility of years of friendship toppling because of a single sentence, a confession you’d never intended to make public, it felt like an axe looming above your head, awaiting the words to cut the rope.

You breathed, deeply. Maybe the last time you’d ever share the same air as Jack, heat mingled with his own, a different form of home you’d never again find in a person.

You wouldn’t just be losing your best friend, but a possibility—a what-if, a maybe. Someone who, had the circumstances been different, could’ve given you his heart. But it’d never be yours—a small piece, never fully branded, never fully claimed.

“These past few days, since the dinner, I’ve been… considering some stuff.” Vague, too cryptic, but I couldn’t reveal my hand yet, even if everyone else at the table had already seen it but Jack. “I really care about you. I cherish our friendship more than anything, really, I do… but, I just don’t think it’s—good for me anymore.”

Disbelief paints a desperate picture on Jack’s streetlamp-lit face.

Pain rends you. The words already flew—a perfectly notched arrow sent straight for Jack’s heart. Target struck, perfect aim. Truth laid in your words; it wasn’t good for you, because you loved Jack, and it was ruining your life. You’d never brush love-imbued fingers across his face, never capture his lips, never capture his heart. People before you had—proven it could be done; yet, never did your turn come. Because it was never meant to.

Jack steps back.

“You—” Thrice again he tries to speak, each time words fail him. Fingers graze through his hair, a stress tick. The last thing you wanted was to hurt Jack.

In complete honesty, you hadn’t figured he’d be so… distraught. After all, it seemed a mutual fade away, one everyone figured was coming. Desertion of the past to build a future, tossing away that childhood shirt that no longer fit quite right.

What you forgot? Those people, the ones claiming Jack had outgrown you, they weren’t him.

Because with the way he looked now, the last thing he wanted was to let you walk away.

“Not good for you?” he asks, voice so soft, it barely carries over the wind. Jersey was freezing this time of year, an unfortunate somber sight that fell victim to winter like the leaves and foliage. “Are you—did I do something? Did I hurt you? Is it the whole Brooke thing? If it is I can fix it, I’ll make it up to you—”

“No,” you whisper. “You didn’t, Jack. It’s just…”

Years of loving him.

Years of pining. Of wanting. Of hoping.

Diaries with his name scribbled beside yours. Hopes of returning to your high school reunion, his hand in mine, the whispers of your once-classmates, confirming that everyone knew it would be you and him—the only way it could ever go.

Hands that built those fantasies were, at present, trying to tear them down. You weren’t sure why you felt so destructive, why burning the friendship instead of simply trying to salvage what was left, even if it was little, seemed a better out.

You looked at Jack. Traced the curves of his face and lips with admiration—something you’d always hid, did when he couldn’t possibly catch the gleam of your eyes, but now, you couldn’t find the shame. If this was the end, if your words really did send down the axe, so be it.

At least it wouldn’t be something you’d be buried alongside, taking up your coffin.

“I love you,” it comes out weak, too shaky, too raw. “It’s ruining my life.”

There could only be so many blows before a heart stopped beating.

You expected repulsion.

You expected Jack to flinch back, the force of your words—ones he’d never want to hear from his best friend—would make him turn tail and run, the vulnerability cutting far too deep.

You’d told him you loved him before, under the guise of friendship, nothing more. But you meant it differently now, and he knew that.

What you hadn’t expected was for Jack’s lips to part, contemplatively looking down at you. As if matched with a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

The moment spanned—left uncertainties it its wake. Was he trying to search for a way to let you down easy? To save face, save your feelings, because even if he didn’t love you, he still cared?

It seemed your answer would never come, until it did.

“You love me,” he repeats, tasting the words. A slow smile comes on his face—not conniving, not plotting. Content. “You love me?”

That was all he got from that?

A slow nod.

What was he getting at?

“I—yes?” you murmur, eyebrows furrowing.

Where was the rejection, the one you’d built yourself up for? The pitiful smile of a person who just didn’t feel the same? For better or worse, it was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was that grin, the one that brought soft dimples to his face.

“I—and it’s… ruining your life?” Jack says, keeping his tone low.

In the streetlight’s glow, he almost looks watercolor—made human by hopes, made yours by want. Cars pass, unaware of the scene playing out on some deserted strip of sidewalk outside long-closed shoppes.

If you looked up now, you could almost see the stars wink at you.

“You… you don’t feel the same,” you respond, as if already convinced of some feeling he himself hadn’t disclosed. “And that’s fine. It is, Jack, really. I get it, y’know? I just—don’t want this to be weird between us because it already is and—”

Hands tilt your face—callous, warm, home. The gentle brush of fingers weathered yours cheeks time and time before, yet different now, tender in a way they hadn’t been before. Words died on your tongue, muffled only then by the gentle press of Jack’s lips. A moment to register, one to hold your breath. Cataclysmic—yet contained, no supernova to explode your body. As if coming back from a long war, he kissed you—kept you close, spoke millions of words in a single action.

Perceived slights, idealized rejection—none of it was real. Fabricated in my head like so many things, brought to life by other people’s words, people who couldn’t have ever known the depth Jack cared for you.

Childhood wasn’t a burden. It wasn’t something to outgrow. Neither were you.

He’d never outgrown you. He’s grown with you, side by side, rooted in the same crack of concrete. Even with the years, the diverging paths that kept your lives on different sides, Jack never let you go—because he’d never wanted to.

It wasn’t a matter of pity. Of concern on how to let you down easy.

Together, you’d navigated childhood. High school. Adult life. And now… it seemed, love.

Finally, Jack pulls away. Lips painted in his saliva, you look up at him, wide-eyed, made once more that schoolgirl who foolishly vied for his attention, that couldn’t understand why he was her friend. Now, you couldn’t understand why he kissed you.

“Well, it’ll definitely be weird now,” he laughs softly. Even now, he could joke—with pink cheeks and wet lips and hazy eyes. “Because I don’t think I can be your friend either.”

Thumbs brush your cheeks. Red rises in their wake.

You were a fool—but not for the reasons you’d presumed earlier. Not because you’d loved someone who didn’t love you back, because you assumed he never could. No… now you were a fool for ever thinking he didn’t. That other people knew Jack better than you.

His forehead finds yours.

A heat that’d always been him. Jack. Your best friend. Your home.

“I love you,” he whispers back, a promise, one years in the making, imbued with the comfort of distant memories and fantasies that once only lived in my dreamscapes.

A chuckle slips from Jack. Held in his arms, in the middle of the sidewalk, full view of prying eyes and listening ears—yet all you cared about were his words. His oaths, that once felt impossible to comprehend.

Love that wasn’t platonic.

Touches that didn’t spell friendship.

“You’re ruining my life, too,” he says, a kiss pressing to the top of your head, crowning you with a love you’d reached for endlessly. “But for very different reasons.”

Sometimes, love isn’t unrequited.

It’s just unsaid.

[everythingsab]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — secretly pining over someone is never fun—even less so when they’re your childhood best friend, and dating someone else.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 —all the angst, jealousy, thoughts of inferiority, cursing, big sadness from reader over here, not proofread i got better things to do

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x fem!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — my valentine’s day jhughes special (albeit a day late ☹️), as promised! sorry it took me so long. couldn’t figure out how to end it. this is unapologetically self-indulgent. also not a wip, but i HAD to do it to em. i’m sorry if your name is brooke or bianca. i love you. promise. maybe we’ll make a part two, if yall like it enough!

₊⊹ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @dancerbailey3, @bellstwd, @kashee-h, @crazycat-ladys-blog, @brucewaynegfreal, @love4dlr, @jackhughesily, @leavethemonsteralive, @loveforaugust, @43hughes, @nathandoe, @choppedlamphandscowboy, @bunting58, @angelayse, @ru-kru, @sleepretreat, @nonsensical-nonsence, @maih23 (if your name is white, i couldn’t tag you!)

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Everyone knows the saying you never know what you have until you lose it. Truth was, you knew exactly what you had—you’d just never imagined you’d lose it.

You never imagined you’d lose him.

A shared childhood and mothers’ who found friendship with each other had brought you and Jack Hughes together, kept you glued even as skin stretched and futures diverged—where he’d gone on to be a star hockey player, you’d quietly came into adulthood, trekking through the difficulties of college.

In your younger years, Jack had always been there. Life of the party, a mirrorball everyone gravitated to for its decadent shine—you, contrastingly, felt like a sore thumb at parties, attending them only to see the smile on Jack’s face. Differing personalities and life routes aside, Jack was your person. The first person you called whenever you were sad, or happy, or bored. The one who knew all of your test scores first, who took hours long flights just to visit you during breaks in the season.

Distance nor time had left a lasting mark on your friendship, kept together by constant phone calls and texts. Whilst you remained imbedded in the hustle of Toronto, Jack was trapped in New Jersey—a gap that you closed every summer, when mutual desire to see one another (as well as his brothers) brought you and him to Michigan for a few months.

From childhood, to high school, to now—it had always been you two. Jokes passed in the years, swirling around with assumptions of the two of you ending up together, finally realizing it after years of proclaimed friendship. For Jack, it’d never been romantic. Loving and caring, a relationship he’d never trade for the world, but the intimacy ended there. Memories of him outwardly flirting with girls in front of you at bars or parties flashed in your mind any time you figured maybe; he’d never given any indicator that you were or would ever be more to him than his best friend.

For you? It was an embarrassingly different story.

College had stolen much of your time—left none for a love life. But truthfully, that didn’t much phase you.

Hookups, flings, boyfriends—all of them paled in comparison to Jack. A childhood crush perpetuated by maturation without loss of contact, Jack had just… always been there. Always a best friend, never a lover; the hanging axe of rejection was too dire a outcome for you to ever consider telling him. Killing a friendship you’d grown with would kill you. And maybe he felt the same way, maybe the kisses he reserved for the crown of your head and the guiding hand he kept on the small of your back meant something, but you couldn’t continue existing if they didn’t.

So, a dutiful friend, you kept quiet, spared the connection and suffered in unrequited love.

And it hadn’t really changed until Jack had gotten a girlfriend. In all your years of knowing him, he’d had a few—though they rarely lasted more than a handful of months, and a selfish and bitter part of you liked that. Sometimes they overstepped, viewed themselves above you in the ranking of Jack’s life; he made painfully clear they never would be.

And it felt good, to be that cherished. But then you remembered he didn’t actually love you and it felt a whole lot less impactful.

Not Brooke.

Brooke, a box-dye blonde with a less-than-stellar reaction to your friendship with her boyfriend, was unarguably beautiful—unapproachably so, someone you’d picture whenever thinking of the girl Jack would end up with. You knew it would never be you, but you hated that it was her, hated that it was finally cemented, the coffin wheeled out.

A friendship you’d cherished for years had been weathered down by the abrasive actions of his girlfriend. It left a bitter taste in your mouth; Jack never seemed privy to Brooke’s nonverbal dislike of you, and you never made comment of it. If Jack was happy, what did it matter? If you said anything, all you’d appear to be was a child throwing a tantrum, the attention torn from them. You refused to jeopardize Jack’s happiness, even if it meant shredding your own.

Brooke tolerated you; that was the best word you could think of. There was surely no excess of love, but you didn’t think she flat out despised you, either. Passive aggressive to the point of just being aggressive, snide looks whenever she didn’t think you could see, intentionally separating you from Jack whenever the two of you were talking—it all made you hate being around her, and by extension, him.

So when he’d invited you to dinner with him—and some of his teammates, a monthly ritual at his house—the knee jerk reaction had been to decline, lie, run while you were still free from the piercing glare of Brooke; because you knew she’d be there, clung to his side, as if you had any intention of taking him away.

… Well, you’d did have the intention. Never the will, so then again maybe she was right to hate you. Feelings you’d never act on, words you’d never say—none of it mattered. She had him. Not you. Never you.

You should’ve said no.

Pouting eyes and pleading lips caved you. As soon as you’d agreed, you’d regretted it—knew in your bones it would only serve to wedge the knife in your heart deeper, solidify the loss of a what you thought would be a lifelong partnership. Your platonic soulmate, twin flame pinched out by hateful fingers.

Getting ready for the dinner felt like preparing for a cage fight, where all night you’d have do endure blow after blow—them kissing, them touching, him loving her in a way you wished he’d love you.

Night blanketed the sky by the time you’d arrived to Jack’s home, shadows slipping by the window, shapes of people telling you that you were likely late—the stone in your stomach had slowed you monumentally. The torture was self-inflicted, you knew. There would be no pity when your heart finally gave out.

She did this to herself, they’d say. Hearts can only endure so much before they break.

Voices coalesced into one as you pushed open the door, welcomed by the familiar atmosphere of friendship and loud laughter. You’d completely forgotten to text Jack that you’d gotten here—and for some reason, as you crossed the threshold into the gaping space of his living room, you felt like an outsider. Sudden eyes landed on you like bullets, and all you saw was Jack—his side taken dutifully by Brooke, always beautiful, striking in a way you didn’t think you’d ever been.

Looking at her, it made sense why she was the one Jack chose. Why you hadn’t been. A best friend. Childhood acquaintance. Faded t-shirt he’d strung along for too many years, even as the design weathered away and the fabric weakened. He’d gotten a shiny new one, the novelty still in tact, yet he hadn’t let you go.

Some part of you, deep in the caves of your wounded heart, wished Brooke would ban him from your presence. Maybe then your hurt would lessen. You knew you’d never be able to let go on your own.

Jack’s eyes caught you, stood awkwardly in the mouth of the hallway. He attempted to stand, only for Brooke to tug him down by his t-shirt—the shirt you’d bought him for his birthday last year, impressed with two hearts holding hands. She said something to him, something low and hissed between clenched teeth. Before you could see his reaction, Nico was invading your space, arms winding around you.

“There she is!” he announced, the ground leaving your feet as he lifted you playfully. “We were waiting on you to eat. Sure do like to take your time.”

Residual bitterness faded at Nico’s words—Jack may have been your best friend, but years of being attached to him introduced you to his teammates; they were always kind, if a little overbearing. A big brother that toed the line of overprotective and well-wishing.

Grateful for the attention distractor, you allowed your shoulders to relax and lungs to decompress. The first cut at seeing Jack, still happily in love with Brooke, was already dealt; you just needed to get through the dinner, and not look like a hostage while doing so.

“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed, shoving Nico’s shoulder as he brought you towards where the others were gathered in the living room. “Make fun of me for driving like a grandma all you want, at least I’m safe.”

Not looking at Jack took more self control than you’d care to admit. Blurring in your peripheral, a mess of colors stacked atop one another, you knew if you glanced—saw the claim Brooke was staking for all to see—it would only make you want to leave. So you didn’t.

Luke was next to greet you, offering a pity-imbued smile. Despite never mentioning your affections for his older brother, you knew he knew; saw it in the way he would look at you, the frowns offered. In times when Brooke inadvertently talked you down, it was Luke who told her off, put balm on the wound.

A side hug and a soft smile—you barely were able to muster one yourself. “How have classes been?”

You graced Luke with an exasperated groan. “Terrible, thanks for reminding me. Economics is kicking my ass.”

Luke sat. You remained standing. A loose thread peeking from your sweatshirt seemed far more intriguing than eyes you were trying desperately not to meet.

“Tough luck,” remarked Luke, conversations reviving after the novelty of your arrival wore off. You recognized a couple of faces around you—Dawson, Jesper, Alexander, and John. Faces you’d become acquainted with in your years of being Jack’s friend.

The title felt a bitter reminder of your ceiling, never surpassing Jack’s best friend. Loved and cherished, a desired presence, just not how you wanted. Who were you to complain? It was better to be his friend than nothing at all; to have a little piece of him, proof that at one point, you’d mattered enough to get it.

You just weren’t sure if you did anymore.

Where once Jack’s name was a regular occurrence, flashing on your phone screen—texts, calls, FaceTimes, they all faded once Brooke came into his life. Movie nights on his couch, reruns of old films that you could quote down to the last line, stopped. You knew Jack cared enough to extend invites, but at this point, you figured it was more out of pity and shame than actual want of your company.

Beggars really couldn’t be choosers.

Eventually, everyone made their way into the dining room. Chairs lined a large wooden table, one chosen and haphazardly assembled by you and Jack when he’d first bought this house. Scratches imbedded in the finish sent flashes of dropped hammers and clumsy feet into your mind, memories that felt too far to touch.

Mind far afield, you sat down—somewhere between Luke and Nico, far enough from Jack to be inconspicuous but close enough to feel the sharp burn of his eyes. It was petty, you knew, to have still not greeted him. Not that Brooke would’ve likely even let you. A sadistic part of you wanted him to feel even a modicum of the agony that rattled you whenever you were forced to watch him and Brooke, wanted to wonder and question why you were so cold.

Then again, maybe he didn’t care.

Body detached from your mind, the last thing you expected was to be spoken to—least of all by Brooke. But there her grating voice was, verging on overuse, but you knew that was just how she talked. Chafing and annoying and awful—

“Still no boyfriend?” A venomous smile curled her lips; friendly to the untrained eye. You knew better.

Your fingers twitched. The food in front of you spoiled, appetite evaporated. Of course she asked that—both a jab and a reassurance; if you had a boyfriend, her relationship with Jack would be safe. Not that it wasn’t, regardless.

You wished you could scream at her, leap across the table and force her to hear your words: you’d never have Jack. Want him, yes. Spend years pining over a boy who looked to you like the sister he never had, absolutely. But actually have him, feel his love in every touch and kiss? No. That wasn’t on the cards for you; you’d folded long ago.

“Nope,” you drawled. The pressure of Jack’s stare caved you—you caught his eyes, eyebrows creased, the wrinkle of his forehead that made itself prominent whenever he was annoyed.

What did he possibly have to be annoyed about?

Catching Luke’s gaze only irked you further, alit the urge to push out of your chair and flee Jack’s home. Pity swelled in his eyes, the beginnings of a frown quirking down his lips. You didn’t want pity; didn’t want to feel like the entire world was in on some inside joke you’d never understand. Everyone saw it, your love for Jack. Saw the lovestruck comedy that was your life—girl loves boy, boy isn’t even aware of it, hilarity ensues.

Everyone but Jack. And honestly, that was for the best.

You didn’t think you’d be able to handle the frown when he found out. Jack Hughes, always kind, never malignant, searching for a way to politely turn down his best friend without taking an axe to the connection. Really, there would be no bloodless way to let it die—so you lived in moments between, where nothing felt impactful or important or real.

When Jack was without Brooke, you could almost imagine he was your Jack—the one who turned down every girl so that he’d be free to go to prom with you, the one who got banned from a restaurant for life for pouring a drink over your cheating ex-boyfriend’s head. The Jack who always protected you, always cared, even when all of his friends couldn’t understand it.

That Jack who currently hand his arm around the back of Brooke’s chair, shoulders touching—a casual thing, something you’d done with countless strangers, yet it felt impactful enough to make bile swim in your throat.

“Probably for the best,” Luke interjected after the conversation—if it even was that—between you and Brooke came to an awkward stalemate. “Guys are dicks.”

A tension somehow always existed whenever you were in a room with Brooke. One you never wanted, never fed into. Like a shadow, the morning mist, it hung thick as smog. Choking you, nearly forcing you from the room.

“You’re a guy,” you laughed weakly, offering Luke a pointed look.

“No one at college, then?” Nico piped up. You felt bad for not looking at him, but he was too close to Jack and Brooke—you didn’t want to see them.

Cozy, warm in a way you thought only you’d ever be with Jack. Familiar, united. Their relationship didn’t seem as superficial as his past ones had, woven together under the pretense of good sex and no real connection. Watching Jack love his new, perfect girlfriend made you physically ill; and maybe that was dramatic, maybe it made you a backwards person with failing morals—you couldn’t care anymore.

Years of hiding your love, months of watching his own be poured into a girl that wanted you out of his life—it wore you down to your bones, dangerously close to burning to ash.

“Most of them are… strange, to say the least,” you responded with a wince. And that was true; your major seemed to just attract men whose one quality was making women uncomfortable. “Plus, having a boyfriend would just distract me. Finals are coming up and I’m already worried about how I’m going to do on them.”

Luke scoffed. “Hookups exist.”

A wince followed Luke’s words. Eyes fell to where Jessica was rubbing her hand—Jack apologized, albeit half-heartedly. Confusion overcame you; had he squeezed her hand too tightly?

In the past, you’d had boyfriends. Not that they lasted very long. Somehow, there was always something wrong with them—something only Jack could see; he’d endlessly nitpick, nag, explain why your newest boyfriend wasn’t good enough for you.

They were too old, too uptight, not nice enough. Always something. And without fail, Jack was right—scarcely did they make it past the first date before some measly excuse fell from their lips. But maybe it wasn’t them; maybe it was you. So, with an aching heart refusing to connect with any other but Jack’s, you gave up. Delved headfirst into college work and stayed below the waves, even as they began to drown you.

All you offered in response to Luke was a shrug.

Conversation picked up then, thankfully fell away from you. Limelight sufficiently dimmed, you allowed yourself to watch Jack; a habit you’d never quite shaken, even in the embarrassing moments when he caught your peering gaze.

You weren’t sure exactly when you’d fallen in love with Jack—just that you had, and now you couldn’t touch the bottom of him. Water filled your lungs, suffocated you, but if drowning meant being near him, you’d happily do it. Dying in his platonic embrace seemed better than dying all alone.

Ruffled brown hair, the sort of charm that every boy-next-door seemed to possess, and clear blue eyes that shone every emotion like a transparent window to his soul—all of it made Jack Jack, the boy you loved, would admire even in moments he didn’t think he deserved reverence.

You’d seen it all: the self-deprecation after his failure of a rookie year, dwindling confidence, tears imbued with hurt and disappointment, frustration of someone who knew they were better. It was you who’d been by his side, proved an anchor to a person you couldn’t live without.

Yet he’d still chosen Brooke.

For most people, that would be the last step off the cliff, boneless body breaking against the canyon. Not you—so full of hope and dreams, undeterred by every sign the universe gave you. You weren’t his only, but at least you were one.

Jack’s lips parted into a smile, one you could tell was real—his kissed Brooke’s temple, pinched her on the side. An intimate moment in a crowded room. You felt almost as if you were trespassing, a stranger watching two people in love. Part of you didn’t even associate that boy as Jack, because you couldn’t understand how he could love someone so averse to you, so… mean. But then again, it wasn’t about you.

It was about him. Accommodations had been made for years—leaving parties early because you were uncomfortable, blowing off his guy friends to comfort you after a bad date, scrapping his wants and his plans because of something to do with you.

He was probably sick of it. Sick of you, dictating what he could and couldn’t do. Who he could and couldn’t date. Because who cared if Brooke hated you; Jack loved her, despite it all. And that was what made dread swirl into a storm in your heart, ribs nearly cracking under the rate it was thundering at.

Abruptly, you stood. Felt the chair nearly topple. Eyes came to you—Jack’s friends. Yours, yes, but Jack’s foremost. You were just intruding, butting into a life that no longer fit you. Time had passed, the wishful minds of children grown into adulthood. He didn’t owe you anything anymore, especially when all you were was a storm cloud over his parade.

Just as soon as you had, Jack stood, concern clear in his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Your tongue felt like lead. “Nothing—nothing, sorry. I’m—I need to use the restroom.”

You didn’t wait much longer before leaving the room.

Air felt scarce, lungs punctured and deflating quicker than you could patch the holes. Clumsily, you pushed open the door to the bathroom, steadied your shaking hands on the edge of the sink. Looking at yourself, reflection marred by the onset of tears, all you could do was compare—compare to Brooke, to every girl Jack had ever wanted, ever liked, ever loved.

Was it their features, doughy lips that worshipped him in a way you didn’t? Was it their bodies, womanly and free in a way you didn’t like to be? Or was it deeper, were their souls crafted from the same light, in a way you’d always thought your own had been with Jack’s?

Idiot, fool, dreamer—you were all of it. Like a lap dog, bird in its teeth, you always returned, remained dutifully at Jack’s side for the moment he might open the screen door and finally let you in.

Brooke had every right to hate you. Perceptive in a way Jack wasn’t, she saw what everyone else did—the lovesick eyes, foolish faith chaining you to him, an unrealized desire that would never be acted on. Had you been in Brooke’s place, you would’ve hated yourself as well.

Water poured from the faucet, gathered in your cupped palms. Attempting to desecrate any evidence of tears, you gently splashed the water in your face—went to dry it when you heard the sound of the front door creaking open.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Bee.”

Cold crept up your spine. Eavesdropping was wrong—you knew that, yet still found yourself leaning against the bathroom door to catch Brooke’s words.

“What’s going on?” came the response, likely the voice of Bianca, Brooke’s best friend. You’d met her once at a game (met was a loose word; she’d given you a snide look and taken to ignoring you the entire time).

Brooke’s voice lowered to the point where you were forced to strain to hear her speak. “You know Jack’s little pet?”

A lapse. Your heart seized, taken by some concoction of shame and surprise.

“No.”

“Yes!” responded Brooke. “She’s fucking everywhere. I asked Jack not to invite her tonight, and lo and behold—”

“Wait, I thought you talked to Jack?”

“I did.” Vexation laced every letter. “I told him it made me uncomfortable how close they were, how she was always around, blah blah. He got defensive, but he said he’d talk to her.”

“Clearly not,” Bianca muttered. “Look, I wouldn’t worry about it. They’re childhood friends, yeah? He probably feels like he has to stay her friend, or something. I mean, Jack’s a good guy, he wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone; if he dropped her, he’d look like a douche. I’m sure she’ll get the hint eventually.”

Footsteps began, voices fading along with them. “I fucking hope. It’s honestly pathetic.”

Blood roared in your ears, drowned out the sound of your beating heart—if it was even beating anymore. Something bitter and hot invaded your airways, lashed like whips against your flesh. It was no secret Brooke disliked you, disliked the closeness of you and Jack, but to hear it, the vicious way it fell from her lips—it made your gut twist and constrict, pushing bile towards your throat.

Pathetic. They thought you were pathetic, hopelessly waiting, like a dead plant praying for flowers that would never come. Lovelorn, seeking affection that only came by way of friendship and never more; they were right, and it became evident with a strike of lightning to your body.

Is that truly how Jack felt? Was he waiting for you to give up, so to spare you the hurt of being let down? Had you become baggage? Chained to him, the memory of childhood the only thing keeping you relevant, when times were less impactful and his life didn’t center around being a professional athlete. The stain of youth, remaining only for its joyful memory; that’s all you were now—a memory.

Just like your love, it seemed everyone saw Jack’s hints but you. Rose-colored lenses blurred everything but what you wished to see; of course you missed them, ignored them so your narrative remained intact.

God, you were an idiot. A fucking idiot.

Head pounding, the squeeze of an oncoming migraine rattling your brain, you opened the bathroom door. Felt like a trapped bird all the way back to the table—you just had to get through dinner, only an hour or two, so as to not raise any suspicion, and then you could fade from Jack’s life.

Not that he’d notice. He hadn’t even spoken to you tonight, though no fault of his own; Brooke kept her claws deep, and it was clear he didn’t want to risk an argument. Not that you could blame him—she was his girlfriend. Her. Not you. He didn’t owe you anything.

Conversations filled your ears, ostracized you—every time you had opened your mouth before, it had felt wrong, the scratch on a vinyl everyone skipped over. You saw him first—noticeably tense, chair a bit further away from Brooke that it had been earlier. Tensed forehead, hands balled on the table; you longed to ask what was wrong, as you were used to doing. But you imagined talking to him, and it somehow felt wrong, a peasant addressing a king.

Then, your eyes fell to your seat.

No longer empty, occupied now by Bianca, who was talking casually with Brooke, as if her actions hadn’t changed your entire perception of the situation. There were no more seats. No more room. The metaphor wasn’t lost on you, hit with the same sting of antiseptic on a wound—there wasn’t any more room for you at the table, just as there was no room for you in Jack’s life.

Maybe this was always meant to happen. Childhood didn’t remain forever, and it seemed, neither was your friendship. You’d always wondered why Jack had chosen you, someone so dissimilar to himself and his friends. Eventually, you made peace with it. His friendship was a balm to everything negative. Now… here you were again, more ostracized than ever.

What were you supposed to do? The long haul wasn’t meant to have an end.

Everyone was looking at you now. Stage fright, you lost your speech, thousands of eyes from a crowd looking at you, spotlight centered on your face, and you couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t—

Blue eyes found you, stood stonily at the entrance of the dining room. Jack’s eyebrows knitted, confused as to why you were still stood. When he saw Bianca, his lip curled. Frustration sparked, bemusement painted over. Once more that protective streak flared, something you were so used to—it had once felt the greatest trophy, proof that the Jack Hughes cared enough to stand up for you. It felt a sore consolation now, a reminder that, as always, you’d be the meek girl from his childhood he was forced to drag along, defend, shield from his new life that he fit into perfectly, that you spilled out from.

“Get up.”

Then, the attention went to him.

Brooke glanced at her boyfriend, annoyance flashing on her face. Their conversation paused. “What?”

Jack nodded towards Bianca. “She took her seat,” he explained in a clipped voice. “Get up.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Jack, it’s not a big—”

“It is,” he interrupted. Tension sparked in the air like a misfired firework. “She needs to sit and Bianca took her place, so—”

“It’s fine!” The words spilled out before you could second guess them. They came out raw and pained and everything you didn’t want to appear as; pity pooled from everyone, that sort of second-hand pity you saw on strangers faces when you’d lose your footing and fall.

It was too much. Pins dug into your skin, all of a sudden too tight. You needed to leave. Now, before your bones crumbled and heart gave out and finally everything burst.

“I—um, I should probably get going, anyway,” you said, nodding as if trying to be convincing. “With finals comin’ up I should get in as much studying as I can.”

Determination was something you’d always admired about Jack; it only irked you now. He stood, shrugged off Brooke’s outstretched hand and came to stand before you, and God—it was a disservice to not admire him, even as annoyance creased his eyes and drew inwards his lips. Beauty, in such a raw form, it startled you. Growing up, he’d always been the center of everyones attention. The hockey prodigy, the first overall draft pick, the franchise player for the Devils.

You? You’d been nothing special. Yet he’d still chosen you. And here he was, apparently doing it again—but why? Why when he had a beautiful girlfriend and a perfect life and fun friends did he always come back, when clearly you were no more than a burden?

You tried not to seem spiteful. You did. But it was so hard to hide your wounds and ignore their pain. He may not have seen them, but they were unfortunately still there. And it seemed they always would be.

“You can’t,” he said, searched your gaze—he’d always been able to see straight through you, with such simplicity it frightened you. You tried to shuttered your expression, hide your pain. It wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. “Dinner’s just started—”

“Really, J, it’s fine.” Heat bored into your face where you knew Brooke was staring, daring you to express any deeper connection with Jack past the sheltered friendliness you were currently forcing.

You weren’t going to budge. Jack saw that, and so he sighed and glanced out the window. “I’ll drive you home.”

Oh, God. Nothing was ever easy. Pushing and pushing and pushing until you weren’t sure you even wanted to get up anymore, to even try. Every time you did, right back down you went, encapsulated by everything Jack.

Freedom felt a forgotten thing. You couldn’t remember a time when you didn’t love Jack, when he wasn’t at the forefront of your mind, main star of the play.

And honestly, you were tired. Tired of wishing for something that would never happen. Tired of being viewed as the shackle around Jack’s wrist. Just tired.

“No need,” you muttered noncommittally, saw the way Jack’s face twisted with concern and confusion and everything you didn’t want to see. “It’s your dinner, J. With my grandma driving, I’ll get home safe.”

The attempt at a joke didn’t land. Smile didn’t even begin to twitch his lips. “It’s dark outside,” he stated, an obvious fact that held no weight for anyone but you and him. “I always drive you when it’s dark.”

That was true enough; your inability to see properly at night meant Jack became your chauffeur, not that he ever complained—even still, it was another thing he did for you, time sacrificed to accommodate you. Prepared to leave his own dinner, his own girlfriend, just to make sure you didn’t have to do something you were uncomfortable with. Conceptually, it was sweet, a sort of gesture that would’ve normally made your heart soar. Now? It made you feel like a burden, an incapable little girl still hiding in the shadow of her protector, afraid of the sting of daylight.

No more.

“I’m going to be fine,” you reassured. Jack didn’t appear convinced—he never was satisfied when it came to you, to your safety, unless he was directly involved. “Stay and have fun.”

“What if—”

“Let her go, babe.”

Brooke’s voice proved the nail in the coffin; a part of you heard the undertone of excitement shot through her words, the possibility of your leave alleviating any annoyance your presence had brought. Without you, Jack’s attention would be fully on her. Without you, he wouldn’t have to concern himself on whether you were having fun and if you were okay.

You. You. You.

You’d considered yourself Jack’s anchor, the grounding of his mind—unfortunately, you’d forgotten an anchor also keeps a thing in place, forcing inactivity.

Let her go.

It rang like a death knell, struck sharp as a poisoned dart, invisible but so unmistakably fatal.

Gathering what remained of your dignity, you grabbed your purse off of your—Bianca’s—chair, caught the commiseration shining in Luke’s eyes like a tarnished trophy. It only stung, reminded you that you needed pity.

Before you could flee the room like a scolded dog, Jack caught your wrist. Heat bloomed, a fever rushing to your head—his simple touch made you sick with want and need and something deeper that would never be realized or fostered. Something you had to let die.

“Text me when you’re home,” he said softly. Fingers gently squeezed your wrist. Where once you’d feel comforted, you just felt trapped. “Please.”

Not trusting your words, all you did was nod.

Honestly, you’d expected some dark cloud to cover you when finally you decided to move on. A procession of funeral goers flocking like crows, unable to understand why you’d abandoned a years-long friendship over something insignificant. Over words spewed from hateful lips.

But it wasn’t what you’d overheard. Deeper, a more sharp knowledge that even if Jack loved you, held you closer than anyone in his circle of friends, he’d never want you in the way you desired. And for a while, that was okay. Because he existed separate of everything—and then came Brooke, and it all crumbled.

You could handle him not loving you. You couldn’t, however, handle him loving someone else so openly.

Street lights blurred behind tears, a mess of streaky lights like a watercolor canvas. Flashes of nights when Jack would drive you home, insisting on taking the wheel so that you didn’t have to toe out of your comfort zone, they haunted you like a inescapable film reel on repeat in your mind. Memories fogged by lost youth, angry words from Jack’s lips as he’d stand up for you—never a party person, denounced for draining the fun. Jack never let those insults slip lip before he was barking at whoever said it.

A responsibility. A burden. The lines had become blurred in recent years.

The latter seemed more fitting.

Through a barrier of tears, you were able to send Jack a text as your car rolled to a stop in the parking lot.

me

at my dorm

j :)

ok good. u ok? u seemed off @ dinner

Fingers hovered over your screen. Make movements to draft a text. Nothing seemed sufficient.

You let the text stale. Sit stagnant on your phone. Jack would likely worry, eventually call—you just wanted to fall into a void and never return. Not after the mess you’d made of dinner.

The mess you’d made of your life.

Making a ghost of yourself was far more difficult than you’d thought it would be.

Incessantly, Jack had texted you, called you—you didn’t answer any of them. Silence felt a balm to your shame. Selfish, you knew, to just ghost Jack without offering any explanation, but nothing would be sufficient, not without souring the connection you were hoping would die without pain.

Cowardice, craven, pathetic—you knew you were all of it. To you, you were giving Jack a chance to pull back, to fizzle the friendship of his own accord. Maybe then it would’ve stung less, if the desire of its end was reciprocated, mutual. As it were, it was not.

Even with your withdrawal, Jack still tried. Shot texts, called and punctuated them with voicemails, sent you TikToks and Snaps and everything he would normally do if everything was fine; but it wasn’t. And you knew he knew, could sense the urgency in his attempts at communication.

You felt dirty, filthy with shame and guilt.

Despite your best efforts, you didn’t appear as unaffected as you hoped. While your insides were shredding themselves, you tried valiantly to paint over your visage with the normal happy-go-lucky smile you always wore. Most people, if they noticed, didn’t comment on it.

Unfortunately, Kaylen did notice.

Since your freshman year of college, Kaylen had been your roommate—low maintenance, intelligent to the point of making you stupid without even trying. As such, she was far more perceptive than you gave her credit for.

There’d been times you confided in her about your feeling for Jack, sought out advice that never seemed good enough. Because no one but yourself could fix the valley that had split between Jack and you. You could seek outward help all you wanted, but nothing would change unless you did something—and, really, you weren’t sure that was even a good idea anymore.

Two days of moping resulted in Kaylen’s intervention.

“Get up.”

Sunlight bled through your shut eyes, forced a wince. Hands rolled you onto your back, the somewhat stiff mattress of your bed providing a measly cushion. Sleep intruded on, your hands extended, attempted to push away the figure you knew what trying to rile you.

“Go away,” you grunted, throat thickened by sleep and other terrible emotions.

“No,” Kaylen hissed. When finally you opened your eyes, her squinted expression invaded your vision. “Look, I’ve let you be miserable for two days, but it’s getting ridiculous. What the hell happened with you and loverboy?”

A jolt nearly paused your heart mid-beat. Thinking about Jack stung in a way you didn’t like to admit, mainly due to the fact that it was painfully embarrassing that he had such a control over you.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered, bit your tongue to stop anything else from spilling out.

Kaylen’s eyebrows quirked. “So it is about him?”

Nails scraped your lungs. “No—yes—fuck,” you moaned, sitting up and balancing your forehead on bent knees. “It’s… all fucked up, K. I don’t know what to do.”

A sigh left her lips. You felt the bed dip as she climbed beside you. “I can help if you tell me.”

And so you did, started at the beginning of dinner to the end, as you left like a dog defeating in a cage match, heart crying blood. Comforting circles were rubbed into your thigh, but all they did was remind you how Jack used to trace shapes onto your leg, or arm, or back—how he touched you, just to know you were there, with him. He said it placated him.

It was shameful, how bile teased your throat even imagining it.

Rationally, you knew everything was your doing. Loving Jack, torturing yourself by being in his presence whilst he focused his attention on his girlfriend. Expecting any semblance of affection or intimacy even as another held his heart, branded her name over your own. It was always going to happen—knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

When finally you finished, the conclusion of your mournful, self-pitying tale followed by the sting of unwanted tears, Kaylen’s thoughtful silence waned. Her lips pursed, fingers twitching. You expected her to berate you; what had you expected, stupid girl? He has a girlfriend!

Instead, Kaylen hugged you. “Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” she murmured, pulled back with that pitiful smile you’d seen one too many times—one you’d be fine with if you never saw again. “He cares about you—”

“Not how I care about him, though,” you finished, and Kaylen gave a weak nod.

“I mean, if you told him what Brooke and her little bitch of a friend said, I’m sure he’d leave her. He’s done more for less.” That much was true. Regardless of whose lips it came from, Jack didn’t tolerate disrespect towards you—cut long time friends off for assuming they had any authority to speak poorly of you.

And you knew—knew with the same certainty that you knew your own name—that Jack would break up with Brooke if he knew how she’d spoken of you.

That should’ve made you giddy. Bursted bright light in your chest at the prospect of having Jack to yourself once more. Instead, it made you feel heavy, sand packed into your bones. Who were you to invade his happiness? If he’d chosen Brooke, so be it.

Sure, she’d disparaged you, but Jack’s life wasn’t yours to dictate anymore. If he wanted Brooke, he’d have her, until he decided to leave—not because you decided for him.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Eyelids heavy, the residue of late-night tears remaining on the skin, you felt the fight leave you. Kaylen frowned. “I just want it all to be over.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Seriously? You’re giving up on an eight year friendship because of something some dickface said about you? I thought Jack meant more to you than that.”

Kaylen’s words stung. Made you defensive, because she was right—you were giving up and you did care about Jack, but the pain had become too much. “It’s not—it’s harder to explain than that. He’s outgrown me, K. Everyone can see it but him. I’m an obligation, a burden, and yeah, maybe he loves me as a friend and maybe he wants me around, but his friends never have—his fucking girlfriend doesn’t. And at this point, I just want it to end, I want him to be happy without the conditions of making me happy.”

Silence followed. Contemplation showed clear on Kaylen’s face. You could tell, even without her words, that she didn’t agree—but, she didn’t comment on that. Rather, she placed a hand on your leg and squeezed.

Just like Jack always did.

“It’s your life, babe,” she conceded. “And if you want to do this, I’m not going to stop you—but you have to be content with it.” She gestured to you, the nest of blankets and red-rimmed eyes. “Because this? This isn’t happiness over a good choice. You’re miserable without him, and it’s been barely two days. Think about what you’re doing before it’s irreversible.”

With that, Kaylen got up and went to her own bed, and neither of you made comment of it for the rest of the day.

Her words came again and again like a fractured turntable. Of course you were miserable—Jack had been a constant in your life for eight years, consistently preserving your peace, including you when you’d never felt more like an outsider. Happiness was synonymous with Jack, his smile, his presence, him.

Did you regret your decision? Yes, and no. You regretted the way you’d gone about it. The petty silence, ignoring a person who’d made your younger years bearable. Your friendship deserved a better death than that, a reason rather than just… fading from existence, as if it never mattered in the first place.

That wasn’t the message you wanted conveyed, and so with fingers unsteadied by aftershocks, you texted Jack.

You weren’t sure how you’d explain, if you could tiptoe around the actual reason. Maybe you couldn’t, and maybe that was okay.

me

i’m so sorry for everything. i’ll explain in person. can we meet up?

Your response came half a second later. As if he were waiting. That selfish part of you prayed he had been.

j :)

ofc. my place tn?

me

yeah. that’s good. brooke won’t be upset?

Asking after her made you want to puke, but you knew it was necessary—she didn’t like Jack even breathing near you, having an entire sit down conversation with him was certainly out of the question.

Thrice, the little text bubble appeared and disappeared on your phone screen. You could sense the apprehension without any background knowledge.

j :)

not a problem. we broke up.

It was shameful, the backwards type of pleasure that brought you.

Maybe you were a terrible person. A terrible friend. You tried to reason that it wasn’t wrong to love someone, to wish they were yours.

me

shit j. i’m sorry

j :)

i’m not. i’ll see u tn. 7:30 work? have dinner w the guys.

me

yeah, that’s fine. see you soon, j.

j :)

be safe. i’ll text you when i’m home.

The hard part wasn’t even over, and your heart was already breaking in two.

Sweat beaded at your palms, the cold claws of apprehension raking down your spine. Countless times you’d been stood here, facing the lifeless beige of Jack’s apartment door. This time, however, you stood here knowing it was the last time. A silent farewell to familiarity, the ties finally cut. Jack would fight, you would cry, and maybe he’d be able to change your mind—it seemed such an unlikely outcome that it calcified every inhale in your throat.

Shaking hands rapped the wooden door, where behind would come the execution of a friendship you’d held like a crutch for years upon years. Your childhood had died, and maybe it would’ve been better had it been left there as well, so as to spare you this heart-rending pain.

Even still, you wouldn’t have traded those years for the world—everything they taught you, through pain and happiness. It made you who you were, brought you to his doorstep with melancholy eyes and a failing heart.

Footsteps echoed on the other side of the door, urgent in a way that picked up your heart rate. The next moments you imagined with brutal clarity—Jack’s hopeful gaze, blue in a way no one else’s ever had been, the soft slope of his nose you teased him for, scrunched whenever he was particularly concerned. How he’d usher you in, hear your words, plead for a moment to explain, and then admit his love for you.

That was how you dreamt it. Unsurprisingly, it was not how it went.

Instead of the door opening to reveal the man you’d love for a lifetime, the squealing hinges were followed by a face that nearly knocked you backwards. Previous indifference smeared into flat-out disdain as Brooke’s eyes caught your figure, engulfed in one of Jack’s faded hoodies and likely disheveled in a way she’d never experienced herself.

Arrows punctured your lungs, sole your breath and defaulted your barely beating heart. Brooke was here. At Jack’s apartment. After they’d supposedly broken up. Had he lied? Was he tricking you, making you the fool? He never would, you knew that, but your wounded mind spun falsities to perpetuate your pain, as if punishment for trusting him in the first place.

“What do you want?” Brooke grunted, leant against the doorframe. Lips twitched into a smirk, the smile of the victorious.

You’d never considered yourself a violent person, but the urge to punch her in the teeth itched your fists. “Is Jack here?”

Her face fell. Something dark flashed in her face—she hesitated a moment, tossed a look over her shoulder. “Yes.”

The curt response was better than nothing, you supposed. “Right, well, can you tell—”

Brooke ran a hand through her hair. Adjusted the clasp of her necklace. “We were kind of in the middle of something. Come back later?”

The axe struck down.

Gravel filled your throat. Suffocated you. If Brooke knew the affect of her words, for once it didn’t show on her face. Years of life had taught you many things, drug you through agonies you wouldn’t relive for anything, yet somehow, this was the worst pain.

To be betrayed, trust snapped by a single action, it stung. Wormed venom in your veins and contaminated your bloodstream, poisoning your heart. Realistically, Jack hadn’t actually done anything wrong. He was allowed to hook up with other girls, to love them—he had, for years.

That wasn’t the issue.

No, it was the fact that he’d set a time, invited you over, and somehow forgot? Or had he set it all up, just to rub it in your face, get his lick-back for your prolonged silence towards him? Either way, it hurt, hurt like a bitch.

Made stone, all you did for a moment was blink at Brooke before a voice called from the background, “Who is it?”

Jack.

Fright found you then, broke away your shell of stone. You couldn’t let him see you, the dog wishing once more to come in from the cold. If he’d planned it, and saw you, he knew he’d won. If he hadn’t planned it, then he realized that—irrecoverably—he fucked up. Both choices felt like a criminal trial you didn’t want any part of.

“I—um—have a good night,” you rushed out, feet stumbling over themselves as you practically ran away from Jack’s door.

So much for closure.

So much for being broken up.

Maybe this was your sign. The one you needed to finally pull away.

Because Jack Hughes didn’t love you. Not past platonic soulmates—a relationship stained with past memories, ones that made both of you incapable of letting go, even as you outgrew it.

You were done being second best. Done trying to squeeze into a place you didn’t fit anymore.

If Brooke was Jack’s choice, so be it. You didn’t want any part of it anymore.

[everythingsab]

BROCK BOESER THE MAN U ARE

[everythingsab]

Interrogated on the campus 😶

[everythingsab]

😛😛😛

[everythingsab]

the ache of nostalgia

[everythingsab]

[everythingsab]

I CANT🫠, this is dylan LinkedIn header

[everythingsab]

Just Friends

Jack Hughes x Best Friend!Reader

summary: You’ve been best friends with Jack for ages. He’s also been in love with you for ages, but he’s got that completely under control. Really, he does. Right? 5.2k words

warnings: alcohol/intoxication, non graphic mentions of surgery/blood/stitches, hospital stay, reference to Jack’s shoulder surgery :(

Jack finds you in his apartment kitchen, a black tie in his hand. He’s already dressed in his suit pants and shirt, and for once, he feels like hair looks almost presentable. You take the tie from him without a word, and you loop it around his neck, underneath the collar of his shirt. Meanwhile, he grabs your necklace off the counter and fiddles with the clasp.

You hum to yourself as you start to tie the tie. “Ready for the game today?”

He shrugs. “I’m always ready.”

Luke is there, too, shoveling cereal into his mouth and watching the two of you warily. As you loop the tie around your fingers, Jack slips the necklace around your neck, your skin soft under his fingers. He latches it, blindly, with expert precision, muscle memory. He’s done it a million times now.

You tug the tie into place and then smooth it out on his chest. He hasn’t put his jacket on yet, but you’ll fix the lapels of it, too. You take a half a step back and give him a once over. He stands, waiting for your approval with his breath held in his chest. It shouldn’t mean this much, you making sure he looks good, but it does. You reach up and tuck a lock of hair back into place atop his head, and he smiles happily.

“All good,” you say, dusting your hands together as if you’ve just finished a hard day’s work.

Jack squints at your face, spotting something, and he brings a finger up to brush against your cheekbone. “Eyelash,” he explains, and you hum, closing your eyes as he brushes it away. “Got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur. “Come on, don’t wanna be late. And no cereal in the car, Luke.”

Jack rushes off to grab his jacket. When he comes back, Luke is dumping the last of his cereal into the sink, and Jack grimaces. You’re in the hallway, stepping into a pair of shoes. Luke turns to him with a smirk, and Jack shakes his head before his brother can even open his mouth.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

Luke rolls his eyes. “I just think you guys are-“

“You thinking is dangerous,” Jack says. “Save all that energy for the game.”

He walks away, down the hallway to find you. You reach up to fix his jacket for him, and then you reach for the car keys and hand them off to him. He grins and nudges his elbow against your side.

“You’re such a passenger princess,” he teases.

You shrug. “I’m very good at it!”

He’s not complaining, really. There’s nobody he’d rather see in his passenger seat than you. Your jersey hangs proudly from your shoulders, his name and number on the back, and it makes his chest feel warm. You’re his good luck charm. He just hasn’t told you that yet.

…..

Jack’s spent so much time convincing his brothers and his teammates and his parents that he’s not in love with you, that he can’t pinpoint when it actually happened. He’s not sure there was some big moment, some realization, some day where he looked at you and everything changed. You’ve just been so present in his life that maybe it was a sort of gradual thing. Maybe it’s always been there, and he’s been in denial since he was eleven and Quinn was teasing him on the playground near their house.

Now you’re in New York, closer than you have been in years, both distance wise and friendship wise. You have season tickets, because he’s playing in the NHL and he wants you at every game possible. You spend half your nights at his place when he’s home, and he ignores the funny looks Luke gives him about it. Honestly, he’s a bit tired of denying it all. He thinks maybe if someone just asked point blank he’d let it all spill out.

He reads the text from you and smiles- you’re on your way to the Rock, one of your friends in tow. He’d gotten you two seats for the season, so you wouldn’t have to sit alone. He sort of dreads the day you decide to bring a date, but then he wonders what guy would be stupid enough to go along with that. Jack’s cocky, he’ll admit it. He knows he’s good at hockey. He laughs at the thought of you dragging a date along to see him play.

Someone announces they’re ordering food before the game, from the deli down the street. Jack listens as his teammates put in their orders. Luke goes with his usual. Timo changes things up. When the assistant gets to him, he grins. He orders his go to, and then another, and asks for a can of Coke, too, for good measure. Luke gives a knowing roll of his eyes.

When the guy brings the food in, Jack takes his bag, fishes his sandwich out of it, and hands the other sandwich and the can of Coke back. “Can you get this to seat B322?” He asks, grinning widely. He knows your seat number by heart.

Luke sighs heavily next to him. The guy agrees, of course. Nico, who’s standing nearby, cocks his head in confusion.

“She’s coming straight from work,” Jack defends. The ribbing he gets from the guys will be worth it when he sees you after the game. “She’s gonna be hungry.”

“It’s a hockey arena,” Luke says drily. “There’s so much food here.”

“But she loves Krauszer’s,” Jack says, and Nico rolls his eyes. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t order her some?”

“Friend,” Nico says, drawing out the word. “Sure.”

Jack ignores him. He ignores Luke’s smirk, too. He eats his sandwich and finishes getting ready, and then he heads out onto the ice, knowing you’re there somewhere, probably sipping on a can of Coke.

…..

The issue, Jack finds, is that it’s getting harder to ignore the fact that he’s in love with you.

It was easier, before, when you were younger and he was more dumb and less aware of… everything. He could convince himself it was just puppy love, just absence making the heart grow fonder, when post high school saw the two of you split apart. But now you’re here, close, and yet not close enough. Jack wants more, and he can’t really ignore that feeling these days.

He’s out at a bar, team bonding, as Nico put it. Except that half the team is drunk, including Nico, and the only bonding Jack’s doing is the brotherly kind, trying to keep Luke from sneaking drinks, or worse, getting caught sneaking drinks. Sometimes he hates being an older brother. He’d wanted to come out, maybe talk to a girl, maybe take said girl home, or get her to take him back to her place so he wouldn’t have to worry about Luke overhearing. But it’s not really working, not with Nico hanging off his shoulder like a leech and Luke sneaking another shot, and god, Jack’s going to kill him. If you were here, you’d be keeping an eye on Luke, too. He wishes you were here.

He has a shot to take the edge of the annoyance off. Then he has another, and another, and then there’s a girl across the bar, smiling at him, and- she sort of looks like you, is the thing, but not quite. The sort of uncanny valley of it all is freaking him out. For a moment he wonders if hooking up with her would make it better- would get it out of his system, would scratch the itch. The sane, more sober part of him thinks it might just make it all worse. To have some girl under him and hear a voice that isn’t yours. Jack used to do this all the time. The thought of it makes him feel sick now. That’s new.

He downs another shot and passes his leech of a captain off on his problem of a brother, hoping the two of them will keep each other in line. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and gets an Uber.

It’s only when he’s standing at your apartment door that he realizes he probably should’ve called first. You might already be asleep. You might be out. Maybe you have a guy over. His stomach does a somersault at the thought. He raises his hand to knock anyways- he’s come all this way.

You open the door with a smile on your face. “Nico called to ask if I knew where you went. Thought you might be headed here.”

Jack lets his shoulders drop. “They were annoying me.”

That’s not the real reason he left, but he can’t exactly tell you he saw the uncanny valley version of you and decided to leave. That would be… a lot. You seem to take his answer as the truth, because Luke is annoying on a night out, and Nico can be, too. Jack still probably should’ve told them he was leaving. He’ll get an earful about it. Oh well. The way you step aside to let him into your apartment makes it worth it.

He heads for the couch, and you laugh when he flops onto it, facedown. He likes your laugh. It sounds so much like you. He remembers the years when you were in college and he was far, far away from you, when he’d crack jokes on the phone calls just to hear you giggle. He presses his face into a pillow and hopes you don’t see the blush on his cheeks, or that you’ll attribute it to his drunkenness.

“Want food?” You call out, from the kitchen, he thinks. He groans loudly in response. “I have mozz sticks.”

He turns his head to the side and says, “fuck, I love you.”

He can say it here, in the comfort and privacy of your living room, in the relative safeness of the fact that he’s been drinking. You won’t think anything of it. You won’t realize how much he really means it.

The sound of your laugh is music to his ears. “Love you too, Rowdy.”

You don’t mean it the way he wants you to. That’s okay. He came to terms with that a while ago, listening to you say it over staticky phone calls. But you’ll make him mozzarella sticks, and you’re not upset that he’s here, so he’ll take it. He’ll take anything, really.

You come into the living room a few minutes later, plate full of food in hand, and make him roll over. He sits up slightly, leaning against the arm of the couch, and you lift his legs to sit under them. He doesn’t complain when you turn on some stupid reality tv show he hates- there are mozzarella sticks for him to eat, and the warmth of you under him, the weight of your arm where it’s draped across his calves. He can put up with the host’s annoying voice for this.

He falls asleep on your couch, half a mozz stick in his hand. When he wakes up, he’s tucked in with the quilt you’ve had for years now, a pillow under his head, and water waiting for him on the coffee table. You’re probably at work by now. He’ll send you a text to say thank you, later, unless he decides to just wait here until you come home. That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, really.

…..

It’s a Saturday, and Luke is out for lunch with some of the other younger players, so Jack’s fending for himself. Trevor, knowing this due to what he would call their cosmic connection, has seen it as an opportunity to talk Jack’s ear off over FaceTime. Jack has his phone propped on the kitchen counter, half listening as he cooks.

He loves Trevor- really, he does, but the guy could talk for hours upon hours and never run out of things to say. Jack lets him, because he knows Trevor likes talking, so he’s not going to be mean. He just chimes in with noises of agreement or disagreement at the right times. Then Trevor says your name, and he zones back in.

“I fucking knew you weren’t listening!” Trevor cackles, wide grin taking up most of the phone screen. “But the second I mention-“

“Shut up,” Jack groans, rolling his eyes. “I’m listening. I’m just also making lunch.”

“Right, right,” Trevor snarks. “Just for you?”

Jack knows what he’s insinuating. Honestly, as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad idea. You’re not working today, and he could probably convince you to come hang out with him in exchange for free food. He’s bored enough to listen to Trevor go on and on. You could save him from it.

“Yeah,” he says, and immediately contradicts himself by picking up his phone and sending you a text.

He tries to listen this time, he really does. He cares about Trevor, he wants to hear what he has to say. He finishes cooking lunch, and then Trevor has to go, shouting something to someone in the background, and he hangs up. Jack sighs at the empty, quiet room. He thinks about texting Luke to see when he’ll be back, but that feels pathetic. Maybe Nico’s not busy.

His heart leaps when his phone buzzes with a text from you.

Lunch sounds good. I’ll be over soon.

He can’t wipe the grin off his face the whole rest of the day. You come over, and eat the rest of the food happily, sitting at the kitchen counter. He watches fondly and tells you all the drama Trevor just told him- screw you, Zegras, he was listening. You smile brightly up at him.

“Got plans for the rest of the day?” He asks, hoping desperately that you don’t.

You shrug. “Nope. I’m all yours.”

God, he wishes.

…..

Jack thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can’t really be blamed when it all comes crashing down on a Wednesday afternoon in April. It’s been coming for a while. He’s had time to prepare. It shouldn’t take him out the way it does, because he’s seen it coming from miles away. It shouldn’t, but it does anyways.

They pull him from the games and finally, finally, ship him off to Colorado to have surgery. He gets an email with the flight information, another with a hotel to stay in the night before, and instructions on how to book his flight back to Jersey after he’s released. They don’t want to book it now, for fear of something going wrong in surgery. Hockey teams are superstitious like that, even their travel management.

There’s another set of emails, too- ones from the surgeon, about his prep and things he needs to do and bring and what to expect from the healing process. He hasn’t bothered to open it. That’ll make it real. He just packs up some of his clothes, shuts himself in his room, and waits. He ignores Luke, then he ignores Nico, who he’s sure Luke has brought over. He ignores Quinn’s phone calls, too, and everyone else’s.

When you show up, though, knocking on his bedroom door and calling out his name, he can’t ignore it. He makes a noise that isn’t a go away, and you take it as an invitation in, which he supposes it was. You make a soft noise of disapproval when you see him, curled up in his bed, hood pulled up around his head to block out the world.

“Hey, J,” you murmur, padding your way across his bedroom. “What’s going on?”

He sniffles and presses his face into the mattress. “The surgery.”

You sigh and sit down on the edge of his bed. “Yeah.”

Jack’s not afraid of having surgery, really. He’s never been very squeamish, never one to shy away from blood draws or stitches or IVs. You know this. Everyone knows it, which is probably why they’re all so worried about his reaction to this. He doesn’t want to admit it really, but it’s you, so he finds the words slipping past his lips.

“Mom can’t come,” he says, voice raw and scraping. “Or dad. Too short notice. And- and Luke and Nico and Quinn are gonna be busy, obviously, and I just… all this talk about surgery all this time and I didn’t think I’d have to do it alone, you know? It couldn’t wait till after the season so I could-“

He breaks off into an embarrassing, breath stealing sob. You make a soothing little noise and lean down next to him, scooping him up into your arms. It sort of helps and sort of makes it worse. The tears flow freely now. It’s just you. All his walls are down.

“You won’t be by yourself, Jack,” you murmur, and he waits for the reassuring words, that you’ll all be with him in spirit, that he’ll be home in no time, that he’s never alone. Instead, you say, “I took some time off. I’m gonna fly out with you, be there for the surgery.”

He pries one eye open, waiting for the punch line. There isn’t one. Just you, watching him carefully, holding him close. He knows how hard it is for you to get time off right now. It’s your busy season at work. And yet, here you are. Tears start running again. The whole world goes blurry. You just brush them away, one by one.

“Oh, honey,” you soothe, voice low and soft. “You didn’t think I’d let you do it alone, did you?”

God, he loves you. And he thinks this might be the final straw, the last puzzle piece. There’s no denying it now. You brush stray hairs from his face and press warm kisses to his forehead while he admits that he’s scared, not of the surgery but of what comes after, of the healing and the rehab and everything involved in it. You draw soothing patterns on his skin and just listen, because you know him well enough to know he needs to get it off his chest. He thinks about telling you how much he loves you as he starts to drift off, but he thinks better of it. There’ll be a better time than this, tear stained and curled up in his bed like a little kid. For now, it’s enough to know you love him, in any way, shape, or form.

…..

Jack wakes up in a hospital bed in Vail, Colorado, utterly disoriented and freezing cold. The ceiling is this ugly grey color, just like the rest of the ceilings in the building have been. He’s spent a lot of time staring at them in the last 24 hours. He blinks, and the tiles blur and swirl, and he hears his name in your voice. He tries to hold on, but he’s so, so sleepy, so he closes his eyes.

He wakes up again with no idea how long he’s been out. He’s warmer now. There’s an extra blanket laid over him, and a hand holding his. Hm. It feels nice. He squeezes his fingers experimentally. He hears movement to his left. A plastic cup appears in his field of vision, and he suddenly realizes how thirsty he is. He turns, slightly, and finds you.

“You’re here,” he says, quietly.

Your face is a little out of focus, but he thinks you smile. “Yeah, of course I am. Told you I would be.”

He knows that. He knows you flew out here with him, eating snacks on the plane before he hit the 12 hours before surgery mark and he had to stop. You checked into the hotel with him, got all the supplies ready for after the surgery, got him here, promised you’d be waiting when he woke up. But now he’s here, post surgery, and you’re holding his hand, and his chest hurts in the best way.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” you murmur, lifting the cup to his lips. He takes a sip. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head gingerly. He’s a little achy, but nothing that would make him cry normally. He can’t help it, it’s probably the meds. He remembers crying when he got his wisdom teeth out, too. He tries to tell you as much, but it comes out garbled and teary and raw. You shush him, smoothing your hand over his forehead and pushing his hair out of his face. That feels nice. You’re warm.

“Okay. It’s okay,” you soothe. “Take a breath. It’s alright.”

He does his best. You help him take little sips of water, and eventually the tears dry up. He’s left sitting there, your hand running through his hair, and he suddenly feels so, so sleepy. He turns his head and blinks at you. You’re clear in his vision now, beautiful as ever.

“You’re pretty,” he mumbles.

He thinks it all the time, he may as well say it. Nothing’s holding him back now. You laugh, and your face gets blurry again. He sighs.

“You’re pretty,” you say back.

He rolls his eyes, but he smiles anyways. “Hmm.”

“Are you sleepy?” You ask, thumb brushing against his temple. He nods. “You can go to sleep, okay?”

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” He asks, feeling a little vulnerable, suddenly.

“Yeah, Jacky,” you murmur, and when he closes his eyes, he thinks he feels your lips against his temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The third time he wakes up, you’re sitting next to him, eating ice cream out of a little plastic cup with one of the tiny wooden spoons. The tv in the room is playing that same stupid reality show. The host’s voice would piss him off if he wasn’t so focused on how adorable you look. He inches the fingers of his good hand towards you, towards where your knee is pressed against his bed. When he makes contact, you jump nearly a foot in the air. He can’t help but giggle.

“Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head at him.

“Nah, just Jack,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “Someone’s feeling better.”

If he’s being honest, he still feels a little loopy. Your face is in focus, but everything feels a little softer around the edges. His fingers scramble against your knee, and you laugh, leaning close. You set down the ice cream and reach to tangle your hand up in his. That’s nice. He doesn’t get to do that a lot- hold your hand. Maybe he should have surgery more often. You smooth his hair out of his face again. It’s such a caring motion that it sends his heart stuttering.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, quietly.

You shrug. “What kind of best friend would I be if I wasn’t?”

And. That’s nice, but it’s not really what he wants to hear. He wants you to be here because you love him. He probably wouldn’t spend hours in a hospital waiting room for Nico, probably wouldn’t sit and wait for him to wake up. He’d bring him food after, when he got home, would help him however he needed. But to fly halfway across the country just to be here? He’d do that for you in a heartbeat, but he’s not sure there are many others he’d do the same for.

You seem to notice the way he’s staring, and you wave the wooden spoon at him. “You want some ice cream? The nurse said to call when you actually woke up. I’m sure she’ll give you one if you turn on the charm.”

He blinks slowly. “I love you, you know that?”

It’s past his lips before he can take it back. It should be terrifying. He should feel sick to his stomach. Maybe it’s the hospital drugs, or maybe it’s just that he’s been holding it in for so long, but it doesn’t feel scary. He sort of just feels relieved.

You smile brightly. “Yeah, I love you, too, Jack.”

He huffs. “No, you don’t get it-“

Before he can get another word out, the nurse comes in. He wonders if you pressed the button when he wasn’t paying attention, or if hospital staff just have comically bad timing. He lets out a groan. You give him an amused smile.

“Welcome back, Jack,” the nurse says. He reads her nametag- Nancy. “I’m just going to do a little checkup, alright?” She turns to you. “If you want, you can step out into the hall.”

By the time he’s squeezing your hand to keep you there, you’re holding onto him tightly, too. Huh. That’s interesting.

“She can stay,” Jack says.

You nod. So does Nancy, a knowing smile on her lips. Jack wonders if she sees this a lot. Guys with friends who sit by their bed, oblivious to the fact that said guy is hopelessly in love with them. Maybe it’s a common thing in hospitals. Maybe it’s not just Jack. That’s a nice thought.

He gets his blood pressure taken, and his pulse, and he gets asked to take a few deep breaths for what seems to be just the fun of it. She asks his pain level- a 3, at which point you break in and tell the nurse that his three is more like a five. She smiles at the two of you. When she goes to leave, Jack speaks up.

“Could I have some ice cream?” He asks, hoping the way his voice cracks on the words makes her sympathetic.

Ice cream does sound good. His throat feels raw, and his mouth is dry. And he’s starving.

Nurse Nancy smiles and looks at you. “What do you think? Has he been well behaved enough?”

Normally, Jack would take a little offense to it. But he turns to you, and you’re smiling bright, lighting up the whole room. His stomach does a somersault. He wonders if the way he feels about you is visible on the heart monitor, if his pulse picks up every time he looks at you.

“He’s the best,” you answer, and he melts. “Give him all the ice cream you’ve got.”

Ten minutes later, you sit there, holding a container of chocolate vanilla swirl. He’d been ready to eat it on his own until he remembered his arm, the surgery, the whole reason he’s here. He’d had to settle for letting you feed it to him. Maybe settle is the wrong word, really. It’s nice to be taken care of, even nicer when you’re the one who’s doing it for him.

He thinks maybe he’s still loopy, because in between bites, he pauses, looks at you, opens his mouth, and puts his foot directly in it. “I meant it, you know. I love you.”

You nod. “I know.”

He’s too far into this to stop now. “No, I-“

You interrupt, dropping the spoon in the cup to place your hand over his. “Jack, honey. Tell me later, when you’re not high off anesthesia, okay?”

Oh. He cocks his head, slightly. His mouth tastes like chocolate and vanilla. You smell like flowers. Like the lilacs in the backyard of his childhood home. There’s a light and warmth in your eyes that makes everything feel a little bit better.

“And if I tell you later,” he says, feeling braver than he ever has before, “are you gonna tell me something back?”

You laugh. It’s still music to his ears. You pick up the spoon again, scooping up a bit of ice cream. His gaze stays locked on you.

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “That I mean it the same way you mean it.”

That’s enough for Jack, for now.

He tells you again the next day, waits a full 24 hours because a part of him is worried it was all some sort of drug induced dream. But you’re packing up the suitcases, that same stupid show on the TV, and he turns to you where he sits on the edge of the bed and says it.

“I love you. Like, really love you. As more than a friend.” His heart is in his throat.

You drop the hoodie you’d been holding into the bag, walk across the room to him, and come to stand between his legs. He’s holding his breath. You hook your finger under his chin and pull his face to yours. He thinks he recognizes the look on your face, from the kitchen when you helped him tie his tie, from the living room with a plate of mozzarella sticks in your hand, from every moment he was feeling all his feelings for you.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek. “I really love you too.”

When you kiss him on the lips, soft and sweet and everything he’s wanted for ages now, he thinks that maybe the whole mess has been worth it.

…..

He sits in a wooden chair on the back deck of the lake house. It’s mid summer, the week of the 4th of July. The heat is nearly unbearable, heavy and sticky and inescapable. Trevor and Luke are on the grass, throwing a football back and forth. Jack’s trying not to check the time obsessively.

Quinn, who’s sitting next to him, gives him a look when he picks up his phone again. “She’ll get here when she gets here.”

Jack rolls his eyes and sinks further into his seat. “You’re a dick.”

“Jesus, I know she’s your friend but…” Quinn is shaking his head. “You’re being obsessive.”

He hasn’t told any of them. Not about the hospital bed confession, or the kiss, or anything that came after it. The flight back to Jersey, his head on your shoulder. The way you took care of him before he flew to Michigan for the off season. The late night calls the two of you have shared since then. He’s itching to see you. It’s been far too long. He’s been scared to tell them because he’s scared you’ll get here and it won’t be real. He’s being ridiculous, he knows it, but he can’t help it. It’s you.

He hears it when your car pulls up in the driveway. He stands up, ignoring the look Quinn gives him. He’s not quick enough- you must’ve parked and ran inside immediately. You come racing out onto the back porch, eyes wide, smile even wider, and he could melt into a puddle right there in the hot summer sun. You’re brighter than all of it.

He pulls you into a kiss right there, in front of everyone, earning a series of surprised yelps and gasps and cheers. He doesn’t care about anything else. You’re here, and you’re kissing him back, and that’s more than enough.

“Fucking called it!” Trevor yells, and Jack laughs.

“We all did,” Quinn says. “Glad you two finally figured it out.”

You won’t be here forever. You have work, and a life in the city. But for now, for this little slice of time, he gets to have everything he’s always wanted. That’ll hold him over for the rest of the off season. Or, more likely, until he caves in and gets an early flight back to Jersey to spend more time with you. From the way you smile when you stare up at him, he thinks it probably won’t be long.

a/n: thanks for reading! have been wanting to write about Jack for a bit & he’s just so best friends to lovers coded. so here we go!

[everythingsab]

boston college v notre dame | nov 24/23

[everythingsab]

my heart is absolutely broken for this group

[everythingsab]

STUBBORN PRIDE

WARNINGS: absolutely none. Just some pure, sweet content.

PAIRING(S): Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: in which Jack Hughes is too stubborn to let Fem!Reader peacefully sleep on the couch.

Jack Hughes was difficult to have arguments with. He was stubborn and never seemed to take things seriously and he never really listened to a word anyone says. Everything always went in one ear and out the other. Like when Y/N told him she’d be on the couch for the night so she could have space, for example. It seemed space was not a word in Jack’s dictionary, because he strolled into the living room with his hands in his pockets and his lips whistling a soft tune.

Y/N glared at him from her spot on the couch, watching as he stopped a few feet before her. There was a smooth grin on his face, almost like he had plastered it on for appearance’s sake, like it masked the true nature of his feelings as he hid them with that usual unbothered smile of his.

“Is there room for one more?”

“No.” Y/N said bluntly, promptly turning away to face her back to him. She didn’t have to look back to know his face was curled into that pout of his, the dangerous one that did too good of a job of convincing her to give him his way.

“Okay, fine.” Jack huffed, and then she heard the soft thud of his body settling on the floor, making her itch to turn and peek over the edge of the couch.

Y/N succeeded at ignoring for him for approximately thirty seconds before the curiosity got the better of her and she swallowed her pride and took a quick look. sure enough, he laid curled on the hardwood floor, limbs awkwardly sprawled as he stared up at her with innocent eyes.

"What are you doing?" Y/N furrowed her eyebrows, and he stared at her like she’d asked a silly question, and maybe she had. Being hard to get rid of had always been Jack’s specialty, and she should’ve known better by now that retiring to the couch was never enough to retire from him.

"I’m going to sleep. What does it look like I’m doing?" Jack said like it was obvious. She almost smacked him with her pillow for his tone, but she had half a mind not to. It was the perfect opportunity for him to steal it, and it wasn’t her problem he forgot the single most important thing when it came to sleeping.

"Well, why here?" Y/N scowled, making him shrug as he settled his hands behind his head and looked up to the ceiling.

"Seems like a good spot to sleep if you ask me.” He said casually. “Nice hard floor to cushion my back, cool breeze of the air conditioning to keep me cold, and the clock ticking in my ear to keep me up. Sounds like the perfect place, eh? And if I get bored, we even have a TV.”

"I let you have the bed, you idiot.” She pursed her lips.

"Who needs a bed when I can sleep on the hardwood floor next to my sweet, pretty girl?”

Y/N cut him off before he could finish, feeling the last possible vein she could preserve while dating a man like Jack Hughes pop. "Well, then I’m going to use the bed if you won’t.” She sat up, grabbing her pillow and blanket.

And because he’s Jack Hughes, the bane of her existence and the sole cause of all her headaches, he sat up, too. "Good idea, baby. Let’s go.”

"No. You stay here, and I’ll take the bed."

"Okay.” Jack hummed, still not making any moves to lay back down.

Y/N quickly realized this wasn’t a battle she could easily win with him and she rolled her eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat as she glared down at him. Jack looked up at her with that same innocent look, those same wide eyes that blinked up at her like they couldn't possibly do any wrong.

"You do realize I’m not sharing the bed with you just because you're stubborn, right?" Y/N asked dryly.

Jack grinned, that familiar glint in his eyes that always meant trouble. “Well, I never said anything about taking the bed, now did I?”

"Jack, you can't possibly mean sleeping on the floor next to the bed.”

"It’s technically not the bed.” He insisted. “All you said is you're not sleeping with me. You never said anything about near me."

"Okay, I don't want to sleep near you.” She scowled.

"Nuh-uh, no way.” He shook his head. “You can't add rules now. It’s far too late."

"Jack, I swear to fucking God.”

"So, what'll it be? Bed or couch?"

"I hate you.” Y/N grumbled, settling back down on the cushions of their living room couch, back once more facing him. She could hear his body softly settle back onto the floor again, and after a few beats of silence, he spoke up again.

"Can I use your blanket? I’m cold."

"No."

"C’mon, just toss half of it over the edge, I’ll scoot over. We can make it work somehow.”

"Are you intentionally trying to piss me off?" Y/N snapped as she sat up, glaring down at him once more.

Jack Hughes was difficult to have arguments with. He was stubborn and annoying and so stupidly handsome. He made her eyes soften before she could help it as they grazed over his messy hair and the soft glow of his lip balm. He made her anger ebb away slowly no matter how hard she tried to latch onto it just from that toothy grin of his. He made her forget they were arguing and that she should be mad when she noticed the soft, gentle traces of love in his eyes.

So, Y/N blinked as she watched him, letting out a quiet sigh as he shook his head and offered her a small, innocent smile, one that told her he loved her, that he wasn’t mad, and that he'd wait on the cold, hard floor with no pillow and blanket for her as long as he needed to.

"No.” Jack chuckled. “No, I’d never want to make you mad. You’re scary when you get mad.”

"That’s rich, coming from someone who’s supposed to be a big, strong hockey player.” Y/N muttered, making him laugh softly. And she wasn’t mad anymore, not as much as she was just a bit ago. Maybe it was because she loved him too, even despite the way he made her veins pop, and her patience thin, and her head ache with that aggravating personality of his. Maybe that's what love was, when even the bad and the ugly were part of the good.

"Behind every strong man is an even stronger woman.” He cheekily remarked, his grin never fading.

"Just come here.” Y/N groaned, scooting over to make room for him on the couch.

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. He didn’t even waste a single moment as if he'd been expecting it all this time as he climbed in beside her and pulled her into his chest. It was cramped and slightly uncomfortable as her legs dangled over the edge and her pillow barely fit under both of their heads, but his body was warm and his arms held her tight and she could faintly make out the thrum of his heart against her body. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, not if it was with Jack.

"Did you miss me too much?" Jack wriggled his eyebrows, pouting when she shoved his face away as he leaned in for a kiss.

"You still haven't earned kisses back yet.” Y/N grinned. “Goodnight, Jack."

"But I can't sleep without a goodnight kiss.” Jack pouted, softly nudging her with his shoulder.

"I love you.” Y/N cut him off with a giggle. Jack Hughes was difficult to have arguments with, but she thought that she won this time.

[everythingsab]

into you | ryan leonard

word count: 1.43k

summary: all you want to know is if ryan's into you.

warnings: drinking, cursing, touching? nothing explicit though, kissing

notes: based on 'into you' by ariana grande. okay so i wrote this mostly in a single evening and it seemed to get me out of a writing slump so i hope you guys enjoy!

I'm so into you, I can barely breathe And all I wanna do is to fall in deep But close ain't close enough 'til we cross the line, So name a game to play, and I'll roll the dice.

You adjusted the bottom of your dress, pulling it down a little more so that you didn’t accidentally expose yourself. You step into the bustling environment, scanning the room for your friends. You come up empty, only spotting two different couples dry-humping each other and a very intense game of pong happening in the middle of the room. You’d rather be anywhere but here right now if not for the fact that Ryan specifically asked you to come. And it’s hard to say no to Ryan…

“Oh, there’s a party at Michaels frat tonight. Come with?” Ryan asked, throwing an arm around the back of your chair.

“Gross, I hate frats.” You groan.

“Yeah but you like to party with me so…” Ryan says, giving you a cheeky grin.

God, it was hard to say no to Ryan. His boyish grin and the twinkle in his eyes that accompanied it had you weak in the knees. When his eyes lock with yours, you feel your breath leave your lungs. His presence alone had the power to render you speechless. You’re so into him to the point it almost hurts. A sweet dull ache.

“Fine.” You cave. Ryan responds by leaning over to you and pressing a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you out of your brief daydream and into a strong frame. “Hi.” He says softly into your ear.

You instantly recognize the voice as Ryan’s, stopping you from elbowing what you thought was a handsy frat brother in the stomach. When you turn to face him, Ryan nearly groans out loud when he sees your outfit. Your legs looked endless in your black mini-skirt, and Ryan knew he’d have to force himself to keep his eyes off your chest behind a tight black t-shirt. God, you looked good. So good. Your cheeks burn as his eyes trace your figure.

“You look great.” Ryan says, a lazy grin on his lips.

You fight off a wide grin that threatens your own. “Thank you.”

You consistently found yourselves close to crossing the line, teetering on the edge of friendship. But never had either of you worked up the courage to cross said line. Your connection was a dance, a delicate balance of shared jokes, shared moments, and the lingering touches that left them both wondering. You yearned to cross the line, waiting for the moment that Ryan would make a move.

Oh, baby, look what you started, the temperature's rising in here Is this gonna happen? Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move Before I make a move.

“C’mon, the boys are back here.” Ryan says, taking your hand in his and pulling you towards the back of the house.

You arrive in a living area, spotting Ryan’s teammates scattered on two couches. The pair of you sit down in empty spots, squeezing next to each other so that your legs are pressed up against one another.

Ryan seamlessly joined the boys’ conversation as they discussed hockey. You found yourself half listening in on their argument, which consisted of whether or not the President's Trophy curse is real. Mid-sentence, Ryan’s hand finds its way onto your knee, sending a jolt of electricity down your spine. Your heart raced as you glanced down at his calloused fingers resting lightly on your skin, the contrast between their rough texture and the softness of your knee sending a shiver down your spine. Despite the ongoing conversation around you, your mind was solely focused on the physical contact. He began to trace gentle, rhythmic circles on the inside of your knee, your mind turning to mush. His hand lingered there for a moment before his touch ventured higher. With each inch slowly gained, your mind raced with questions, a manic but silent dialogue echoing in your thoughts.

Was this the moment you had been waiting for? Was this the culmination of all the unspoken pining the pair of you had shamelessly done? Or was this just a continuation of the dance the two of you had been doing?

Every fiber of your being yearned for clarity, for resolution, for an end to the game of push and pull that had consumed your relationship. You wanted nothing more than to be done with the tiptoeing and the skirting around the edges of what could be.

So, baby, come light me up, and, baby, I'll let you on it A little bit dangerous, but, baby, that's how I want it A little less conversation and a little more touch my body 'Cause I'm so into you, into you, into you.

Ryan’s hand squeezing your knee pulls you out of your thoughts, and back to the present moment. Your eyes flicked to his face, meeting his expecting gaze.

“Did I miss something?” You ask, your voice tinged with embarrassment. “I kind of spaced out for a second.”

Ryan’s chuckle washes over you, his boyish smile appearing on his lips and melting away the lingering unease. “It’s okay,” Ryan reassures you. “I just asked if you wanted something to drink.”

“Oh, sorry,” You reply, a blush creeping on your cheeks. “Uh, sure. I’ll come with you though.”

Standing up, Ryan extends a hand, helping you up from the couch. He tells his friends the two of you will be right back, leading you to the kitchen with a delicate hand on your back. His hand sits dangerously low on your back, his touch sending a shiver down your spine despite the oppressive heat in the house due to the amount of people.

Stepping into the kitchen, you find yourself alone with Ryan for the first time this evening. The atmosphere shifts, the ambient noise of the party fading into the background.

“What are you feeling?” He asks, motioning to the supply of alcohol on the counter.

“Are you playing bartender?” You ask, teasingly.

“Yeah, sit back. I’m great at this.” He says, supplying a wink. You chuckle softly, hopping up onto the counter.

“Alright, since you’re so great at this… I’ll let you pick my drink.” You say.

You watch as Ryan grabs two cups, pouring tequila and orange juice into both of them, before handing you one of them. “That’s it?” You ask.

“Babe, it’s a frat house, what did you expect a frozen margarita?” Ryan teases, slotting himself between your legs. The use of a pet name as well as the feeling of his hand back on your knee make your heart skip a beat.

You fall into conversation, telling each other random stories from throughout the week. You find yourselves talking seamlessly, punctuated by shared laughter. With each refill of your drink, you feel the inhibition that had been weighing on you slip away and be replaced by liquid courage.

Emboldened by the alcohol, you reach out, running a hand through Ryan’s dark locks. The conversation comes to a standstill as he eyes your face, locking in on the playful grin on your lips.

“Why haven’t you made a move?” You ask. Your words hang in the air between you two like a dare.

It isn’t until Ryan suddenly straightens up and your hand falls from his hair, that you realize how close he’d gotten. His brow furrows, Ryan’s expression briefly clouding with uncertainty. He stays silent so you continue, wanting answers.

“I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to make a move.” You say, a little chuckle slipping off your tongue. “And I can’t wait anymore. I need to know. I need to know if you’re into me.”

Without a word, he closes the distance between the two of you, capturing your lips in a kiss. His mouth is warm, lips firm as they kiss yours. You don’t hesitate to melt into him, tasting the tequila and orange juice on his lips. His hands land on your thighs, gripping them tightly. A soft whimper leaves your lips when his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, and then slides inside your mouth.

For a heartbeat, everything else ceases to exist and it’s just you and Ryan stranded in a moment in time. Every sense of yours feels heightened. The heat of his body pressing against yours, the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing in your ears.

The kiss finally breaks, the both of you out of breath from the shared moment of passion. Ryan’s soft eyes stay locked on yours as he brings a hand up to your face, cupping your cheek.

“I’m so fucking into you.” He says softly.

[everythingsab]

ready to take off 🦅

[everythingsab]

and then there were two

[everythingsab]

ME

[everythingsab]

hate the admit it, but du’s #5 ate that and #17 is totally the one who brings the vibe to the partys

BUT RYAN ATE WAY MORE THAN THE OTHER GUY

cutter and will have some work to do…