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ahqueinfortunio · 29 days ago

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Quinn’s Midnight Crisis

It was 2:14 a.m. when your phone buzzed violently on the nightstand, pulling you from a light, restless sleep. You groaned, fumbling for the device in the dark, squinting at the caller ID. Quinn.

A smile tugged at your lips, even though you were exhausted from spending the day taking care of your sick friend. You’d left him home alone for the first time in ages, and he was obviously feeling it.

You answered, whispering into the phone, "Hey babe, everything okay?"

His voice came through in a low, desperate moan. "No. Absolutely not. It’s a crisis."

You sat up a bit straighter. "What’s wrong? Are you hurt?"

"Yes. Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically." He sounded completely wrecked. "My hand… it’s lost. It’s searching for its soulmate, and she’s not here."

You blinked. "Quinn… what are you talking about?"

"My hand. It’s missing your breast." His voice cracked with anguish. "It’s been pressed up against my own chest like an idiot all night, but it’s not the same! It’s cold! It’s lonely!"

You choked on a laugh. "Quinn!"

He groaned dramatically. "You left me. You left my hand to suffer. It doesn’t know where to go without you! I tried cuddling the pillow but it’s not… it’s not soft enough. It doesn’t have that perfect... give. Do you even care how hard this is for us?"

You stifled a giggle, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’re being so dramatic right now."

"Dramatic?" His voice rose in mock indignation. "This is life or death, babe. My hand might never recover. It might become permanently sad. You have to come back and save it!"

You flopped back on the bed, laughing so hard you had to cover your mouth to keep from waking up the whole house. "You’re so ridiculous!"

He huffed. "You don’t understand. My hand and your breast are like Romeo and Juliet. Like peanut butter and jelly. Like a slapshot and a top corner goal! They’re meant to be! And now you’re gone, and it’s just… it’s just... tragic."

"You’ll survive until morning," you teased, shaking your head.

There was a long pause. Then, in a pitiful, broken voice, he murmured, "Will I?"

You bit your lip to keep from snorting into the phone. "I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise. Tell your hand to hold on."

He sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if my hand falls into a state of irreversible despair, it’ll be on you."

"Goodnight, Quinn."

"Goodnight, my love. And tell your breast... my hand loves her."

You hung up, laughing so hard your stomach hurt, already imagining him dramatically clutching his pillow for comfort, sulking until you returned.

The next day, you finally made it back home around noon, exhausted but eager to collapse into bed. You pushed open the apartment door, expecting Quinn to be sulking on the couch, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Quinn?” you called.

Silence.

Then, you heard a shuffling noise from the bedroom. You cautiously approached, pushing the door open—and froze.

There was Quinn, sprawled dramatically on the bed in nothing but sweatpants, his hand draped theatrically over his own chest, his face twisted in melodramatic agony.

He gasped when he saw you. “My love… you’ve returned!”

You snorted. “Quinn, what are you doing?”

“I was mourning,” he declared, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed like a man recovering from a tragic loss. “My hand and your breast… they’ve been apart for an eternity. But now—” he stood and spread his arms wide “—the reunion can finally begin.”

You doubled over with laughter. “You’re being so extra right now.”

He crossed the room in three long strides, gently taking your hand. “You don’t understand. My hand has suffered. It’s tried everything—hugging the pillow, stroking the couch cushion, even patting its own face—but nothing could replace her.” He dropped to one knee. “I thought I’d lost her forever.”

“Oh my God, Quinn!” You giggled, yanking your hand back and stepping away, but he chased after you.

“Don’t fight fate!” he cried dramatically, lunging to wrap his arms around you from behind. His hand slid naturally into its rightful place on your breast. “At last… we’re complete.”

You gasped in mock surprise. “So this is what you were truly missing?”

He nodded solemnly, his voice reverent. “This is where my hand belongs. She’s my compass. My home. My purpose.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m a romantic, baby,” he said smugly, giving your breast a playful squeeze. “I’ll never let her go again. We’re bonded for life.”

“Quinn, it’s a boob.”

He gasped. “Don’t reduce her to that! She’s the breast. My one true love.”

You shoved him lightly, but he clung to you dramatically. “Promise me you’ll never leave me—and her—again,” he pleaded, his voice full of exaggerated sorrow.

“I promise,” you said, giggling uncontrollably as he lifted you off the ground, carrying you to the bed like a hero returning from war.

And from that day forward, you knew one thing for certain: Quinn Hughes was absolutely ridiculous—and your breast would never be safe from his hopelessly romantic hand again.

You’d had enough of Quinn’s over-the-top obsession with your breast. Sure, it was hilarious and kind of sweet, but it was also nonstop. So you decided to fight absurdity with absurdity.

The next morning, you slipped into a padded sports bra—the thickest, most impenetrable one you could find. Not only that, but you stuffed extra padding inside it to make sure it was absolutely impossible for him to feel anything. It looked completely ridiculous under your t-shirt.

You strolled into the living room, where Quinn was lounging on the couch with his hand already poised for its reunion.

“Baby!” he called, perking up like a dog spotting its favorite toy. “Come here. My hand’s been waiting all morning for her.”

You smirked and sauntered closer, letting him wrap his arms around you from behind. His hand found its way to your chest—and stopped short.

He frowned, patting the thick padding. “Wait a second… what’s going on here?”

You fought to keep a straight face. “Oh, that? I decided to protect her. From you.”

“What?!” His voice cracked like a teenager’s. “Protect her? From me?”

“Exactly.” You turned to face him, folding your arms. “I figured if I wore the breast equivalent of a Kevlar vest, you’d stop being so obsessed with copping a feel every time I walk by.”

His mouth fell open in horrified betrayal. “You built a wall between us? Between my hand and her?”

“Yup,” you said cheerfully, tapping your chest. “A fortress. You can’t get through.”

His eyes narrowed. He poked at the layers of padding. “This is—this is sabotage. Treason. An act of war!”

You burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic!”

“No! This is serious!” he declared, pacing the room like a general planning a siege. “My hand and your breast were made for each other! You can’t just cut us off! That’s cruel and unusual punishment!”

“Oh, please,” you teased. “It’s a boob, not a national monument.”

“To me, it is!” he cried.

You couldn’t stop giggling as he fell to his knees in front of you, clutching his hands in mock despair. “Please, baby,” he pleaded. “Remove the armor! Let us be together again! I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” you asked slyly.

“Anything,” he promised, eyes wide with desperation.

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Well… you could start by doing the laundry. And maybe… vacuuming. And making me dinner tonight.”

He blinked. “That’s… a lot of conditions for love.”

You grinned. “Think of it as earning your way back into her good graces.”

After a long, tortured pause, he groaned dramatically. “Fine! I’ll do it. All of it! But please, for the love of all that is holy, take off the fortress!”

You slowly peeled off the padded sports bra with a triumphant smirk, and Quinn let out an exaggerated sigh of ecstasy. He immediately wrapped you up in a tight hug, his hand settling back into its “home” with an exaggerated groan of happiness.

“Finally!” he exclaimed. “Reunited at last.”

You shook your head, laughing uncontrollably as he nuzzled your neck. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“And you love it,” he said smugly.

“Yeah,” you admitted, resting your head against his shoulder. “I do.”

As his hand claimed its rightful place once more, you realized that with Quinn, life would always be a little silly, a little dramatic, and absolutely unforgettable.

Bonus:

Later that evening, after fulfilling all his “chores of redemption”—laundry folded with exaggerated precision, the apartment vacuumed to near military standards, and a surprisingly delicious dinner on the table—Quinn disappeared for a suspiciously long time.

When he finally emerged, you nearly doubled over.

He was dressed in a too-tight suit jacket, a towel slung over his arm like a waiter at a fancy gala, and he held a small, sparkling ring box.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced grandly—though you were the only one there—“we are gathered here today to bear witness to the glorious reunion of Quinn’s hand… and her. The breast. The one. The only. The love of his life.”

You choked on your wine. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deadly serious,” he said, clearing his throat dramatically. “This is a solemn occasion. A sacred one.”

He crossed the room to you and dropped to one knee, popping open the tiny ring box to reveal… a glittery pink plastic ring, clearly pilfered from some novelty store or maybe a leftover prize from a Cracker Jack box.

“I present this token of eternal devotion,” he declared solemnly, “to the one who has captured my hand’s heart forever.”

You were crying with laughter. “Quinn, that’s a kid’s ring!”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” he whispered urgently. Then, still on one knee, he carefully “slipped” the tiny ring around the strap of your bra—right over your breast—like a cheesy romantic comedy proposal.

“There,” he said, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye. “Now she’s mine. Forever.”

You couldn’t breathe from laughing. “You’re so—so insane!”

He stood, pulling you into a spin. “You love it.”

“I do,” you admitted breathlessly, leaning into him. “But if you ever tell anyone you ‘proposed’ to my breast with a plastic ring, I will die.”

He grinned, dipping you like you were the heroine in a black-and-white romance film. “Our secret,” he murmured. “Just me, you, and… her.”

And as he pressed a playful kiss to your lips—his hand firmly but tenderly reclaiming its spot on your chest—you realized there was no escaping Quinn’s ridiculous, over-the-top, hilariously intense love.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagines #quinn hughes imagine #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagines #nhl smut #hockey smut

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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The Morning After - Will Smith Hockey

Will’s girlfriend leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee and watching him with a smirk. He was sprawled on the couch, blanket tangled around his legs, his hair a mess, and his head buried under a pillow.

“Good morning, champ,” she said, her voice teasing. “Or should I say golden boy of the IIHF World 2025?”

A muffled groan escaped from under the pillow. “Maya... too loud…”

“Oh, poor baby. Can’t handle a little morning after?” she cooed. She sauntered over to him, crouching down by the couch and lifting the pillow slightly to see his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he was adorably pouty.

“Last night you were all over me. Sloppy kisses, telling me you loved me more than hockey—which is saying something.” She grinned. “You even tried to slow dance with the coffee table.”

“I did not,” he mumbled, cracking one eye open.

“Oh, you did,” she said, tapping his nose. “But I have to admit, you were cute. Even with beer breath.”

“I can’t be held accountable for anything I did after we won,” he said dramatically, burying his face again.

Maya laughed, gently running her fingers through his messy hair. “Well, I forgive you. Just don’t throw up on my rug.”

“I’m never drinking again.”

“Sure,” she said, standing up and heading back to the kitchen. “You said the same thing after your birthday last year.”

As Will groaned dramatically into the pillow, she smiled to herself, shaking her head. It wasn’t every day your boyfriend won a world championship and came home drunk on happiness (and champagne). She was already planning to show him the videos she took when he finally crawled out from under the blanket.

By noon, the smell of bacon and eggs was enough to lure Will out from the cocoon of blankets. He shuffled into the kitchen, hair still a mess but looking a little more alive.

Maya stood at the stove, humming softly, flipping pancakes. She glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “Well, well. Look who decided to join the living.”

“Don’t be mean,” Will grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Not being mean,” Maya teased, “just documenting the recovery of a world champion.”

Will leaned against the counter, still rubbing his temples. “What even happened last night? I remember lifting the trophy, and then…”

“…You kissed me, told everyone at the after-party that I was the love of your life, tried to convince the team DJ to play ‘Let’s Get Married’ by Jagged Edge,” Maya said, barely holding back her laughter.

Will’s eyes widened. “I didn’t—”

“Oh, you did,” she cut in, flipping another pancake. “And you kept asking everyone if they’d seen your lucky stick, and when you couldn’t find it, you tried to use a broom instead.”

Will groaned, covering his face. “Please tell me you didn’t film any of this.”

Maya gave him a wicked grin and held up her phone. “Not only did I film it, but I’ve already started making a montage for your future wedding slideshow.”

Will’s face went red. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. And I will,” she said sweetly, plating the pancakes. She handed him a plate and set a mug of coffee in front of him.

He sighed, taking the food and flopping down at the kitchen table. “I deserve this,” he mumbled between bites.

Maya sat across from him, resting her chin in her hand. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re hungover.”

They shared a quiet moment, just the two of them—sunlight streaming in through the window, the smell of pancakes in the air, and the soft, affectionate teasing that comes after a night of celebration.

Will looked up at her, his lips curving into a sheepish grin. “So... when’s the slideshow?”

“Maybe at the wedding,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “If you’re lucky.”

By late afternoon, Will was fully recovered, showered, and looking like his usual self—except for the playful pout on his face as Maya sat on the couch scrolling through her phone. He sat beside her, nudging her gently.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice soft.

“Hey,” she replied, smiling at him.

“I’ve been thinking…” he started, trailing off, looking a little sheepish.

Maya raised a brow. “Oh no. Are you going to propose with your IIHF gold medal?”

He laughed, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Not yet. But I do owe you one for taking care of me today. I was a mess last night.”

She chuckled, leaning into him. “You were a mess, but a very lovable one. Plus, you won a world championship—I guess I can forgive you.”

“I can’t believe I tried to use a broom as a lucky stick,” he groaned, hiding his face in her shoulder.

“I’m never letting you live that down,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “But I’m also proud of you. Even when you’re silly and drunk and singing wedding songs at after-parties.”

They sat there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the sunlight casting a golden glow through the windows. Will pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Maya smiled, feeling her heart swell. “I love you too, Will.”

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his smile soft but full of affection. “So, about that wedding slideshow…”

“Only if you promise to dance with the coffee table again at the reception,” she teased.

He groaned, but his laughter was warm and genuine. “Deal. But only if you promise to catch it on video this time.”

“Deal,” she said, leaning in for a kiss.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows and bathing the room in soft light, they stayed there—two people caught in the quiet, sweet moments after celebration, after the hangover, after the teasing—just enjoying each other’s company.

#will smith hockey #will smith hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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Continuation of The Sweetest Assist - Joel Eriksson Ek

Joel Eriksson Ek had just returned home from a grueling practice, expecting a quiet evening with his fiancée, Emma, a sweet and dedicated kindergarten teacher. He opened the front door to the smell of... vinegar?

“Emma?” he called, stepping into the living room. He was met with a sight that made him stop in his tracks.

Emma was sitting cross-legged on the couch, her head wrapped in a towel soaked in something that smelled strongly of vinegar and mayonnaise. Around her were various “home remedy” supplies: tea tree oil, olive oil, a comb, and—was that mayonnaise on the coffee table?—and a half-used jar of peanut butter.

“Hey, babe,” Emma greeted, attempting a smile through her embarrassment. “Don’t freak out, but... I might’ve caught lice from one of the kids at school.”

Joel blinked. “Lice?”

She nodded. “I’ve been trying everything. The vinegar’s supposed to suffocate them, and the mayo... well, I read somewhere it can make them slip off the hair. I don’t know anymore. I’m desperate.”

Joel, trying not to laugh, dropped his hockey bag and walked over. “Are you telling me you’ve been sitting here marinating your head like a salad?”

Emma groaned. “I’ve tried everything! I used the comb, but they kept coming back. I even read about using vodka, but I’m not wasting the good stuff.”

Joel couldn’t help it—he burst into laughter. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Emma glared at him, though she couldn’t help but giggle too. “It’s not funny! I feel like I’m a walking buffet for these bugs!”

“Come here,” Joel said, still chuckling. He carefully pulled her into a hug, vinegar and all. “We’ll fix it. But first, let’s get you into the shower. I’ll help you shampoo out... whatever concoction you’ve made.”

“Deal,” she sighed, relieved. “But you’re not safe either—you might get lice too.”

Joel stepped back dramatically. “Then we’ll be twins! I’ll bring out the peanut butter. But no vodka. I need that after this.”

They both burst into laughter, realizing that no matter how annoying lice could be, at least they could face it together—with a lot of humor and a bottle of shampoo.

Later that evening, after Joel helped Emma rinse her hair for what felt like the fifth time, he realized they needed something stronger than household remedies. “I’m going to the pharmacy,” he said, grabbing his jacket.

“Thanks, babe,” Emma called after him, wrapped in a towel and eyeing the comb like it was a medieval torture device.

Joel arrived at the nearby pharmacy, still dressed casually in sweatpants and a hoodie. He approached the pharmacist, an older woman who gave him a warm, professional smile.

“Hi, I need something for... lice,” Joel said, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.

The pharmacist nodded sympathetically. “Oh, poor little one. How old is your son?”

Joel hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh... it’s not for my son. It’s for my fiancée.”

The pharmacist paused, raising her eyebrows, but then burst out laughing. “Well, that’s a twist! Poor thing. It happens to the best of us.”

Joel flushed a little, though he couldn’t help but laugh too. “Yeah, she’s a kindergarten teacher. Occupational hazard, I guess.”

The pharmacist nodded, still grinning. “I’ll show you the most effective treatment. Just tell her not to mix it with peanut butter next time.”

Joel laughed all the way home, grateful he could make light of the situation—lice and all.

Joel returned home, pharmacy bag in hand, shaking his head and chuckling at the exchange he’d had. He found Emma curled up on the couch, now wearing her comfiest oversized hoodie and still nervously combing through her hair.

“I’ve got the good stuff,” Joel announced, holding up the lice treatment.

Emma looked up, her cheeks still pink with embarrassment. “Thanks for dealing with this... and with me.”

Joel sat next to her, setting the bag down. “You’d do the same for me. Besides, it’s kind of funny when you think about it.”

Emma laughed softly. “I guess so. I just feel gross.”

He gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not gross. You’re amazing. You take care of those kids every day. And now you’re fighting lice like a warrior. I’m proud of you.”

Her eyes softened, and she leaned into him. “Even when I smell like vinegar and mayo?”

He grinned. “Especially then. You’re my vinegar-and-mayo hero.”

They both laughed, and Joel pressed a kiss to her temple. “Now, let’s get you fixed up. And once we’ve beaten this thing... I’m taking you out. Somewhere fancy. No bugs allowed.”

Emma’s heart melted as she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re the best, Joel.”

He kissed her again, softly this time. “No, you’re the best. Lice and all.”

As they sat there together—her wrapped up in her hoodie, him still smelling faintly of the rink—it didn’t matter how the day had gone. They had each other. And in that cozy, silly, and slightly itchy moment, love felt like the best cure of all.

#joel eriksson ek #joel eriksson ek imagine #jeek #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl fluff

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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Dimple Trouble — Clayton Keller

It was supposed to be a quiet night out. The Utah Hockey Club had just snagged a solid win, and the team decided to celebrate the only way they knew how: wings, beer, and a corner booth in a dimly lit bar with terrible 2000s rock on shuffle. Clayton Keller was wedged between Logan Cooley and a wall, nursing a beer and trying to ignore the way Cooley kept smirking like he was up to something.

“Dude, why are you staring at me?” Clayton asked, narrowing his eyes.

Cooley leaned back with a grin. “Just thinking how you’re about to get roasted the second one of these girls recognizes you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. No one’s coming up to us,” Clayton said, tipping his bottle toward the relatively low-energy bar crowd. “We’re in Utah, not Arizona. We could probably commit a minor crime and still fly under the radar.”

“You’re famous enough, dimple boy,” said Barrett Hayton from across the booth, catching the tail end of the conversation.

Clayton rolled his eyes just as someone brushed past their table. A woman—maybe mid-20s, effortlessly pretty, clearly on her way back to her group—paused mid-step and glanced at him.

“You know,” she said, half-turning back toward the table, a crooked smile playing on her lips, “you’ve got really cute dimples.”

Clayton froze. The table fell silent for two seconds—just long enough for the moment to sink in—before chaos erupted.

“DIMPL—” Cooley practically yelled before breaking into wheezing laughter.

“Oh my god,” said Hayton, pounding the table. “Kells, are you blushing?”

Clayton definitely was. He felt it crawling up his neck like a rash. The woman just gave a soft, amused shrug, totally unfazed, and wandered off to her group with a wink. She clearly had no idea—or didn’t care—that she’d just handed his teammates a loaded weapon.

“Cute dimples, huh?” Moser chimed in from the end of the table. “Should we start calling you Dimples Keller now?”

“Clayton ‘The Dimple’ Keller,” Cooley corrected, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s gonna look great on a jersey.”

“Shut up,” Clayton muttered, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh, he’s hiding the dimples! He knows his power!” Barrett howled.

“I hate all of you,” Clayton mumbled, but even he couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at his lips. A few seconds later, the waitress came by to drop off another round, and Cooley leaned forward with a stage whisper.

“Hey, do you think he has cute dimples?”

Clayton shoved him so hard that Cooley nearly knocked over his beer.

For the rest of the night, every time someone said his name, it was followed by “The Dimple” or “Mr. Dimples” or, at one point, “Captain Cheek Crater.” And every time someone laughed about it, Clayton just sank deeper into his hoodie.

But secretly—deep down, where no one could see—he kind of liked it.

(And he definitely scanned the bar a few more times looking for the woman who started it all.)

The night wore on, and the teasing didn’t let up. Every five minutes, someone was bringing it up again, like they were afraid to let the joke die. Clayton endured it with practiced stoicism and a steady flow of beer, his ears still faintly pink from the original compliment.

He tried not to scan the bar again, but his eyes wandered involuntarily. Just a quick glance to the corner booth near the dartboards—yep, there she was. Laughing with her friends, holding a margarita, head tilted back in that way that made it impossible not to notice her.

Cooley caught the glance and grinned like a shark.

“Thinking of going over there, Captain Cheek Crater?” he whispered.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Cooley said innocently, “it’s not every day you get a real compliment that isn’t from a drunk middle-aged guy in a Keller jersey.”

“Do it,” Barrett added from across the table. “Grow a pair, Dimple Boy.”

So of course, that was the moment the woman looked over again. Their eyes met. And she smiled. Not a polite, forgettable bar smile—but something knowing. Something teasing. And Clayton—despite every cell in his body screaming don’t make this worse—got up.

The table erupted in scandalized gasps and dramatic cheers like he was about to walk into a WWE ring. He gave them the finger without turning around and made his way through the crowded bar to her booth.

She saw him coming and subtly straightened up, her brows lifting just a bit. When he got to her side, he rubbed the back of his neck and gave a sheepish smile.

“Hey. Um… so. I’m Clayton.”

“I know,” she said, grinning. “Dimple Boy.”

He groaned. “They’ve infected you too?”

“They were very loud,” she teased, lifting her drink. “And to be fair, you do have great dimples.”

He chuckled, cheeks predictably dimpling again. “You’re gonna make me regret coming over here.”

“You regret it?”

“No,” he admitted. “But if you call me Captain Cheek Crater, I might actually die on the spot.”

“I’ll save that for date two.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He blinked. “Wait—was that a date offer?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Only if you’re brave enough to ask.”

Clayton looked back over his shoulder—his entire table was watching, some leaning so far out of the booth they were practically horizontal. Cooley gave him two thumbs up and an obnoxiously exaggerated kissy face.

He turned back to her. “Okay then. Would you… wanna go out sometime? Preferably somewhere less dimples-focused?”

She laughed, warm and real. “I’d love to, Dimple Boy.”

A week later, they went out for sushi, and when the waitress asked if they’d been there before, the girl leaned over and whispered, “Don’t let him smile too hard—his dimples might swallow the table.”

Clayton turned scarlet.

And he never lived it down.

Not from his teammates.

Not from her.

And, if he was being honest, he didn’t really want to.

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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The Sweetest Assist - Joel Eriksson Ek

Joel Eriksson Ek stood outside the sunny brick building of Maple Grove Little Stars Preschool, his heart thumping in rhythm with the little hockey puck ring box hidden in his coat pocket. It wasn’t often that a professional hockey player found himself on a preschool playground, but today wasn’t about his world—it was about hers.

His girlfriend, Emma, had worked at Little Stars for the past three years. Her days were filled with finger paint, snack time negotiations, and storybook voices. Joel had always loved how her eyes lit up when she talked about her students. So, when he decided to propose, he knew he wanted her kids to be a part of it. After all, they were a piece of her heart—and so was he.

The plan had taken weeks. Secret meetings with Miss Jenna, Emma’s co-teacher. Clandestine crayon art sessions during circle time. And most importantly: rehearsals. Kindergartners weren’t known for secrecy, but the promise of cupcakes and stickers had worked like magic.

Joel took a deep breath and texted Jenna.

"Ready."

He peeked through the glass door and saw the controlled chaos of preschool life. A dozen tiny heads turned toward him. Some squealed. Some waved. One pressed his face to the glass like a suction cup.

“Okay, everyone!” Jenna clapped. “Let’s show Miss Emma our special surprise activity!”

Emma sat criss-cross applesauce in the circle, confused but smiling.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed slightly (thanks to an overdramatic assistant with a light switch), and the kids sprang into action.

Little Mia stood up first, holding a sign covered in sparkly macaroni letters: “EMMA, YOU’RE OUR STAR.”

Then came Ryan and Chloe with two heart-shaped posters: “WILL” and “YOU.”

Three more children walked out, giggling as they carefully carried their homemade signs: “MARRY,” “JOEL,” and “?” (The question mark was backwards. Joel loved it.)

As the last sign was revealed, Joel walked in, dressed in a Wild hoodie and jeans, holding a bouquet of her favorite daisies, and looking more nervous than he had before any playoff game.

Emma gasped, covering her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. The kids turned to her, beaming with anticipation.

“Emma,” Joel said, voice slightly shaky, “I’ve played in front of thousands of fans. I’ve faced slapshots and overtime stress... but nothing has ever made me as nervous—or as sure—as this.”

He knelt in the middle of the classroom rug, surrounded by markers, juice boxes, and the wide eyes of a dozen kindergartners. Then he pulled out the ring—a delicate, elegant piece with just enough sparkle—and opened the puck-shaped box.

“I love you. I love your heart, your laugh, and the way you talk about these amazing little humans. So I figured... if I’m asking to be part of your life forever, they should be part of the question.”

He smiled. “Emma, will you marry me?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, all at once, the kids exploded with excitement. “Say yes, Miss Emma!!” “SHE’S GONNA SAY YES!!” One of them jumped up and down like he’d scored a goal in mini-stick hockey.

Emma laughed through her tears, nodding furiously. “Yes! Yes, Joel!”

He slipped the ring on her finger as the children rushed in for a group hug, turning the moment into a joyous dogpile of love, glitter, and crayon-stained hands.

Later, while everyone ate celebration cupcakes with way too many sprinkles, Joel leaned over and whispered, “Thank you for saying yes.”

Emma smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “You got my whole team involved. How could I not?”

Joel chuckled, watching Mia draw a picture labeled “Mr. and Mrs. Hockey Kiss Forever.”

“Best assist I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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Check Engine, Check Relationship - Connor Bedard

It was supposed to be a chill Saturday.

Connor Bedard had just finished practice and convinced his girlfriend, Liv, to go on a spontaneous mini road trip. Destination? Nowhere special. Just somewhere with drive-thru milkshakes and a lake view. Somewhere quiet. Peaceful. Predictable.

Unfortunately, predictability wasn't in the cards.

They were an hour outside Chicago, cruising down a scenic backroad, when Connor’s beloved but questionably reliable used SUV made a soft, but suspicious thunk. The music cut out. The dashboard lights flickered like a horror movie cliché, and then—dead silence.

“Uh,” Connor blinked, coasting to the side of the road. “That... wasn’t me.”

Liv slowly turned her head, sipping her strawberry milkshake. “Did the car just die?”

Connor tried the key. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. He smacked the steering wheel like that would show the car who’s boss.

“It’s fine,” he said, confidently. “Cars do this. It’s probably just, like… tired.”

“Tired?” Liv arched an eyebrow. “Your car has a bedtime now?”

He ignored that. “We’ll just call roadside assistance.”

Which would’ve been a great idea, except they were in the middle of nowhere, with 3% battery left on Connor’s phone, and absolutely no cell service.

“I knew I should’ve made you get the charger out of the house,” Liv sighed, pulling her hoodie tighter as the wind picked up. “You said we wouldn’t need it.”

Connor looked genuinely wounded. “I didn’t think the car would die! It just got an oil change two months ago!”

“Two months ago is not recent!” Liv laughed, then added, “We’re walking, aren’t we?”

“We are not walking,” he said with the confidence of someone who absolutely had no plan. “We're… assessing.”

Ten minutes later, they were walking. Connor carried the emergency granola bar stash, Liv carried the attitude.

They argued about the fastest way to the gas station (that neither of them had actually seen), took a wrong turn, got chased by a goose (Connor swore it had "sociopath eyes"), and finally stumbled into a rickety convenience store with one flickering fluorescent light and a cashier named Rick who offered them a single jumper cable and a can of expired iced tea.

Back at the car—by some miracle—the cable worked. The SUV coughed back to life with a dramatic wheeze.

Connor threw both arms in the air like he’d just won Game 7.

“Connor,” Liv said, getting in the passenger seat. “Next time we’re taking my car.”

“Fair,” he nodded. “But in my defense, wasn’t that, like, kind of fun?”

She gave him a long look. “You got hissed at by a goose, Connor.”

He grinned. “Still a W in my book.”

And as they pulled back onto the road, milkshakes now half-melted, granola bars half-eaten, and both of them half-exhausted, Liv glanced over at him and smiled. Messy as it was, this? This was still her favorite kind of day.

They’d barely been back on the road for ten minutes when Connor said, “Okay, so I might have spoken too soon.”

The car started lurching. Like, horror-movie-haunted-lawnmower lurching.

Liv stared at him, straw stuck in her mouth. “What did you do?”

“I just—look, Rick said to keep it under 40 or it might—”

With a groan that sounded suspiciously like a death rattle, the car came to a full stop. Again.

Liv leaned back, her head thudding dramatically against the headrest. “I feel like I’m on one of those fake dates where the guy tries to strand you in the woods so he can ‘accidentally’ impress you with survival skills.”

Connor opened his mouth, shut it, and then muttered, “You think I want this to happen?”

“I don’t know,” she said, smiling despite herself. “You're kind of thriving in chaos. It's weirdly hot.”

Connor blinked. “...I have never been more confused and complimented at the same time.”

Just then, headlights appeared behind them.

Connor squinted through the rearview. “No way.”

A matte black truck pulled up beside them, window rolling down slowly to reveal…

“Nick Foligno?” Liv exclaimed.

Nick tilted his head, grinning. “Why am I not surprised?”

Connor looked sheepish. “It’s not that bad.”

Nick glanced at the car, which was now lightly smoking. “You’re driving a dying toaster oven, Bedard.”

He motioned to the back of his truck. “C’mon. We’ll tow it. You two can ride with me.”

Minutes later, they were squished in the back seat of Nick’s truck, Liv trying not to laugh as Connor attempted to explain the goose incident.

“She had rage in her eyes, man,” Connor insisted. “Like, avian vengeance.”

Nick was wheezing with laughter. “You got run off by a goose?”

“It was large, okay?”

Liv leaned her head on Connor’s shoulder, finally relaxing. “This is somehow the weirdest and best day we’ve had.”

Nick added, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the entire team hears about it.”

Connor groaned. “That’s it. Trade me.”

By the time they made it back to Chicago, the car had been towed to a mechanic, and Nick had thoroughly roasted Connor via group chat.

They ended the night eating cold pizza on Liv’s couch, still laughing.

Connor looked at her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Next time we take your car.”

Liv smirked. “Next time we take Uber.”

And despite the smoke, the goose, and the breakdowns—both mechanical and emotional—Connor couldn’t help thinking he’d do it all over again. Especially if it meant ending up right here, with her.

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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🌸 I hope Smitty is fully aware of how beautiful he is 🌸

#will smith hockey #iihf worlds 2025

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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Lake Days and Love in Michigan - Luke Hughes

It’s a warm summer afternoon at a quiet lake tucked away in northern Michigan. The kind of place where time slows down, phones go forgotten, and even NHL players remember what it’s like to just be.

Luke Hughes is stretched out on a dock with his girlfriend, both in swimsuits, both lazily soaking up the sun like sleepy turtles. The lake water gently laps at the wood beneath them, and dragonflies hover in the golden light. His hair is still wet from a failed attempt at an “epic” backflip off the dock, which she rated a 3.5/10 for style but gave a bonus point for splash radius.

She’s lying on her back beside him, eyes closed, sunbathing. He props himself up on one elbow, gazing at her with a crooked smile. “You know,” he says, nudging her lightly, “science says sunlight increases serotonin levels.”

She peeks one eye open. “Is this a lead-in to something?”

“No,” Luke says innocently, then adds, “...Yes. I think your serotonin levels are peaking. I mean, these—” he gestures vaguely at her chest with mock seriousness “—are practically photosynthesizing.”

She bursts out laughing. “You’re so dumb.”

“Dumb, but observant,” he says, grinning proudly.

She rolls over onto her side, facing him. “You’re just using nature to justify being a boob guy.”

“Wrong,” Luke says, leaning closer. “I’m a you guy. The boobs are just an incredibly generous bonus.”

She playfully pushes him into the lake.

He resurfaces, sputtering but laughing, and yells, “Totally worth it!”

As he clambers back onto the dock, dripping and laughing, she’s already holding out a towel for him with a smirk.

It’s one of those simple moments that ends with them lying side by side again, warm from the sun, tangled fingers and happy hearts, with only the sound of distant loons and the occasional splash to keep them company.

The sun begins to dip below the treeline, casting long streaks of gold across the glassy lake. The dock is quieter now—just the two of them, a half-finished bag of kettle chips, and a Bluetooth speaker playing something soft and slow, like James Taylor met a lo-fi beat.

Luke is lying on his back again, arms folded behind his head. His girlfriend lies beside him, her head resting on his chest, tracing small shapes over the "M" on his college sweatshirt with her finger.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing right now if you weren’t playing hockey?” she asks softly.

He considers it, then smirks. “Probably still trying to impress you with cannonballs.”

“You barely impressed me with that backflip.”

“Yet, here you are,” he says smugly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She lifts herself slightly, eyeing him mischievously. “Only because I like a project.”

“Ouch. That’s harsh.”

“But accurate.”

He laughs, pulling her in for a kiss that starts off teasing, like everything with them, and then lingers a little longer—slower, sweeter. The kind of kiss that says: yeah, this is real.

Afterward, she whispers, “You’re lucky I like your dumb face.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You like my dumb face enough to go for a night swim?”

“Right now?”

He stands, offering her his hand. “Moonlight, no one around, water’s still warm. Come on—live a little.”

She takes it, rolling her eyes. “If I get leeches, I’m suing.”

“You can’t sue someone for romance,” he calls over his shoulder, already half-jogging down the dock.

They leap in together—splash!—and the world goes quiet again, just ripples and laughter echoing across the lake. The water is silky and cool around them, and when they float on their backs, it feels like they’re lying among stars.

At one point, Luke swims up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, whispering, “This—right now—this is the best I’ve felt in a long time.”

She turns in his arms, gently cups his face, and says, “You’re not just my project, you know. You’re my person.”

He kisses her again—this time with no jokes, no wisecracks—just warm skin, lake water, and a quiet promise.

Later, wrapped in oversized hoodies and a shared blanket, they sit at the end of the dock watching the moonlight ripple across the lake.

“I’m never forgetting this,” he says.

She leans her head on his shoulder. “Good. Because you’re taking me back here every summer.”

He grins. “Deal. But next time, you’re rating my cannonball a ten.”

“We’ll see, Hughes. We’ll see.”

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #nhl smut #hockey imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagines #lh43 #nhl imagine

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜

“You scare me too, but in a good way.”

Her apartment was a reflection of the woman Luke couldn’t get out of his head: organized, charming, and with a hint of quiet personality. It was nighttime in Newark, the sound of the city echoing softly through the half-open windows. They had planned to watch a documentary about players from the 90s—something casual, with no intentions. But everything between them carried something more, even when they tried to pretend it didn’t.

She wore an oversized Devils t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair tied up loosely, bare feet resting on the couch. Luke was sprawled beside her, a little too close for someone who was just a “frequent interviewee.” And still, she didn’t move away.

He turned his head and watched her silently for a few seconds. There was a small wrinkle of concentration between her eyebrows—he loved that. The way she dove into everything, even a simple documentary. When she realized she was being watched, she gave a small smirk.

— “Are you going to stare at me all night or actually listen to what Brodeur is saying?”

— “I think I’ve memorized his lines already. I’d rather try to figure you out.”

She let out a short laugh, but her eyes didn’t laugh with her. He was getting good at noticing that.

— “Don’t start, Luke.”

— “Why not? Because I’m younger?”

She sighed, turning her eyes away from the TV.

— “Because I feel ridiculous. Eight years. It’s not a small gap.”

— “You feel ridiculous for making me want to be a better man?”

The silence between them thickened. She lowered her gaze, lightly biting the corner of her lip—a gesture Luke already recognized. She was about to give in, even if she fought it.

— “You scare me too,” she whispered. “But in a good way.”

He moved closer slowly, his hand gently touching her chin, lifting her face.

— “Then let me really scare you.”

And she let him.

It was a slow kiss. Nothing like the urgent kisses she remembered from her youth, driven by impulse. With Luke, it was different. There was intention in everything—in the lips that explored hers with care, in the tongue that met hers with tenderness and restrained desire. It was like he’d waited too long for that moment to ruin it with haste.

Her hand moved up to his chest, feeling the firm muscle under the black t-shirt. He came closer, until she felt the warmth of his body completely envelop her.

— “Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about this?” he murmured against her skin, now exploring her neck with kisses that made her fingers dig into his back. “How many nights I imagined what it would be like to touch you?”

She cupped his face in her hands, looking into his brown eyes with a new kind of glow.

— “Then show me.”

They went from the couch to the bedroom unhurried, but hungry. Luke took off her shirt slowly, like someone unwrapping an old, precious gift. His fingers slid along her skin as if memorizing the map of something sacred. He admired her. And she felt it in every touch.

— “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, as if he were seeing a woman’s body for the first time—not in the physical sense, but in the weight of her vulnerability. She was real. Whole. Self-possessed. And still, she was there with him.

His clothes soon fell to the floor. When she pulled him onto the bed, Luke lay between her thighs, keeping his eyes on hers the whole time. Their bodies fit together naturally. He didn’t rush to enter—he wanted to tease, to explore. His hand roamed her curves, the touch firm yet gentle. His fingers found her center, and the way she moaned, biting her lip, was more than encouragement.

He leaned in to kiss her breasts, then her stomach, then the inside of her thighs. When he finally tasted her with his mouth, her body arched, fingers burying in his brown hair, pulling hard. Luke was intense. He knew what he was doing. And he did it with pleasure.

When he came back up, lips still wet, she kissed him hard, almost desperately.

— “You make me… lose myself,” she confessed between quick breaths.

He entered her slowly, keeping his eyes on hers the whole time. She let out a low moan, and Luke growled against her mouth.

— “I want to feel all of you.”

The movements started slow, deep. They touched each other as if they were learning to love for the first time. She moaned his name like a prayer. He held her like she might disappear. And every time their hips met, it was like the world outside faded away.

Luke rested his forehead against hers as their bodies moved together, breathless, sweaty.

— “You’re everything I never knew I needed,” he whispered. “Let me stay. Let me take care of you.”

She moaned in response, words slipping from her mind, only sensations remaining. Pleasure, heat, feeling. The climax came like a wave—her first, nails digging into his back; then him, panting against her neck, their bodies trembling together.

They stayed there afterward, bodies intertwined, silence filled with soft caresses and slowing breaths. She ran her fingers through his hair, and Luke traced imaginary lines on her bare skin.

— “You know this changes everything, right?” she said.

— “I hope so. Because I don’t want to be away from you anymore.”

She smiled, tired and happy.

— “You’re going to be trouble, kid.”

— “And you’re going to give me peace.”

The documentary still played on the TV, forgotten. But in that room, between sheets and truths whispered in the dark, a story began—one neither of them dared to deny anymore.

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ahqueinfortunio · 1 month ago

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I'm sorry, but the things I would do to him...

🫦🔥🌊

#luke hughes #jack hughes

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ahqueinfortunio · 2 months ago

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𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕭𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 - 𝕷𝖚𝖐𝖊 𝕳𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖊𝖘

The night is quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside the window. The lights from the skyline cast a soft glow through the curtains, illuminating the room where Luke sits, his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh. His eyes are fixed on the clock on the wall, the seconds ticking away, each one bringing him closer to what he knows is both his desire and his downfall.

A soft knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. His heart races as he rises, his body betraying him with the adrenaline that surges through him. When he opens the door, Claire is standing there, her expression guarded, but the tension between them is undeniable.

"I didn’t think you were coming tonight," Luke says, his voice rough, betraying the nervous energy he’s trying to suppress.

"I almost didn’t," Claire admits, stepping inside and closing the door behind her, but her eyes—those dark, familiar eyes—give away the truth. She wanted to come. She always wanted to come. "But I couldn’t stop thinking about you."

Luke’s breath catches at her words. Her presence is both a balm and a fire, soothing yet scorching him from the inside. He knows they should stop. He knows they should turn back, that the consequences of their actions will come crashing down sooner or later, but the weight of his feelings is unbearable. He’s in too deep.

She moves toward him, the air between them heavy with anticipation. He reaches out to touch her face, his fingers grazing the soft skin of her cheek. It’s almost too much to bear—the sweetness of her touch, the way she fits so perfectly in his arms, and yet… the knowledge that this is wrong gnaws at him.

"What are we doing, Claire?" His voice is low, strained with the tension building between them. "This… this isn’t us."

"It’s not supposed to be us," Claire murmurs, a sad smile tugging at her lips. "But it is. It has been for months now."

The words hang in the air, heavy with their truth. Luke feels the weight of them, like chains around his chest. He wants to pull away, to fight it, but he can’t. The desire, the connection, is too strong.

Her lips brush against his, soft at first, tentative, but then deeper, more urgent, as if they both know this could be the last time. It’s a kiss filled with the chaos of their feelings—passion intertwined with guilt, longing mingled with fear.

"I don’t know how much longer I can do this," Luke admits when they pull apart, his voice strained. "I can’t keep living in this lie."

"I know," Claire replies softly, her hand resting on his chest, her fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. "But I don’t know how to stop either. Every time I think about walking away, I come back to you."

Luke’s chest tightens as he looks down at her, feeling the weight of their reality crashing down on them. They are both tethered to something they can’t escape. He wants to be with her, but he knows the consequences. If anyone finds out—if his family finds out—it will tear everything apart.

"You’re my parents’ friend," Luke whispers, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "This is… this is crossing a line I can’t uncross."

"I know," she says softly, her voice barely a whisper, as if she feels the same crushing guilt. "But Luke, I don’t know how much longer I can live in this marriage, in this life that’s suffocating me. I never meant for this to happen, but here we are."

Luke closes his eyes, his hands gripping her shoulders as he pulls her closer. "I can’t help how I feel, Claire."

Neither of them speaks for a moment, the silence thick with their shared understanding. They are both trapped—caught between desire and duty, love and responsibility.

The knock on the door comes too soon, echoing through the room like a warning. It’s a reminder that they are living on borrowed time. That this cannot last forever.

They exchange one final look, filled with longing and regret, before Claire slips away, leaving Luke alone with his thoughts.

He stands there for a long moment, his heart pounding in his chest as the sound of her footsteps fades into the distance. The weight of the forbidden romance sits heavily on him, the realization that this is more than just a fleeting affair—that it has changed him in ways he isn’t ready to confront.

As he stares out into the night, the city lights blurring before his eyes, Luke knows that the story isn’t over. It’s only just begun.

The tension between Luke and Claire escalates, each moment more intense and fraught with the knowledge that their relationship is built on a foundation of lies. As the stakes get higher, Luke’s emotional turmoil grows, torn between his love for Claire and his loyalty to his family. The pressure begins to take its toll, and every secret meeting, every whispered promise, feels like they’re stepping closer to a breaking point.

Can love survive the weight of such forbidden choices, or will the truth come crashing down, unraveling everything in its path? Only time will tell as Luke and Claire navigate the depths of their passion, torn between love and the inevitable consequences of their actions.

–

The locker room is quiet, unnervingly so. Luke sits alone, half-dressed in his gear, his face buried in a towel. The sound of distant laughter and slamming lockers fades as teammates leave one by one. His mind isn’t on the game. Hasn’t been for weeks.

He should care. The Devils lost in overtime, and it was his turnover that led to the goal. But the only thing playing on repeat in his head is the message he read ten minutes ago.

Claire: He’s out of town until Sunday. I need you. Can I come over?

Luke doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. She knows the answer.

It’s after 10 when she arrives. The rain has soaked through her coat, and her eyes are darker than usual—rimmed with sleeplessness and something unspoken. Luke opens the door before she knocks.

Neither of them says a word. She steps inside, and he closes the door behind her with a click that sounds final.

He kisses her before she can speak. It's rough at first—desperate—but it softens quickly. Their mouths remember the path, the rhythm, the heat.

Upstairs, they fall into bed, and for a few stolen hours, the world dissolves. No marriage. No parents. No guilt. Just skin against skin, breath against breath.

Later, wrapped in tangled sheets and the sound of distant thunder, Claire lies with her back to him, staring at the wall. Her voice comes out so low he barely hears it.

“He knows.”

Luke freezes.

Claire swallows hard. “He hasn’t said it. But I see it. The way he looks at me. Like he’s waiting for me to admit something. Like he’s already seen it in my eyes.”

Luke pushes himself up onto one elbow, staring at her silhouette in the dark. “Then end it. Tell him. Leave.”

She turns to him slowly. “And then what, Luke? You think that fixes everything? That we just move on and pretend it wasn’t a betrayal?”

“Better than sneaking around like this,” he says sharply. “Better than lying to everyone. Lying to my parents every time I sit across the table from them while you're sitting next to your husband.”

Claire flinches. He sees it. And regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

She sits up, wrapping the sheet around herself, her voice tight with fury. “You think this is easy for me? You think I wanted this to happen? You were supposed to be a kid I’d known since you were ten, not…” Her voice breaks. “Not someone I fell in love with.”

The words hit like a blow. Luke is silent.

“I see your mom,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “Every week. She talks about you with so much pride. She has no idea that I’m… with you. That I’ve destroyed something she trusted.”

Luke leans forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “You’re not the only one who’s wrecking something, Claire.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches between them like a knife's edge.

After a while, Claire speaks again, barely above a whisper. “I should leave him. But if I do, your life changes forever. Your family will hate me. Hate you. You think love is enough for that?”

Luke doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know. All he knows is that the ache in his chest when she’s gone is unbearable. That the guilt and the longing are constantly at war.

“Stay,” he says instead.

Claire doesn’t move for a long moment. Then she lies back down beside him. She doesn't reply, but the way her hand finds his in the dark is answer enough.

The next morning, Luke walks into his parents’ house, late for brunch. The scent of fresh coffee and waffles greets him. He tries to steady himself.

Claire is already there.

She’s dressed differently—hair curled, lips painted in a soft shade. She smiles easily as she helps Ellen in the kitchen, laughing at something Jim says in the living room.

Luke can barely breathe.

She doesn’t look at him until later, when Jim is talking about the team’s recent stretch of bad games. Then, just for a moment, their eyes meet across the table.

It’s brief. Controlled. But there’s heat there. Regret. Fear.

No one else notices. Not yet.

But Luke knows—something is coming. The edges are fraying. And the center won’t hold forever.

–

The door shuts harder than intended behind Luke, the echo bouncing off the walls of Quinn’s apartment. He stands there for a moment, soaked in cold November rain, his hoodie clinging to his back, sneakers tracking water onto the hardwood floor.

Quinn looks up from the couch, startled. “Jesus, Luke. What happened?”

Luke doesn’t answer at first. He kicks off his shoes, drops his bag with a thud, and walks straight into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Closes it without taking anything. His hands are shaking, but he doesn't want Quinn to see.

Quinn sets his phone down. “You’re not okay.”

Luke laughs—short, bitter. “No shit.”

Quinn stands slowly, cautious. “Talk to me.”

Luke grips the edge of the counter like it might keep him from splintering apart. “I’m in love with someone I can’t have,” he says. “And I think it’s going to destroy everything.”

The words hang in the air, and Luke hates how small his voice sounds after saying them. Like a confession he’s kept buried too long.

Quinn frowns, stepping closer. “What do you mean? Who?”

Luke doesn't answer. He can’t. He just shakes his head, a thousand memories surging up—Claire’s perfume on his hoodie, the feel of her fingers trembling against his skin, the way she looks at him when no one else is watching.

“I can’t tell you,” he says. “I shouldn't have even come here. I just—I needed to get out. I needed to breathe.”

Quinn grabs two beers from the fridge, cracks them open, and hands one to him without asking. Luke takes it, sips like it’ll wash the shame off his tongue.

“Is she married?” Quinn asks quietly.

Luke stares at him.

Quinn blinks. “Shit.”

“She’s older,” Luke says hoarsely. “Way older. And she’s… she’s a friend of Mom and Dad’s.”

Quinn freezes.

“No,” he says. “Luke, no.”

Luke just nods. “Yeah.”

Quinn runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “Are you serious? How long has this been going on?”

Luke lets out a sharp exhale. “A few months. Since summer.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been sitting at dinner with her. With them. Pretending like—like nothing’s happening?”

Luke slams the bottle down on the counter, the glass thudding hard. “You think I don’t know how fucked up it is? You think I don’t feel sick every goddamn time I see Dad crack a joke with her husband, every time Mom hugs her goodbye at the door?”

Quinn’s face is tight, furious—but underneath that, he sees it: worry. Genuine fear.

Luke’s voice cracks. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t go looking for it. But she… she saw me. Not the jersey, not the interviews. Me. And I didn’t know how empty I felt until she touched me like I mattered.”

He looks away, blinking fast.

“I don’t sleep, Quinn. I skate like shit, I lie to everyone I care about, and when I’m with her… it’s the only time I feel like I’m not drowning.”

Quinn doesn’t speak right away. When he does, it’s softer. “Is it love? Or is it escape?”

Luke swallows hard. “I don’t know anymore. Maybe both.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then Quinn moves closer, rests a hand on Luke’s shoulder.

“Okay. You need to end it.”

Luke flinches. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Quinn says, eyes sharp. “You have to. Because this won’t end well, Luke. It never does. Someone is going to get hurt. Hell, everyone will.”

Luke stares at the floor.

“She said she’d leave him,” he mumbles.

“And then what?” Quinn asks. “You think Mom will look at you the same way? You think Dad’s going to laugh this off like it’s a bad hookup?”

Luke doesn’t answer.

“End it,” Quinn repeats. “Or it’s going to end you.”

Luke breathes deep. He feels like he’s holding a grenade to his own chest and can’t decide whether to pull the pin or keep pretending it’s not there.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” he admits.

Quinn doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Then you better find a way to be. Fast.”

Luke nods, eyes glassy, jaw clenched.

Because deep down, he knows Quinn is right.

And it’s already unraveling.

–

CLAIRE

The silence in the house is no longer peaceful.

It’s surgical. Tense. Waiting to cut.

Claire stirs sugar into her coffee, though she doesn’t plan to drink it. Her hands are still shaking from last night—the latest fight with her husband wasn’t yelling, it wasn’t even cruel. It was worse. It was quiet. Measured questions, eyes that didn’t blink, a calm voice that made her feel like she’d already been convicted.

“Tell me the truth. Is it someone I know?”

She hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. If she said no, she’d be lying. If she said yes… the world would catch fire.

Her reflection in the window looks tired. Older. Her lipstick feels wrong. Everything does.

A text buzzes beside her.

Luke: We need to talk. No more hiding. Quinn knows.

Her stomach drops.

She types: What does that mean?

But before she can hit send, her husband enters the kitchen, phone in hand. He doesn’t say good morning. He just holds out his screen.

A photo. A goddamn photo.

Claire and Luke. In his car. Her hand on his neck. Lips too close.

She goes cold. All the color drains from her face.

His voice is even: “Is that who it is?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn't have to.

He walks out. Door slams behind him.

Claire stands there, the weight of her decisions finally catching up to her in full.

It’s over.

LUKE

He doesn’t remember the drive. He only remembers gripping the wheel so tightly his fingers hurt, and the thudding in his chest like a puck bouncing around an empty arena.

He parks in front of Quinn’s place again. Walks in without knocking.

“She knows,” he says flatly.

Quinn looks up from his laptop. “Who? Mom?”

“No. Her husband. He has a photo. We’re screwed.”

Quinn shuts the laptop, exhales slowly. “You need to tell Mom and Dad. Before they hear it from anyone else.”

Luke leans against the wall, head back, staring at the ceiling like it might swallow him.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters. “I ruined everything. I didn’t just fuck up—I betrayed them. She was family to them. And I…”

“You fell in love with the wrong person,” Quinn finishes for him. “But you still have a choice in what you do next.”

Luke looks at him, tired and bitter.

“Do I? Because no matter what I choose, someone I love loses everything.”

He doesn't wait for a reply. He grabs his phone. Calls home.

“Hi, Mom… can you and Dad be home tonight? I need to come by. There’s something I have to tell you.”

He can hear the shift in Ellen’s tone instantly. Maternal instinct, sharp and alert.

“Luke… what’s wrong?”

“Just… be home.”

ELLEN & JIM

The doorbell rings at 8:04. Ellen opens it to see Luke standing on the porch, pale, eyes sunken like he hasn’t slept in days.

Jim is already standing behind her.

Something’s wrong. They know it before a word is said.

They sit in the living room. Luke doesn’t take off his jacket. He can’t look either of them in the eye.

“I need to tell you something,” he begins.

He doesn’t get more than four sentences in before Ellen puts a hand to her mouth. Jim doesn’t move, but the air around him shifts, like the room has tilted off balance.

“Claire?” Ellen whispers, voice trembling. “Claire?”

Luke nods, guilt washing over him in waves.

“I never wanted it to happen. I didn’t plan it. But it—”

“Don’t,” Jim cuts in, quiet but sharp. “Don’t dress it up. Just say it for what it is.”

Luke’s breath catches. “I love her.”

Silence. Heavy. Thick. Awful.

Ellen stands abruptly, walking out of the room. Jim stays seated, staring at the floor. When he finally speaks, it’s not anger—it’s worse. It’s disappointment.

“She held you as a baby,” he says.

Luke flinches.

“She changed your diaper while Ellen napped. She was in our wedding photos.”

Luke can’t breathe.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

“You’ve broken this family in a way that can’t be undone,” Jim says. “I don’t even know what the hell to feel.”

Luke opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. No apology will fix this.

He stands slowly. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

But before he can reach the door, Ellen’s voice calls from the hallway.

“No,” she says. “You don’t just leave after that.”

She steps into the room again, eyes red, arms crossed, voice shaking.

“You stay. You sit with what you’ve done. You look us in the eye while we grieve.”

And Luke does.

For the first time, he lets the pain come through. He sits. Silent. While everything they were as a family begins to fall apart around them.

–

CLAIRE

The air inside the house is sterile now—too quiet, too still. Her husband hasn’t been home in three days. He hasn’t answered texts. She knows where he is: a friend’s place across town. She saw the car parked outside. But there was no use knocking on the door.

The bomb has detonated.

It started with the photo, but now the fallout is everywhere. She’s no longer welcome at the book club. Two women canceled brunch on her. Someone at the grocery store wouldn't meet her eyes.

But the worst was Ellen.

She called yesterday.

Her voice didn’t crack, didn’t rise in anger. It was cold. Clear.

“You are not welcome in my home ever again. I don’t care what he said, I don’t care what you say. You knew better. We trusted you.”

Claire said nothing. There was nothing to say.

She scrolls through her phone now, thumb hovering over Luke’s name.

She doesn’t call.

Instead, she walks to the bathroom, looks at herself in the mirror.

For the first time in a long while, she doesn’t recognize the woman staring back.

LUKE

He hasn’t touched a stick in five days.

Not because of the media storm—because of the shame. The moment the photo leaked, it spread like wildfire. The team hasn’t released a statement yet. Management’s been circling him like vultures deciding if he’s salvageable.

He doesn’t care.

He hasn’t left his apartment except to walk aimlessly at night.

But then Jack shows up, loud as ever, banging on the door like the world’s not caving in.

“Open the damn door, Luke, or I’ll break it down.”

Luke lets him in. Jack walks in, eyes flicking over the mess: the unwashed dishes, the pile of laundry, the untouched takeout.

He whistles low. “Bro… this is sad even by your standards.”

Luke doesn't respond. Just collapses back onto the couch, eyes dull.

“I ruined everything,” he mutters.

Jack sits beside him, kicks his legs up on the coffee table. “Yeah. You kinda did.”

Luke glares. “Thanks.”

“But,” Jack continues, “so does every other human being who makes a horrible choice in the name of love.”

Luke stares. “It wasn’t just a choice. It was—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. It was intense. You thought it meant something. It did mean something. Still a train wreck, though.”

Luke sinks deeper into the couch. “Quinn hates me. Mom can’t even look at me.”

“They’re hurt,” Jack says. “But they’ll come around. Eventually.”

Luke rubs his face, sighs. “She called me last night. I didn’t answer.”

“You shouldn’t,” comes a voice from the hallway.

Quinn.

He steps inside, arms crossed. “You two really don’t lock doors, huh?”

Jack shrugs. “Security through chaos.”

Quinn walks over, drops a grocery bag on the table. “You need to eat something that didn’t come from a microwave. And probably shower.”

Luke looks at both of them—his brothers, so different, so steady in their own way—and something cracks inside him.

“I messed up so bad,” he says, voice trembling. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t,” Quinn replies. “Not all of it. Some things stay broken. But you own it. You face it. And then… you move.”

“To where?” Luke whispers.

Jack grins. “To us, dummy.”

He grabs a throw pillow and chucks it at Luke’s head. Luke catches it and, for a moment, the heaviness lifts just slightly.

“You’re still a Hughes,” Jack says. “We don’t disown each other. Not even for apocalyptic scandals.”

Quinn gives a small smile. “You’re not alone in this. Even when you try to be.”

Luke leans back, emotional exhaustion tugging at every bone in his body.

But for the first time in weeks, warmth settles in his chest. Not forgiveness, not yet—but love. Steady. Unshaken.

Jack flops onto the floor. “So, movie night?”

Luke gives a half-laugh. “What are we watching?”

Quinn smirks. “Not anything romantic, that’s for sure.”

They all laugh—quiet, tired, but real.

The storm hasn’t passed.

But for this moment, in this room, the brothers sit together. Scarred. Stubborn. Still standing.

And that means something.

–

LUKE

Autumn creeps over the city slowly — the trees outside his new apartment just starting to give in, leaves curling at the edges like paper left near fire.

It’s been four months since everything fell apart.

Since Claire.

Since home.

And now, Luke Hughes lives in a place that’s smaller, quieter, and finally—his. No framed photos yet. Just a few things that matter: his skates, his guitar, a notebook he only writes in late at night when the ache becomes words.

The media storm has faded into background noise. His name no longer trends.

The Devils benched him for three games. Sponsors pulled back. But he owned it. Spoke publicly, took questions, didn’t deflect. It nearly gutted him — but people saw the work. The sincerity.

And somehow… they let him stay.

REBUILDING

It wasn’t just the game he fought for.

He started therapy. Sat down with his parents. Cried in front of his mother. Took every bitter word from Jim and never once defended himself. He knew he had no right to.

But little by little, the silence thawed.

Ellen started texting him again.

Jim came to a game last week.

It’s not whole—but it’s something.

He and Quinn still skate together. Jack FaceTimes him nearly every day, usually shirtless, always too loud.

His brothers were the net that caught him. And in their eyes, he found something worth building toward.

CLAIRE

They spoke once more.

In a café, after she signed her divorce papers.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t tragic.

They sat across from each other like two people who’d once been in a storm together, each now soaking in the sun but still feeling the damp chill under their skin.

She touched his hand when she left.

No promises. No apologies left.

Just a look.

And then she walked away.

NOW

Luke watches the last of the sun disappear behind the skyline. There’s a game tomorrow, a new rookie in the lineup he’s been mentoring. He’s not the kid anymore. Not just a story, not just a scandal.

He’s a man who burned things down and learned how to stand in the ash without running.

His phone buzzes.

It’s a text.

Claire: Hey. Just saw your interview. You looked… steady.

He stares at it.

No emoji. No question. Just a gentle reminder that she’s still out there.

Still watching.

He doesn’t respond. Not yet.

He sets the phone down, grabs his coat, and heads out into the night, the air crisp with the edge of change.

Maybe he’ll text her back tomorrow.

Maybe not.

But as the wind picks up and the streetlights flicker on, Luke Hughes keeps walking — forward, quietly, deliberately.

He doesn’t look back.

[END]

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #jack hughes #jack hughes imagine #lh43

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ahqueinfortunio · 2 months ago

Text

Tan Lines & Trouble - Quinn Hughes

The sun was golden, the waves gentle, and the sand just hot enough to make you run goofy toward the water. Quinn Hughes was living the dream: off-season in a private beach resort with his girlfriend, coconut-scented sunscreen in one hand and a cold drink in the other. Life was good.

He was lying on a beach towel, shirtless and smug, sunglasses tipped down just enough to keep an eye on her as she lounged next to him in a tiny bikini that definitely wasn’t regulation swimwear. She looked gorgeous. But she wasn’t smiling.

Quinn noticed the way her brows had slightly knitted together, lips pressed in a pout that could rival any toddler denied candy.

“What’s up?” he asked, nudging her foot with his.

“Nothing.”

Ah. That kind of nothing.

“You sure?” He propped himself up on one elbow, the sunlight catching the defined lines of his torso like a Calvin Klein ad. Unfortunately, that didn’t help.

“Yep,” she said, way too quickly, eyes still locked on the water.

Quinn followed her gaze. There were two women—sunburnt tourists—clearly not being subtle as they scoped him out like he was the daily special. One even licked her straw seductively. Quinn winced. That was... not subtle. And definitely not hot.

“Oh,” he said, the lightbulb flickering on. “That’s what this is about?”

She huffed. “Maybe I don’t love it when strangers mentally undress you like you’re Magic Mike on vacation.”

He grinned. “Babe, I’ve got more tan lines than abs right now. They’re looking at me like I’m a snack, but you’ve got the whole damn buffet.”

She rolled her eyes, but he saw the corner of her lips twitch. “You could put a shirt on.”

“I could,” he said, leaning closer, “but then you’d miss the show. And I know how much you love the pecs. Don’t pretend like you don’t whisper ��thank you’ to my trainer every time I take off my hoodie.”

“Do not!” she said, laughing now. “You’re such a cocky little—”

“Hey, if you wanted me modest, you should’ve dated a librarian.” He winked. “Or someone with less, you know... chest.”

She shoved him playfully, and he grabbed her wrist, tugging her onto his lap.

“Tell you what,” he said, brushing a kiss against her neck, “next time a tourist stares, I’ll just start aggressively making out with you. That should get the message across.”

“Oh yeah?” she smirked. “Like a territorial seagull?”

“Exactly. Sexy, salty, and mildly inappropriate in public.”

She giggled, finally relaxing into him. “Fine. But if one of them asks for a selfie, I’m throwing your phone in the ocean.”

He kissed her again, all tan skin and sunscreen and sea breeze. “Deal. But only if I get to watch you dive in after it.”

The beach had emptied, the sun dipped low, and now only the sound of waves and tiki torches crackling filled the air. Quinn had ordered room service—champagne and some chocolate-drenched dessert they’d barely touched—because his attention was very elsewhere.

Ela estava sentada numa espreguiçadeira, com um moletom enorme da Canucks, que ele tinha quase certeza de que ela havia roubado da bolsa dele. Suas pernas nuas apareciam sob o moletom, a pele brilhando à luz da lareira, e quando o flagrou olhando fixamente, ela sorriu.

“You gonna ogle me all night or make a move, Hughes?”

He grinned, stepping closer with lazy confidence. “I can multitask.”

Quinn knelt in front of her, placing his hands on her thighs, slowly dragging them apart just enough to slide between. “You still jealous?”

“Maybe.” She tilted her chin. “Depends. Are you gonna do something about it?”

That was all the invitation he needed.

His lips met hers hot and hungry, tasting the champagne they hadn’t finished. One hand slid up under the hoodie, groaning softly as his fingers found bare skin. “You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?”

She gave him a wicked grin. “You left your hoodie unattended. Rookie move.”

“Not my fault I didn’t expect you to turn it into foreplay.”

He tugged the zipper down, kissing his way across her collarbone, slow and teasing. She arched into him as he pulled her toward the edge of the chair, her legs wrapping around his waist.

“Beach sex is cliché,” she whispered in his ear, breath hot. “But I could be convinced.”

“I mean,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, “what's more romantic than sand in questionable places?”

She laughed—short and breathless—then gasped when his hands slid under her, lifting her effortlessly as he stood" QUINN!”

He carried her toward the private cabana, all strong arms and smug grin. “Relax. I’m not doing all the work tonight. Just most of it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, kicking the curtain closed behind them, “but you’re in love with me anyway.”

Clothes were lost, inhibitions tossed with them. They made love under the canopy of stars and the sway of palm trees, soft moans blending with the ocean breeze. It was messy, it was sweet, and a little wild—like them.

Later, tangled in sheets that still smelled like sunscreen and heat, she pressed a kiss to his chest and murmured, “Still think they were just looking at your tan lines?”

Quinn smirked sleepily, wrapping an arm around her. “Nah. They were jealous of you.”

The next morning, the sun peeked through the gauzy curtains of the cabana, lighting up tousled hair, tan lines, and one extremely self-satisfied Quinn Hughes.

He was lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily tracing circles on her bare hip. She lay sprawled across his chest, groaning softly as reality returned.

“We’re gonna be picking sand out of places for a week,” she muttered.

“Worth it,” he replied without hesitation, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

She looked up at him, bleary-eyed and adorable. “You're far too proud of yourself.”

“I absolutely am.” He grinned. “I mean, I turned a sulk-fest into a sexcation. That’s top-tier boyfriend energy.”

She pinched his side, and he yelped, laughing.

“I’ll give you this though,” she said, climbing on top of him with a sly look, “your recovery skills are impressive.”

“Recovery?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Babe, this is just the warm-up round.”

They ended up staying in bed (well, technically on the cabana mattress) until well past checkout, and had to bribe a resort staffer with a signed puck and a few selfies to avoid a late fee.

As they finally packed their things—her still in his hoodie, him still shirtless and cocky—she gave him one last look before leaving the beach.

“You know,” she said, tossing a glance over her shoulder, “I think next time, I’ll be the one getting stared at.”

Quinn approached her from behind, wrapped his arms around her waist, and murmured against her neck, "Great. Just don't forget to leave the hoodie behind. I have a reputation to uphold."

And with a slap on his ass and a shared laugh, they headed back toward real life—sun-kissed, tangled up in each other, and already planning their next escape.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagine #nhl smut #hockey imagines #quinn hughes smut

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