ivyrosewater - Tumblr blog

ivyrosewater · 22 days ago

Text

WE'RE JUST STARTING QUINN HUGHES

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎pairing quinn hughes x single mom!reader

SUMMARY back in vancouver, you’re doing your best to start over with your son. when rylan meets quinn hughes, things begin to change. but just as life starts to feel steady again, your ex-husband shows up. word count 5.3k

contains fem!reader, single mother!reader, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, anxiety, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, mentions of infidelity, absent father, co-parenting, language

note i've been working on this series for so long, and i'm so so excited for u all to read it !! i really hope u enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

QH43 MASTERLIST SERIES MASTERLIST NEXT

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎THE FIRST NIGHT back in Vancouver, the air had smelled like salt and pine. You remembered stepping off the plane with Rylan’s tiny hand in yours, both your suitcases dragging behind you, and breathing in so deeply your lungs ached. The terminal was too bright, too cold, and filled with other people’s hellos. But outside, beneath the heavy grey sky of the West Coast, the city welcomed you back with the smell of damp earth and sea—like childhood, like safety, like before.

Your parents were waiting in the arrivals lane, your mother already crying before she even hugged you. Rylan clung to your leg, overwhelmed by the noise and the unfamiliar familiarity of his grandparents, but your father crouched beside him and said in a soft voice, “Bet you’ve grown since I last saw you, buddy,” and just like that, Rylan melted into his arms.

It had taken less than a month to pack up the house in Edmonton. You hadn’t even cried when the movers came. There had been too much to do—meetings with lawyers, paperwork for custody, and receiving fake smiles from neighbours who used to wave warmly. People thought they knew what had happened. People looked at you like you were the villain in Matthew’s carefully curated fairytale.

You weren’t. But that didn’t stop the whispers.

Your son was five years old. He didn’t understand what it meant when he was dropped off at his dad’s every other weekend, or what the media was saying about his mother. He only knew that Daddy didn’t call when he promised, and that the house with the blue front door wasn’t his home anymore, and that his favourite player—his father—didn’t come to his last birthday party. You tried not to let it break you. You smiled through it. You told him it wasn’t because Daddy didn’t love him. You told him Daddy was busy. You didn’t tell him the truth because the truth was cruel.

Matthew Beaudoin had loved the image of fatherhood more than the reality of it. He loved the idea of a son cheering from the stands, of a wife in the family suite wearing his number, of press conferences where he could say things like “nothing’s more important than family” and be praised for it. He loved it, right up until the night you caught him with another woman on the phone, his voice whispering sweet nothings you hadn’t heard from him in months. He didn’t even deny it. Just stared, mouth parted. He said, “Let’s not make this ugly.”

You didn’t. You just left. And Vancouver was supposed to be a new beginning.

It wasn’t easy. Rylan missed his old room. Missed his toys, even though you brought them all. He asked when Daddy was coming. He asked again. Then he stopped asking.

You built new routines. Weekend visits to Granville Island, pancakes every Sunday, bedtime stories in the rocking chair your mother never threw away. And every other Saturday, you took Rylan into the city to see the Canucks play. Not on school nights; you were strict about that. But Saturdays were yours. You bought nosebleed seats and too-expensive cotton candy. Rylan would dress himself in his little Canucks hoodie and press his face to the glass during warmups.

He didn’t wear his Oilers jersey anymore.

When the Canucks hosted a special fan night and offered meet-and-greets with the players, you hesitated. But your father offered to come too, and Rylan looked up at you with such pure excitement that you couldn’t say no.

You didn’t expect Quinn Hughes to notice you. Or to know your name. You definitely didn’t expect him to kneel beside Rylan, sign his hat, and say with genuine interest, “You ever skate before, buddy?”

Rylan nodded shyly. “I used to. Daddy took me before… before.”

Your heart twisted.

Quinn’s gaze flicked up to you. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t give you the look—that look. The one that said Oh, her.

Instead, he smiled. “You look like you’ve got good balance. You should come out next time we have a fan skate. I can teach you some moves.”

Rylan lit up. And you didn’t breathe.

Because Quinn wasn’t Matthew. But he played the same game. And no matter how kind his eyes were or how warm his voice sounded when he told Rylan, “I’ll show you the best deke in the league,” part of you still felt the ghost of betrayal your ex-husband had left.

Still, you said yes, for Rylan.

Just for him.

The days that followed the fan night somehow felt heavier and lighter all at once. Rylan couldn’t stop talking about it—not in the car on the way home, not during dinner, not even while brushing his teeth, his little voice muffled around the toothbrush as he recounted every word Quinn had said to him. You had never seen his eyes shine like that since Edmonton, not even on Christmas morning, and that alone was enough to create a knot in your chest.

You had always been careful not to speak Matthew’s name unless you had to—you knew it hurt Rylan more than it hurt you. You taught yourself not to flinch when Rylan asked if maybe next weekend would be different, and Daddy would pick him up for a father-son day. But the moment you pulled the car into your parents’ driveway that night, Rylan had unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to you with hope in his voice you hadn’t heard in far too long. “Mommy, Quinn said I can skate with him. Do you think I’ll be good enough?”

You cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheeks, his skin still warm from the excitement. “I think you’re going to be better than good.”

And you meant it. You had.

But later that night, after he had fallen asleep curled into your side in the big bed with the blue sheets that still smelled like laundry detergent and lavender, you’d lain awake staring at the ceiling, wondering what exactly you had agreed to. It was just a skate. Just a little event for fans. Just a kind-hearted offer from a man who seemed good with kids. And yet, beneath the surface, there was something else—something you couldn’t name, a warning bell, almost.

You weren’t afraid of Quinn. Not exactly. You didn’t know him well enough to be. But you were afraid of how easily people in that world could make you forget how hard it had been to claw your way out of it. How quickly kindness could look like something more, like safety, like possibility, when you had been starved of it for so long. Matthew had been charming, too, once.

But unlike Matthew, Quinn hadn’t looked at you like someone he already had a story about. He hadn’t looked at you like her. He had looked at you like someone entirely new. Still, you knew better than to confuse decency with intimacy.

The next few days passed with anticipation. Rylan counted them like candy, made little tally marks on a sticky note he’d stuck to the fridge, asking you a thousand questions about what he should wear, what skates he should bring, and if Quinn would remember his name. Your mother had cried when you told her what had happened, pressing her hand to her heart as if it were too much for it to bear—“Oh, honey, Rylan needed this so badly,” she said, and you had nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat because you were afraid if you spoke, a sob would come out.

You spent the night before the skate getting everything ready—packing Rylan’s old gear into a duffel bag, trying on his skates to make sure they still fit, and even letting him stay up a little past his bedtime as he practiced moves in the kitchen in his socks. He looked like Matthew then, just a little—the way his eyes squinted when he concentrated, and bit the inside of his mouth when he made a mistake—and that alone caused your chest to tighten.

The next morning was grey and cold. Vancouver had the kind of winters that left you shivering just a few minutes outside. Rylan wore three layers and still chattered his teeth all the way there, but he didn’t complain. He bounced in his seat, eyes glued to the arena through the windshield as you pulled up. He unbuckled before the car had fully stopped, earning a glare from you.

Inside, the arena smelled like ice and Zamboni exhaust. Rylan walked beside you, his hand warm in yours, clutching his duffel bag that was three times bigger than him with his other arm as if he were afraid someone might take it from him. You signed him in at the check-in table, smiled politely at the woman in the staff jacket, and tried not to feel the old panic rise up when you saw the camera crews loitering by the boards.

Quinn spotted you before you saw him.

He skated over, a stick in one hand, Canucks’ branded jacket unzipped, and helmet off. He looked impossibly young for someone who carried so much weight on his shoulders, a franchise that lived and died on his performance—and yet, as he knelt beside Rylan again and grinned, he looked like nothing more than a kid himself, a boy who loved the game.

“You made it,” he said, glancing up at you briefly, eyes warm.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “He’s been counting down the days.”

Quinn laughed softly, turning back to Rylan. “You ready to show me what you’ve got?”

Rylan nodded so fast his hat slipped sideways. You fixed it carefully before helping him with his skates, watching his legs bounce with excitement. You stayed on the bench once he got on the ice, arms crossed, trying to will yourself not to feel anything at the sight of your son beaming as Quinn showed him how to handle the puck. But it was impossible not to feel it. Rylan had been so small and quiet ever since the move. And here he was now, full of life, chasing after Quinn as they both skated down the ice with other lucky fans and the rest of the team.

You sat there, clutching your coat tighter, eyes on your son’s smile as he skated lap after lap, chasing something you weren’t sure you could ever give him on your own.

You wanted him to have this.

You just didn’t know what it would cost.

The morning after the skate, the house smelled like coffee and maple syrup. Sunlight spilled golden streaks across the kitchen table. Rylan was already dressed in his little Canucks hoodie, crumbs on his chin, bare feet swinging above the floor as he talked about Quinn—about the drills they did, about how Quinn said he had “quick feet,” about how maybe, if he kept practicing, he could be defenseman like him too. He talked between bites of his syrup-soaked pancakes, his eyes still filled with excitement and happiness. You hadn’t seen him this animated in so long that it almost hurt.

You sipped your coffee in silence, the mug warming your hands, but it did nothing to soothe the ache in your chest. Your mother was humming in the background, folding towels in the living room, and the windows were cracked just enough to let the cold morning air in. For a moment, everything felt still, like the world had paused just long enough for you to remember what it was like to breathe without holding tension in your shoulders.

But the calm never lasted, you would know that.

Your phone buzzed once on the counter, then again, then a third time. You didn’t reach for it right away—you already knew what that pattern meant. Too many notifications, too fast. It was either bad news or gossip pretending to be important.

When you finally picked it up, your eyes scanned the screen: five messages, three missed calls, a flood of Twitter notifications. One from your lawyer. Two from a former friend in Edmonton, whom you hadn’t heard from since the divorce. One from Matthew. And then you saw it, the headline.

TMZ SPORTS

OILERS CAPTAIN’S SON SPOTTED WITH QUINN HUGHES: TROUBLE IN THE BEAUDOIN FAMILY?

By: Angela Vale | Published November 28, 2025 | 9:33 AM PST

What was supposed to be a feel-good community skate hosted by the Vancouver Canucks has unexpectedly sparked buzz far beyond Rogers Arena. Photos and fan footage surfaced late last night showing Canucks captain Quinn Hughes spending significant one-on-one time with a young boy on the ice during a public “Skate With the Team” event—and that boy, sources have confirmed, is none other than Rylan Beaudoin, the son of Edmonton Oilers captain Matthew Beaudoin.

The pair appeared close, sharing laughs as Hughes helped Rylan adjust his helmet and offered him pointers during drills. Several fans described the interaction as “heart-melting” and “surprisingly intimate,” with one attendee noting that Hughes stayed on the ice far longer than any of the other players, sticking with Rylan for nearly the entire session.

“He looked like a big brother,” one fan commented. “Or maybe even more than that.”

Though the event was designed to give young fans a chance to skate alongside their hockey heroes, the presence of Beaudoin’s son—and the ease with which he moved around the rink with Hughes—quickly set off speculation across hockey forums and social media.

“That’s not just any kid,” a Twitter user posted. “That’s Beaudoin’s son… On the ice with the captain of his team’s biggest rival.”

The Beaudoin family has kept a low profile since the public learned of Matthew and his now-ex-wife’s quiet divorce last year. Though no official statement was ever made regarding the reason for the split, the separation sparked its share of whispers in Edmonton, most of them unfairly aimed at Rylan’s mother, who was often painted in the press as little more than the captain’s arm candy. Those close to the situation, however, have long suggested there was more to the story.

What fans can’t seem to agree on is the implication behind Rylan’s appearance or Quinn Hughes’s involvement. While some have praised Hughes for going out of his way to support a young fan, others are calling the moment “loaded,” noting the longstanding rivalry between the Canucks and Oilers, and what this public connection might say about Beaudoin’s absence from his son’s life.

“It’s not a good look,” one anonymous fan posted on a Canucks discussion thread. “You don’t just hand your kid off to a rival team’s captain unless something’s really wrong.”

Neither Hughes nor the Beaudoin family have responded to requests for comment, though representatives from the Canucks PR team emphasized that the event was open to all fans and that “players are encouraged to spend quality time with guests when possible.”

Still, the optics are hard to ignore. As speculation grows and screenshots of the encounter continue to circulate, many are left wondering: Where was Matthew Beaudoin? And perhaps more importantly, why wasn’t he the one out there on the ice with his son?

Stay tuned for updates.

Your heart dropped to your stomach. The article was everywhere: local blogs, national outlets, fan pages. At the foot of the article, there was a picture of Quinn smiling down at Rylan, his hand steadying him as they skated side-by-side. Another of you in the background, watching from the bench, a soft smile on your face.

You could already see it; the storm brewing behind the likes and retweets, the whispers that would follow. And worse, Matthew.

The phone rang again. You didn’t answer it, but it didn’t matter because two minutes later, your phone lit up again, this time with a voicemail. You hesitated, then pressed play.

His voice was cold and clipped. You knew by his tone that the real shouting was waiting just beneath the surface.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

There it was.

“I told you to keep him out of the spotlight. I don’t want our son paraded around with some rival player like he’s part of a goddamn publicity stunt. This is humiliating.”

You could hear a glass clinking in the background, a low murmur that told you he wasn’t alone.

“He’s my son. You don’t get to let some other man play dad while I’m gone for a few weeks. I’ve been busy, you know that. You think that means you can just—“

The message cut off abruptly.

Rylan looked up at you from the table, syrup still on his lips, completely unaware of what just went down.

You hated him for that call. Not your son, but Matthew.

Because he hadn’t shown up in months; barely remembered birthdays, never followed through on those vague weekend plans, always too busy with a flight, a practice, an injury, a photoshoot, a fucking excuse, but the moment someone else so much as stepped into the hollow space he left behind, he called to scream, to claim territory like he’d earned the right.

You didn’t owe him an explanation, not anymore. But that didn’t mean panic didn’t fill every inch of your body, and didn’t mean you didn’t feel the wave of judgment already coming for you. You could practically hear the criticism lining up, the same voices who’d called you a gold digger, who whispered “baby trap,” who blamed you for leaving instead of asking what he’d done to make you go.

Your fingers tightened around your phone until your knuckles turned white.

Later that night, when Rylan was asleep, curled up in bed with his favourite blanket pulled up to his chin, you stood at the kitchen counter, staring down at the article again. It had gone viral. There were comments: some praising Quinn, some questioning your motives, and to your delight, some dragging Matthew. Most of them didn’t know the truth, but it didn’t surprise you because they never had.

You were still staring at the screen when a new text came through. A number saved under a name you hadn’t expected.

Quinn Hey Saw the article. Just checking in, is everything okay?

It took you a second to remember how he even had your number.

The rink had mostly cleared out, the last of the kids tugged off the ice by tired parents, their cheeks red and noses pink from the cold. Rylan was still beaming, his helmet pushed back on his head, one skate still laced while he talked excitedly to your dad about something Quinn had shown him.

You knelt to unlace his other boot. You didn’t notice Quinn until he was beside you, gloves off, his helmet tucked under one arm.

“He’s a good kid,” he said. “Smart on his feet. Quick.”

You looked up, startled for a second, then gave a polite smile. “Thank you. He’s… he’s been through a lot.”

“I figured.” He glanced toward Rylan, who had now moved on to talking your poor dad’s ear off about the flex of Quinn’s stick. “He’s got instincts, though. He sees the ice.”

There was a pause, not awkward, though.

“I’m not saying he needs to go pro or anything,” Quinn added, a soft laugh escaping, “but if he ever wants to skate more… or just hang around the rink a bit… You can call me.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone, tapping for a second before turning the screen toward you. “I’ll give you my number. No pressure; just in case.”

You hesitated. Every rational voice in your head screamed caution, reminded you how this went last time—how charm turned into lies, and empty promises became the norm. But then you looked at Rylan again. The way his whole face lit up just being here. The way he already idolized Quinn, the way he used to look at his father.

You entered your number.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “That’s… generous of you.”

He shrugged, a soft half-smile. “You’re not alone out here, you know.”

And that was the part that stuck with you most, the fact that he said you.

Not Rylan, but you.

Now he was on your screen, his message waiting for a response. You stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say. You could lie, say yes, or say it didn’t matter. You could pretend you weren’t standing in the kitchen of your childhood home with your heart hurting from a voice message you hadn’t deserved.

But something about Quinn’s message made the truth slip out.

You Not really, but thank you for asking

Three dots appeared on the screen, then disappeared, then appeared again.

Quinn Do you want to talk about it?

You didn’t know what scared you more, the idea of letting him in, or the way a part of you wanted to say yes.

So, you went for the safest option.

You That’s okay, thanks though

Quinn No problem. Anytime

The voicemail had come and gone. Four days of silence followed until tonight, when the silence finally broke.

You were in the kitchen, trying to busy your hands so your head wouldn’t spiral. The dishwasher was running, water and soap clashing behind the door, and you were wiping down the counters for the third time that evening. Outside, the sun had set, and the dark had started to creep through the backyard.

Rylan’s laughter trickled in from the living room. He was curled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn on his lap. He’d been rewatching the Canucks’ latest highlight reel, insisting you watch Quinn’s goal. You had, all five times he asked you to.

Then your phone rang, loud and jarring. The vibrations against the counter caused Rylan to peek from the living room.

Matthew

You stared at the name. It hadn’t even been a week since that voicemail, the one you still hadn’t deleted. You half-expected this call, but expecting pain never made it hurt less.

You picked up.

“Hello?”

“Finally,” he said, voice cold. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a pair and call me back.”

“I wasn’t aware we had anything to talk about,” you said flatly.

“Oh, don’t start,” he snapped. “I saw the pictures.“

You rubbed your eyes, shoulders tensing. “If this is about the skate—”

“Of course it’s about the skate. You think it’s cute? Letting Rylan play dress-up with the Canucks? Letting Quinn fucking Hughes act like he’s some kind of father figure?”

“He’s not acting like anything. He was kind and skated with him, that’s all.”

“You don’t see how this makes me look?” he barked. “My son paraded around by Vancouver’s ‘star’ while I’m the one getting ripped to shreds in the comments.”

“You’re worried about your image?” you asked, in disbelief. “That’s what this is about?”

“Don’t twist it; you always do that,” he said, voice sharper now. “This is about you turning my kid into some kind of PR stunt for your new boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said lightly.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Trading down like that. From a captain to another captain. What is this—some kind of fetish?”

Your blood boiled. “Don’t project your shit onto me; you made this mess. I’m just trying to raise our son without him thinking love means betrayal.”

There was a pause.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said finally. “You let another man step in, try to be something he’s not. You think Rylan doesn’t notice that? You think he doesn’t see it?”

“He sees,” you said quietly. “He knows who shows up.”

Another pause. This one’s longer.

“I should go to the press,” Matthew said, voice suddenly low and deliberate. “Clear the air. Let them know what’s really going on in that house.”

You laughed—a hollow one. “You do that. But leave Rylan out of it.”

He said nothing.

You hung up.

Your hand was shaking, so you placed the phone face down on the counter, steadying yourself on the edge.

You peeked from the kitchen, checking on Rylan, afraid he might have heard the conversation. But you felt a wave of relief when you noticed he was still fully engrossed in another Canucks highlight reel.

It had only been a few days, but you couldn’t forget about the phone call.

You hadn’t told Quinn. What would you even say? That Matthew had accused you of parading your son around like a pawn? That he’d threatened to go to the press?

That would only drag Quinn into a mess he hadn’t asked for.

It was a Wednesday evening, grey and quiet, and Rylan was on the floor in front of the couch, legs tucked under him as he watched a Canucks broadcast. You could recognize Quinn’s voice from the post-game interviews now. Both your parents had headed out for a date night, leaving you and Rylan home for the night.

“Mama,” he said, twisting around to face you. “Do you think we could go skating again with Quinn?”

You looked up from the laundry basket, skeptical. “I don’t know, Ry. He’s probably really busy right now.”

Rylan frowned. “But he said we could skate again. Remember? After last time?”

You nodded slowly. “I remember.”

He turned back to the TV, a beat of silence stretching between you. You folded another small shirt, smoothing the sleeves like it would help calm your nerves.

“I like skating with him,” Rylan added, quieter this time. “It’s fun skating with a hockey player.”

You didn’t answer right away because what could you say to that? You knew Rylan was starting to grow up without a father figure. But it wasn’t simple, not when the last man you trusted had twisted that trust into something ugly. Not when your son was the one who’d bled for it.

“I know you like him,” you said finally. “And I’m glad. I just want to make sure we’re not expecting too much, okay?”

Rylan tilted his head. “Like what?”

You forced a smile. “Like him always being there… People get busy; they have jobs, games, travel…”

“But he said he liked hanging out with me.”

“I’m sure he does,” you said, more gently now. “But sometimes adults say things they mean in the moment, and then life gets in the way.”

You didn’t mean for it to come out that way. You were tired. But also tired of how you projected your feelings about Matthew onto your son. All you want for Rylan is to never experience the disappointment of his father letting him down again.

Rylan turned back to the TV again, quiet now, and you instantly regretted it.

That night, after he’d gone to bed, you sat at the kitchen table with your phone for a long time. Just staring at Quinn’s name in your messages.

Your thumbs hovered above the keyboard, hesitating.

Then, finally, you typed.

You Hey Sorry to bother you this late. I was wondering if you’d maybe be open to skating with Rylan again sometime soon? He’s been asking. I told him I’d check No pressure if you’re busy.

You stared at the screen for a minute too long before hitting send.

You thought it was a bad idea, and maybe he wouldn’t reply at all, until a reply came, not even a minute later.

Quinn You’re not bothering me I’d love to. Tell me when

It had taken two texts, a time check, and a slightly panicked back-and-forth with Rylan about what snack to bring, but the plan had been set: Wednesday afternoon at 3:30. The local community rink, quiet enough during the week that it was almost private, especially if you knew the guy with the keys, which Quinn, of course, did.

Rylan had barely slept the night before. He’d laid out his Canucks jersey on the floor, asked you three separate times if you were sure Quinn was still coming, and insisted on packing his own water bottle and snacks.

Quinn was already there when you arrived. He’d texted you earlier that morning, just a simple let me know when you get here.

After you parked and grabbed Rylan’s bag from the trunk, you walked over to the large blue double doors and texted Quinn you were outside. A minute later, he opened the side door for you both, smiling softly at Rylan, who barely said hello before racing toward the locker room.

“He was counting down the days,” you said, hugging your coat tighter around you.

“I’ve been looking forward to it too,” Quinn said. The way he said it made your heart skip a beat.

You sat on the benches again, your breath fogging slightly in front of you. The rink was cold, but Ryaln didn’t seem to notice. He was flying, or at least trying to. Quinn skated backwards beside him, slow and steady, correcting his stance every few minutes with a guiding hand on his elbow or a quick pointer between drills.

You watched them for a while, letting yourself forget things for a moment—until your phone buzzed.

Your first instinct was to ignore it—your phone had been buzzing too much lately—but then you noticed the name flashing across the screen.

Mom

You answered quickly, rising to your feet, instinct drawing you a few steps toward the doors.

“Hey,” you said. “Everything okay?”

There was a pause on the other end, and you knew it was important.

“He’s here,” she said.

You didn’t have to ask who.

“He knocked about ten minutes ago. Didn’t say much and asked if you were home. I told him no, and that you wouldn’t be back for a while.”

Your throat went dry. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No,” she said. “But he didn’t look like he was just dropping by to talk.”

You looked back at the ice. Rylan had just scored—if you could even call it that—and was throwing both arms in the air while Quinn clapped dramatically beside him, nodding with mock seriousness like he’d just scored in overtime.

You felt sick.

“I’ll be home soon,” you said, your voice quieter. “Just keep the door locked.”

You hung up before she could ask anything else.

When you turned, Quinn was already watching you through the glass. He must’ve seen something on your face because he skated over without needing to be called.

You met him by the bench, not bothering to sit this time.

“Everything okay?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, then shook your head. “Matthew showed up. At my mom’s.”

Quinn’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I need to take Rylan home,” you said. “I don’t want my mom dealing with him alone.”

He nodded once. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” you added quickly, even though it felt stupid. Even though it wasn’t your fault. “He’s just… he always does this. Finds a way to show up when things are going okay.”

Quinn didn’t look away from you. “You don’t have to explain. Do you want me to walk you out?”

You looked toward the ice. Rylan was still skating, still pretending he was in a real game, stick raised, yelling something you couldn’t hear.

“Could you just tell him we have to go?” you asked. “I don’t think I can ruin it to his face.”

Quinn nodded again. “I’ll handle it.”

You stood there a moment longer, unsure of what you were supposed to feel. Ashamed? Angry? Grateful? Mostly, you just felt tired.

You stepped outside and waited by the car while Quinn finished up with Rylan. You could see them through the windows; Quinn crouching down, helping him untie his skates, one hand steady on his helmet. Rylan nodded at whatever he said, then turned and came barreling out the doors.

“You promised me more time,” he said immediately, arms crossed.

You knelt in front of him. “I know. And I’m sorry. Something came up, Ry. I’ll explain later.”

He huffed, dragging his stick behind him dramatically as he climbed into the back seat.

You looked back toward the rink once more. Quinn hadn’t come out. You wondered if he was giving you space, or if he knew it would only make it harder to leave.

You got in the car, started the engine, and pulled away before you could change your mind.

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎QH43 MASTERLIST ✷ SERIES MASTERLIST ✷ NEXT

#holy shit this is amazing #please keep writing I beg of you 🙏#quinn hughes x reader #「heather’s favs」

458 notes · View notes