Chapter Text
Quinn Hughes is an Omega.
That is one fact that up until now he thought would stay hidden forever. He’s been abusing his suppressants, hiding this fact since before he was drafted to the Canucks. He wanted more game time. He wanted to be great, and he couldn’t do that, can’t do that, isn’t really allowed to do that without keeping this part of who he is hidden forever.
The problem with abusing suppressants is that it comes with a host of negative side effects. Such as dissociating, loss of memory, brain fog. Until now, he’s thought these side effects were all things he was okay with dealing with. Dissociating on the bench, “seeing ghosts,” were all a part of his brand. But, after a decade of abuse, the side effects of the memory loss and the brain fog have caught up to him.
He doesn't take his suppressants one morning. Just forgets something that has become so second nature. Looking back on it, he can’t believe he has been so stupid.
Because of his forgetting, because he hasn’t had a heat in nearly ten years, his body rushes to catch up, and again the signs he should be familiar with, should have learned to anticipate and prepare for, go right over his head.
It hits him hard during their game against the Sabres. All of his limbs hurt, and he feels unnaturally hot, sweat pooling in places he doesn't believe sweat should ever pool. The other team has been drawing hits on him far more than normal, and the rest of his teammates seem to keep a wide berth from him like he smells off, smells bad. None of his passes connect. His brain fog is worse than ever.
It all comes to a head, when during the second period, someone cross checks him into the boards, and where he typically bounces right back up, typically skates away towards the puck or an open position, he crumbles, warm skin pressed against the ice. It would feel good if every other part of his body wasn’t screaming at him in pain. It's at this moment, curled prone on the ice, that Quinn realizes what this is before the paramedics even reach him.
In front of god and everybody his secret is revealed. Quinn Hughes, Norris Trophy winner, man with the most time in NHL, second best defensemen in the league, captain of the Canucks, is an Omega.
—
The thing about Omegas, particularly in the NHL, is that they are allowed to play with the rest of the men, but they have some rules set out to “protect” them. They aren’t allowed to be Captain. They aren’t allowed to exceed 10 minutes of play time per game. They aren’t allowed to get into fights. Any penalty against them counts as a major automatically if it’s not the omega’s fault for insighting it in the first place.
Quinn Hughes is an anomaly. An anomaly that the Canucks have to fix before they get fined to shit by the league, before they are blamed for Quinn's own attempts to subvert the system.
When Quinn comes out of heat, it’s to learn he’s been traded, something he knew was coming before the reveal but now can’t help but feel a sinking pit in his stomach. He was supposed to go to the Devils, play with his brothers, but he can kiss that goodbye.
He is shocked, however, to see it’s the Wild he’s been traded to.
He doesn’t know what to expect with the Wild, doesn’t know what hockey for him will look like now that he’s different (or the same, just exposed). He tries to be optimistic when the coach and the GM come to pick him up. They seem like good people, and they have the decency not to bring up his situation the entire time, something that both relieves and terrifies him.
It isn’t until they have touched down in Minnesota. It isn’t until Quinn Hughes realizes his gear bag is in his brother's car and that the brain fog didn’t go away because he forgot his suppressants one time. It isn’t until then, before he’s met any of the guys on the team that he has been pulled into the office for a debrief.
“Son, I want to be clear on one thing, we got you because you are a fantastic player,” the coach, Hynes, is saying to him, as the GM nods along behind his desk. “We want you to play. We don’t expect miracles, we just expect you to play good hockey and help us and our team win.” Quinn nods because he doesn’t really know where this is going and already he is out of his depth here. “What we are most concerned with now is your health.”
Quinn feels his insides freeze. He feels trapped, caught. He hadn’t expected this.
“How many suppressants do you take and how frequently?” the GM asks, pen poised to write whatever figure he says down.
Quinn could lie. He should lie. He has just been exposed in front of the whole league, the whole world really, because he couldn’t take his suppressants right. He built a career off of his excessive play time, his excessive suppressant use. He has so much to lose in admitting, but also, he realizes, he’s already lost it.
He tells the truth. “I take 6 200mg tablets everyday”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Well, okay.” It’s the GM, Bill Guerin, who starts talking. “We are going to have to wean you off and work with a schedule to where you aren’t pushing your body to its extremes like this.”
Quinn goes to protest. Even the thought of doing that curdles something in his gut.
“Son, you are here to play hockey, and to do that you need to be healthy.” Hynes cuts him off, “I know it's tough what you are facing and the stigma you have to deal with, but I need you to trust that we care about you. We are working to get you your play time on the ice, so you have to give us attention to your health. You can’t play if you can’t even form thoughts.”
As angry as it makes him, he has a point, and Quinn can’t argue against that. So he agrees to work with them to make a plan on reducing his suppressants. He meets with the athletic trainer and the health team for a physical and an overall regimen.
They are putting him on patches, lowering his dosage little by little, and cutting the pills out the equation. He’s meant to come in at regular intervals for check-ups.
Quinn listens and nods when he thinks he’s supposed to, but he can’t help but feel like everything is blurring past him. The idea of losing the pills, no matter how right the staff is, causes his blood to run cold. He’s happy when it's over and he’s released from their care.
He meets the team next, walking into the locker room, his gear now flying somewhere over the USA towards Minnesota, into the lion's den. It smells musty and like sweat, much like every other locker room he’s ever been in. When he walks in, all the chaos and laughter stops. The room is filled with Alphas and Betas alike all turned to stare at him.
“Um, hey guys, happy to be here!” Quinn says, hoping to cut whatever awkward ice is freezing the room in place.
It’s Spurgeon, the captain, of course, a mild-mannered Beta, who breaks it, coming over to clap Quinn on the shoulder, “Happy to have you! Let's get you introduced to everybody.”
Introduced like he hasn’t played against most of them for years now, like he didn’t have their stats memorized, like he wasn’t the captain of his own team not a few days ago.
Still, now that Spurgeon has touched him, spoken to him, it is like some taboo has been broken. Sound resumes in the locker room to an almost deafening noise. Sprugeon introduces him first to the two alternate captains, Foligno and Kaprizov, both of whom are Alphas. Both are friendly, with wide smiles on their faces. Foligno stands tall like the stereotype of every Alpha male player out there. He mentions something about coming over for dinner one night to welcome him to the team. Kaprizov on the other hand is at eye level with Quinn, but he’s broad in a way Quinn can’t help but notice. While Foligno talks Kaprizov doesn’t take his eyes off Quinn nor does his smile ever waver.
It isn’t until Foligno finishes talking and pulls Spurgeon off to discuss something that Kaprizov says anything to him. “We live in the same building, roomie!”
His smile stretched impossibly wider. Quinn doesn’t follow for a moment before he realizes he’s talking about the apartment building Management found for him.
“Fun!” he says, hoping he means it, and it doesn’t fall flat. Kaprizov is an excellent player, he’s fierce on the ice, and so far delightful in person, but Quinn doesn’t know him.
Whatever Kaprizov hears in his tone, it doesn’t dull his grin. “Yes, could be lot of fun! We can carpool as well.”
Quinn nods his agreement, feeling awkward because he doesn’t know what more he should say, but he feels like he’s missing something. Kaprizov doesn’t seem to mind. Zuccarello calls him from his cubby, and Kaprizov tugs Quinn along with him to meet some of the other players before practice starts.
It’s not long before all the guys are filling out towards the ice. Quinn is forced to sit out because he’s without any gear, and he feels almost like he’s in time out. He sits on the bench, still trying to participate in learning a new team before he has to play with them in just a few short days.
He talks with the coach and looks over the iPad. At some point he feels a presence hanging over him, his studying of the iPad long since turned into dissociating into the void. When he looks up, it's Brock Faber, Beta, the defensemen he’s being paired up with.
“Heard about your gear,” he says by way of greeting, “Rough.”
It’s so casual that it causes Quinn to huff out a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says, “tell me about it.”
Faber chuckles along with him, and Quinn likes him already. He has a steady presence about him that Quinn can get behind.
“Do you want to talk through any plays or strategy while you're on the bench?”
It's a gesture of friendship and respect that makes Quinn grin wide in response. Faber has just said in so many words, you aren’t any different than you were before, and for that he is grateful.
“You aren’t going to be missing out?” He gestures to the ice, where the others are running drills.
Spurgeon is already looking over at them, watchful like a good captain who probably had a hand in Faber being here in front of him anyway. He grins wide when they make eye contact, before turning back to whatever exercise he is working through. Oddly, Kaprizov is looking up and over at them as well. He's already smiling whenever he catches him looking, and while his expression doesn’t change, something freezes in the moment he’s caught that makes him turn back to what he’s doing quickly.
“Nah,” Faber pulls himself over the railing, and plunks down beside Quinn, “it’s important we do this now.”
Quinn nods, pushing the iPad between them so that they can both look, letting Faber talk about what has worked for them in the past, and Quinn talking about his own playing style and what he expects from Faber.
It’s nice. For a moment, Quinn doesn’t think about how maybe his playing style will have to change, that there will be limitations on him that he’s never experienced before on the ice. Both him and Faber talk about strategy until the end of practice.
When practice is over and everyone is showering and changing in the locker room, Quinn stands there idle, hands buried deep in his pockets so he doesn’t pick at the skin of his fingers. It feels strange, feeling this out of place, this unsure of himself, he’s not used to it filling him up like this in a space he so used to fitting in.
He walks over to his empty cubby for something to do and a place to sit. He wonders where all his new jerseys are, all his new uniforms. He wonders what it will be like to see the “C” missing and know it's his own fault that erased it, even knowing he wasn’t going to keep it forever anyway.
He’s fading out again. He can feel it. Eyes fixed on the Wild logo in the center of the room like he’s diving inside of it. He doesn’t know how long he is out before a warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and it shocks him so bad, he flinches.
“Sorry, roomie.” It’s Kaprizov, sing-songing by his side, though when he looks over at him, the blond does look deeply apologetic. “You okay?”
For a moment. Quinn is briefly stunned at this Alpha, who while strong and broad and clearly Alpha, cocks his head to the side and with his bright green eyes pulled wide in concern, looking so innocent and gentle.
“Um, yeah,” Quinn hears himself say, voice rough to his own ears, “I’m fine. Just a lot to think about, you know.”
Kaprizov nods, solemn as if he does know.
“Yes.” He says, “Much to think about.”
Quinn knows Kaprizov speaks decent English, especially now. He wonders if these conversations they keep having are stifled on purpose, or if he’s the one doing that.
“Yeah, can I help you with anything?”
Kaprizov seems to remember his purpose for approaching Quinn in the first place. “Ah, I almost forgot. Do you need a ride home?”
Quinn pauses at the suggestion. He hadn’t really thought the offer to carpool would come so soon, but now that he thinks about it he doesn’t have a car here, and the only way he’d get back is if he called an Uber or one of the staff took him home. With that, he doesn’t know if there is anything else for him to do before he leaves. He, also, if he thinks about it for longer than a moment, feels something like anxiety course through at the thought of being alone in the car with the Alpha, but that doesn’t make sense, so Quinn ignores it.
“Yeah actually,” he says, pushing his bangs out of his face as he looks up at Kaprizov, “I have to check that I’m okay to go first. If that's okay?”
Kaprizov smiles wide, “Is perfect!” He pats Quinn on the shoulder, “I’ll be waiting over there.” He gestures to his own cubby where Zuccerallo sits beside it, typing away on his phone.
It's not long before the team gives him the go ahead to go home, providing him his jerseys and his uniform, and having him sign any left over paper work before he heads back to where Kaprizov is scrolling through his phone. The rest of the team is long gone.
“Um, sorry for making you wait.” Quinn rubs at the back of his neck in embarrassment.
“Hmm!” Kaprizov is confused when he looks up from his phone like he didn’t quite catch the end of his sentence. “Sorry for what?” he asks, already standing and putting his phone away, grabbing his bag.
“For making you wait,” Quinn repeats for him, rocking back on his own feet. “I didn’t think it was going to take that long.”
Kaprizov, grins showing off his sharp canines, “It’s okay. Wasn’t that long. I enjoyed wait.”
Quinn hums in response as they head to Kaprizov’s car. Walking next to Kaprizov, his bones feel weirdly rigid, like he’s walking with puppeteer strings attached to his joints. He feels the silence that exists between them, like he’s supposed to say something. Maybe he’s meant to acknowledge his own revelation to the world, acknowledge all the times they’ve run into each other on the ice, acknowledge something.
He’s so lost in his spiral of thoughts they have made it to the car before Quinn has said anything. He wasn’t even able to follow the route they took to get here.
Quinn pauses, afraid for a moment what might happen here. Kaprizov might open the door for him, might buckle him in, might treat him as fragile, Quinn wasted all that time in whether or not to acknowledge this that here it is going to be forced upon him once again through a simple polite gesture.
A polite gesture that doesn’t come. Kaprizov walks directly to the driver side door, pausing only to look back at Quinn. “You coming, roomie?”
The relief that flows through Quinn is immediate. I’m no different, he thinks to himself. “Yeah, yeah sorry. Got lost for a second there.”
Here Kaprizov brow furrows, the closest thing to acknowledgement they have come.
“The car is right here. Do you know where door is?” he says like a chirp, and Quinn cannot help but roll his eyes.
“I’m not that far gone.” he responds, climbing into the car, just to hear Kaprizov mutter a quiet “I sure hope not, roomie” before he buckles in.
The car ride isn’t as tense as he’s expecting. Kaprizov fills it with idle chatter about the team and about their building. He asks innocuous questions about his family that Quinn can answer without even thinking.
“You left gear in your brother’s car, yes?”
“Yeah,” Quinn smiles, thinking about his brothers even if it is embarrassing that he forgot his gear. “In Jack’s.”
“Ah!” Kaprizov narrows his eyes. “Which brother is that?”
“He’s, uh,” Quinn struggles to think of how Kaprizov might identify him. “He’s the middle brother, a Beta, number 86.”
Kaprizov nods, eyes still on the road. “Yes, the handsome one!”
Quinn laughs. “I’m not telling him you said that. It would go straight to his ego.”
There’s a comfortable air that settles in the car between them.
“You are close. You and your brothers.” The blonde asks, suddenly serious but no less happy.
His brothers, Jack and Luke, have always been his best friends. He remembers being young, playing hockey and other sports together. He remembers raising hell and swapping secrets. When he presented as an Omega, they never thought any less of him for it. He could see in their eyes how scared they were for him, for what it meant for his career, but Quinn never saw them hesitate in their support, hiding his secret from the league without question.
“They’re my best friends,” he tells Kaprizov. “They have always been there for me, and I would do anything for them.”
They have made it to their apartment complex. Kaprizov parks his car before he looks over at him.
“That is very sweet.” He smiles. “I have my own brother back home. I feel very much the same about him. He is Omega, also.”
He punctuates his last sentence with a nod, and this here is the acknowledgement that Quinn was waiting for earlier however indirect it still is.
Quinn moves to unbuckle for something to do with his hands, as he thinks about how to respond. Should he ask what he means by that? Should he say thanks?
“Is he the handsome one?” is what he lands on, and it must not be what Kaprizov is expecting him to say because he bursts into a fit of giggles.
“No,” he says when he gains composure. “That is still me.”
Quinn laughs at the wink he tacks onto his statement. Content in a way he hadn’t thought possible for today.
Maybe Minny won’t be so bad, he wonders, as Kaprizov walks him to his front door. Maybe I’ll like it here after all.
Kaprizov pats him on his shoulder before he leaves with a promise to see him tomorrow on their off day. “Something good for breakfast,” he declares with a flourish before heading up towards his own apartment.
With him gone, Quinn tries to focus on unpacking a few more of his boxes or reading a few pages of whatever book Jack has them reading. But, he can’t help but feel a slight imprint of where Kaprizov had pat him on his shoulder, still a bit warm from the touch. He can’t help but think about his smell, as it filled the space between him in the car, comforting and warm and earthy. He replays what he told him in the car on repeat. That subtle nod of support.
Quinn Hughes is an Omega. He can’t hide anymore, but maybe, just maybe, it won’t be as bad out in the open.