Chapter Text
Quinn Hughes does not know if he is going to like Minnesota.
He had grown used to the chill and disappointment of the Canucks. He had grown used to that feeling of being swallowed down like a whale. Over and over again.
The endless meetings, the promotions, the grinds for points. The puck, the stick, the carbs, the ice, the boards, the smiles, the fans screaming, the media’s questions, the percentages, the plans, the snow, the strategy, the calls with his brothers, the interviews, the chicken, the blackhouse. Too much, never enough. The blue line, the assists. The injuries. His team and all the trades that wrapped it into some mesmerizing fuck up. Quinn Hughes, best defensemen of the league.
A fuck up.
He feels as if he’s a washed up version of himself. Like faded wallpaper. He remembers long ago when he was just a kid who had hopes and dreams of playing in the NHL. Sitting with his family when he got drafted and got that news on the phone sitting with his family. His parents, his grandparents, aunts and uncles and his… brothers.
When he was the Canucks’. When he felt unbelievable. When he looked at JT and thought they could really do it. When he still had hope that he was enough. When it was five before the last game of the playoffs 2024 before they were eliminated.
Quinn felt like he had lived a thousand lifetimes by the time he had gotten on that plane for his trade to Minnesota.
That is when he meets Kirill Kaprizov.
Quinn knew how he looked on the outside to other people. Quiet, reserved, haunted. He knew this and yet it had taken him a couple of years to understand how other people saw him. Being a public athlete meant that every person wanted to know aspects of himself that he did not know himself.
His favorite songs, his favorite movies, what he did in his down time. Every funny story and every thing he did was humiliating. His entire life was being livestreamed like the games he played.
So yeah, he knew that he gave off the impression that he did not care that much about others. That in spanse of him choking up in his own words, not knowing what to say, he looked like he did not care. His family knows different. His team knows different. In fact, they knew he cared too much. He was a shitty Captain, sure, he did not have the energy to be the type of leader that turned a franchise around.
He did not have the capacity for it.
Yet, he hoped the Canucks roster knows that he truly did care for them. They were the only reason he got up for a Stanley every year. Petey said they did, that they would miss him. Quinn and the team knew that he was up for being traded, at least it being a possibility, for a couple of weeks before December.
So he pushed himself. To dust, to the bone. Until he felt his whole body flare in the hotel beds and his empty apartment. When he could muster the spirit enough to bring a girl home that did not make him want to crawl out of his skin, and was not put off by how awkward he was.
He was asked where he would want to be traded to. Quinn knew he should reference the statistics and he knew what teams would suit him best. He knew it.
But he had to look at his team before walking in this room. The defensemen knew he was giving them up to escape this empty crown on his head. He knew he was leaving them behind like a coward, for a chance at the Stanely. Even if the choice was being taken from him, he did not have much fight left in him to give up.
All Quinn could say was: “Ask my manager.”
Kirill Kaprizov picked him from the airport. Or, better said, he was there when he landed. Quinn was immediately put to media and meetings when his feet touched the Minnesota soil.
When he was done with all of that Kirill was there. Surprisingly, the man was bubbly when he looked at him. Grinning almost like a fan would and not someone who wore the A for a team he had planned against many times. The teamsperson had just said his ride to his new apartment his team had set up was outside.
He expected an uber.
Not fucking Kirill Kaprizov.
The man was built like a hockey player, or at least a stocky one. Even though they were about the same height, his arms could wrap around Quinn’s like a tree trunk. It kind of freaked him out.
“I bring you home.” he said bluntly. Then he grabbed Quinn’s bag from him.
Quinn grunted. He tried to pretend like this was not a slightly disturbing situation to him and completely normal. They were going to be teammates now. Always on the ice together. Insane, because he used to dread playing against this man. Zuccy and Faber and Boldy and Kaprizov used to make his life a nightmare when he played against them. Especially fucking Faber.
“Okay,” he said. Kirill circled back around his atrocious car, which Quinn did not know the model but it was quite an ugly car, and brushed their shoulders.
“Need me to open the door?” The man joked and Quinn found himself awkwardly laughing despite himself.
“Maybe.”
The training and the games take off after that. Endless, endless media. Endless pucks and nets and goals and assists and everything starts to mix together again. It is not as bad as before, no, the Wild does not expect him to be some type of hero.
But he can’t help it. Can’t help himself and push himself on the ice like he’s still the captain of this team. Can’t help but take every loss personally.
But… now he had Kirill. Who dropped him off because he lived a couple floors down from him. The man had inserted himself in his life like a stray dog. When Quinn’s stuff arrived from Vancouver, not furniture because Quinn just bought new ones as recommended by his decorator, he helped him unpack. The little books he had.
His gear and his movies and his blankets and-
Kirill got him a rug. The man got him so many blankets because he likes to have them when he comes over. Kirill dragged him to a homegoods store and bought him so many stupid decorations. Quinn would try to roll his eyes and tell the other man he did not want it, but the stupid idiot would rub his hand down his back.
Quinn would shiver and even though they were wearing masks, he felt adrenaline crawl up his spine. What type of headline would they make?
He thought he might be getting seduced. So almost curiously he says yes to all the stupid cat decorations he now has all over his house.
The man seemed to know that despite everything Quinn was lonely. He was so fucking lonely. Despite the change and the schedule he was dumped into, he found himself with a bit too much time to think. Which was crazy, because he had never been so busy besides the playoffs.
Somehow, the other man knew that. Kirill would pick him up for practice every morning. Even the optional ones and Quinn grew to wonder if he would ever have to drive himself anywhere. He would force Quinn to listen to his music, unless Quinn was on the phone with his father. The music was either in Russian or utterly bland pop, so he did not care.
He would brush his hands across Quinn’s arm. Hand him his stick when he dropped it or set it down. Fuck, even when he was introduced to the rest of the team, Kirill chirped him happily until everyone laughed.
Quinn was a little confused on how much he just let it happen.
One month ago he was pathetically wondering if any team would want him. The days had mixed together until he felt like a pool of resentment and failure.
Now he had Kirill Kaprizov doing his daily nap and tv show time on his sofa that was too big for the two of them. Which was insane for a man to just do, he supposed, but Kirill did not care. He needed his tablet and nap time like a child.
Quinn judged him, but he just usually sat in silence so there was not much room to do so.
“Why,” and this was really rare for him. Not confrontation, but whatever this was. “Why are you here?” Quinn asked one night. It was right after their fourth win with him on the team. The defenseman thought that was a good number to finally bite the bullet and ask.
“Why not?” the blonde mumbled, his fingers moving on his tablet and not looking at him. “You will win me Stanley."
Quinn felt all the air leave his lungs. A coughing fit seized him before he can stop it.
Kirill scoffs at him dying and keeps going. “You will win me the Stanley, now stop coughing.”
Quinn sat up and stared at him, and he watched Kirill go back to his game on his tablet. They both sit in silence and when Kirill’s tablet makes a noise Quinn realizes he’s playing Candy Crush.
“What do you mean?” Quinn can’t help but ask. Like an idiot. Like this conversation is normal.
The other man glared at him and then he sighs and sets his tablet down like a great burden. Then he stretched his arms back and Quinn’s mouth went dry as he watched the russian’s arms flex with thick muscle. Holy fuck. He smiled at Quinn like he was sweet. Kirill was the one who was sweet even though his body was like a sculpted god.
“I think to myself, American hockey slow. You all fight, yes?” Kirill started to speak. He waited until Quinn nodded dumbly before continuing. “But you guys do not fight good. I think American hockey good, yes, and pay is very good. I see you play, I think that you skate good.”
The man leaned over towards where Quinn was now fully sitting up. He slowly crawled to him that was more clumsy than alluring, but Quinn could not give a single fuck. His mind tried to wrap around what the utter hell the other man was saying, but he was coming up to a loss. He could feel himself blushing like a teenager.
“Russia would eat you alive, but I don’t care. I like your skates. Your plays, your passes. I see you on Canucks and know I will win cup with you. I beg Bill to get you when I hear you going to leave your team.” Kirill admitted, like it did not just explode Quinn’s entire world. The man pressed his hands to Quinn’s shoulders and tutted at him when the man tried to lean away. Then, he found himself enduring large hands lifting his chin until he had to look into Kirill's intense eyes.
“What?” Quinn gasped.
The blonde considered him for a moment and then patted him pathetically on the cheek. Quinn missed his warmth as the man leaned back.
“Maybe not this year, but definitely by next year. You will help me bring Stanely to my family. And I get to play with one of best American players.”
Then Kirill fucking beamed at him. Full grin and smile and his eyes crinkled up. Like he was a cute baby and not a grown man. Quinn felt himself soaring for a moment and he can imagine it for a moment. He found himself so endeared he smiled back. He can imagine it. He can.
Them at the playoffs. Matt and Kirill burying the puck in the net. Quinn assisting them. The ice, the pucks, everything. Him lifting the cup above his head and Kirill smiling at him.
“I can do that.” Quinn promised and for once he finds himself believing the words coming out of his mouth.