Bad Luck (quinn hughes x oc)

VI.

𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚗

Quinn jolted out of his pre-game nap to the sound of his phone ringing on his nightstand. When he picked it up, though, he thought for sure he was still asleep and certainly dreaming. The name on the screen was Georgia's.

Panicking, Quinn scrambled out of the bed, as if Georgia could see him and he needed to make himself presentable. With a shaky breath, he answered the call.

"Uh—hello?" he greeted.

Georgia, unfortunately, didn't sound as awkward or uncertain as Quinn did. In fact, she was shouting. "I need to know right now what the hell happened at that game!" she demanded.

Quinn felt his eyes widen as he scanned the room, almost like he expected to find the answer between the hotel beds. "What? What do you mean?" he stammered.

"I'm all over Twitter, Hughes," she snapped. "Was this some fucking set-up?"

None of it made any sense to Quinn, who was still groggy from sleep. "Set-up? Is this G? What's going on?"

"Don't call me that!" she screamed. "You're not allowed to call me that if I was just a little PR stunt for you and your stupid team and your stupid sport."

"Georgia," Quinn interjected, finally cognizant enough to make some sense of her words. "I don't know what you're talking about, but there was no PR stunt. There was no set-up. I don't even know what that means."

"It's what they're saying on Twitter," Georgia countered. "That everything was just to show that the league is so woke now because one of its stars pretended to like an Asian girl who isn't a fucking model."

The words basically broke Quinn's heart. On the one hand, he couldn't believe anyone would say something like that—but he also just didn't want Georgia to think it was true, that he didn't actually like her.

"None of that is true," Quinn tried, though his voice was weak. "I mean—I didn't mean to throw the puck into your cup. It—it hit off a kid. If you watch the video—"

"I've watched the video," Georgia interrupted. "And then I watch you skate over to the bench and say something to the trainer, but who knows if you said something to someone else, like oh, here's a great opportunity to get attention for the team."

"I would never do that," he snapped, admittedly defensive. It was true: there was nothing in the world that the League could say to him that would lead him to sacrifice his morals. That sort of cowardice wasn't in his blood. "Georgia, I'm serious," he added, voice now stern. "I don't know what the idiots on Twitter are saying, but everything that happened at the Oilers game was real."

It seemed to silence Georgia, who said nothing for several long seconds. When she spoke again, her tone was softer—sadder, too. "They're just saying the most terrible things to me," she breathed.

Quinn wasn't sure he had ever felt so guilty in his life. He'd seen a pretty girl at his game, fallen head over heels over the course of ten seconds, and hadn't paused to consider the impact that his actions might have on her.

"I'm so sorry," Quinn murmured. "I wasn't even thinking about people seeing it. I just—I saw you, and I wanted to make it better." He shook his head, running a hand through his disheveled hair before he added, "You were so pretty, and that kind of made me forget about anything else." He shrugged, and again, Georgia fell silent. This time, it lasted long enough that Quinn prompted her. "Georgia?" he inquired.

"Yeah, I'm here," she mumbled.

Quinn tried again. "Is there anything I can do to make this better?" he asked.

On the other end, Georgia sighed. "No, it's okay," she remarked. "I'm okay."

He might have only spoken to her once, but Quinn knew she was lying. He couldn't even begin to imagine what she was feeling, but it didn't stop him from wanting to help. "Could I see you when I'm back in town?" he suggested. "No cameras, no videos—just us. I can apologize in person."

Several seconds passed before Georgia whispered, "Okay. That would be okay."

Relief flooded into Quinn's chest. It was a start; he just hoped he could build off of it somehow—even if it took some time. "I'm back on Thursday," he told her. "Does the weekend work?" He hesitated and then rushed, "I'm sure you have plans, so really whenever you want—"

"This weekend is good," she cut him off. "Saturday?"

Quinn was still in some degree of shock when he replied, "Yeah, that's great." He had a game Sunday evening, but Saturday was wide open. "I've got an apartment downtown that I don't think anybody knows about. Would there be okay?"

"Okay," she agreed. "Noon?"

"Sounds perfect," Quinn huffed, grateful.

"Just text me the address when you can," she concluded. Then, in a tone that almost made Quinn think she was surprised even with herself, Georgia piped up, "Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

She sighed, "You can call me G."

And then the line went dead.