Puck The Halls | Jack Hughes

SIXTEEN

MIRACLE
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BY THE TIME I GO BACK DOWNSTAIRS TO MEET MY family, who are now awake, I can't even begin to fathom how I'm supposed to look at Jack. I'm positive that my cheeks are coated in a permanent blush, and the idea that we'd even done something like that and now had to act innocent was messing with my brain.

I was dressed in a pair of high waisted plaid pyjama shorts, sock crew socks and brown ugg boots to keep my feet warm, and a light grey hooded sweater with the Anaheim Ducks logo in the chest corner, curtsey of my brother.

My hair had since been washed—again—and was tossed into a messy bun on top of my head. I wanted to look as casual as possible, like I hadn't taken two showers this morning after Jack had . . . You know.

I'm surprised to see my entire family in the kitchen, Hughes boy included (he now wears a shirt, much to my dismay) all making breakfast, chattering amongst themselves as if it's a normal day, but, it's not a normal day. This is a revolutionary day, because my childhood crush, my first love, the boy I'd been obsessing over since I was seven, just showed me that maybe he'd been feeling the same way too.

Sure, nothing between us had been romantic since he'd been back, besides the midnight date in Toronto, but other than that, my relationship with Jack had been strictly tension building.

Little did I know, things had shifted this morning. Jack didn't want what was going on between us to be entirely sex orientated. He didn't just want to screw me then go back to his life, living exclusively without me. Jack wanted to kiss me properly, to love me unconditionally, to have more midnight target dates. Jack wanted to introduce me to his friends, to hold my hand in public, and in front of his family, he wanted all of me, just for him.

Of course, I know nothing of this, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm just another girl in a long line of girls waiting to get a piece of him. But, the way he's looking at me right now, that innocent glint in his eyes, the longing stare that forces my heart to skip a beat—has me thinking that this morning changed everything.

I take a deep breath, making my way through the kitchen, trying not to look at him.

"Morning, sweetheart," my mother hums from her place at the kitchen counter. My dad makes eggs on the stove, Jack beside him cooking bacon while Trevor rifles through the fridge for who knows what. "You're up late."

Jack smirks down at the stove, not daring to look at me. My cheeks flush, but I try to play it cool, to brush it off. "Slept in."

"That's unlike you," dad chirps. "Even Rowdy here was up early, you guys rubbing off on each other or something?"

Jack chokes on his own saliva while I turn towards the mug cupboard, which is ridiculously high. I'd never been able to reach it even if I tried, and always have to climb on the bench. I tried not to look back, knowing that dad's comment wasn't meant to be suggestive, it just so happened to be because of what had happened this morning in the spare bedroom.

I feel like the world's worst daughter, and an even worse sister. I was actively sneaking around with my brother's best friend, a guy who was right behind me in the kitchen, a boy who was older than me, who I'd grown up with. A boy known for being a playboy in the NHL. My mother would be horrified, I just know it.

Jack notices that I can't reach the mugs, and right as I'm about to climb on the bench, he's beating me to it. His body is flush against my own, one arm reaching over me to grab my favourite mug, while his left hand comes to rest on the back of my neck. His palm cups my skin, his thumb brushing back and forth over the skin just below my hairline.