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Quinn Hughes had seen ghosts most of his life. It started when he was six, he had been playing hockey with some friends out on a frozen lake when he tripped over a lump in the ice. The bump on his head was mild, the doctors insisted it would be fine and he didn't need any medical assistance, though that opinion was brought into question when the family returned home from the hospital and Quinn started talking to his dead great-grandmother.
He was never particularly afraid of the ghosts, well mainly because he didn't realise they were ghosts for a good two years, and when he did finally notice he just didn't think there was any point in starting to be scared. So Quinn spent his days seeing spirits standing around his bed, walking around the hallways of his school and most importantly floating across the ice at his practices and games. He tried to not let them distract him, but when they were screaming and shouting about a bad call a ref had made or chirping the players, he couldn't help but get a little overwhelmed.
He and his family all assumed he would get used to it by the time he got to the league or at the very least that people would be too focused on other players to notice him freezing up in the middle of the ice or on the bench and staring into the distance. Unfortunately for him, he didn't get used to it, and people noticed, not only did they notice but they made memes. MEMES. They didn't know the half of it, yet they were making memes about him being haunted, some logical fans determined he had one too many concussions, but logic wasn't really relevant when the memes were true.
Quinn Hughes was actually haunted. By real ghosts. By real ghosts that haunted him and told him which player was scared of clowns, which coach wore a wig, even which goaltender was a secret Stardew Valley streamer.
To be honest, he thought that was the worst of it. He could handle that. They added something to his chirp game if he needed but in reality it was nothing too shocking. Well about from a goalie being a streamer. That was beautiful and he couldn't wait to use that little nugget in his next game.
But just as he was getting used to the ghostly gossip, and he was really starting to feel settled in his rookie season. A ghost drops an absolute land mine of information on Quinn whilst he was showering. And Holy. Shit.
“Rozanov and Hollander are together and they been fucking for like ten years.”
A ghost just blurts it out like he's been holding it in forever, like he needed to say it to breathe. The other ghosts in the shower looked a mixture of shocked and angry. The offending ghost looked around nervously, turning as pale (can ghosts go pale?) as the white jersey he was wearing as he took in the angry faces of his fellow ghosts.
“Come on man” another ghost began, his Finnish accent thick, and disappointed, “We can’t go around telling people about that, it's private.” Between the disappointment on his face, worry seems to be seeping in, creating deep lines and the bags under his eyes become more prominent.
Another ghost whispers something sounding like, “and wrong” but he and his Vegas Golden Knights jersey were promptly drop kicked across the room and down a drain.
Quinn, rarely has the ability to read a room, probably after spending so many years haunted by emotionally unstable ghosts, however this is an unusual moment of being able to understand the worry painting the spirits faces and decides to, rather rushed, state, “I won't tell anyone, I promise, it's not my secret to tell, you can trust me.”
One of the apparitions has a calculating look which is mirrored in a few of the other spirits surrounding him, but after a minute of analysing Quinn, his faces softens, “I know you won't tell, I mean come on, you’ll be dead one day and then you'll be stuck with us forever.” His look has shifted into something dangerous now, warning and sharp. Quinn decides that the goosebumps covering his body aren't just from the water having stopped a good 5 minutes ago, so he wraps his towel around his waist and rushes to get dressed, not wanting to wait around and see how scary the ghosts can get. Damn. This might be the first time he's ever actually been scared of the ghosts.
Once he's dressed and has successfully escaped the building, he finds himself questioning what to actually do with this information, it's not like he can tell anyone, and the ghosts would definitely find out if he did. So he decides to sit on it and wait.
He shockingly didn't actually have to wait that long, as a trip with his family to Vancouver to celebrate his younger brother being the first overall draft pick of that year, left him spotting Ilya Rozanov near a local café. And Quinn Hughes being sleep deprived and without even the fear of God, decided, fuck it. He walked up to the Russian and introduced himself, trying not to cry when Rozanov not only knew who he was but remembered playing against him, and even complementing him. What. The. Fuck. And slipping back into the typical Quinn Hughes spirit, and never quite being able to read a room, simply asked, “So, how's Hollander, you guys spend summer together or what?”
The look on Rozanov's face was unreadable, especially when he was pulling Quinn into the dark ally. Though his face transformed quickly into anger, quite obvious anger. “What do you think you know? Because is wrong and no one will believe you.” The accent was hard to understand, clearly thicker with anger, and possibly fear. The fear slowly overtook the anger and his body was stiff, with his eyes looking around, looking for danger that had yet to present itself. “What do you know?” His voice is small, smaller than it should be for the large Russian.
“God, Rozanov, I didn't mean anything bad, look you won't believe me if i tell you but…” It was his turn to look around for the imaginary danger, “fuck, how do I say this? Theghoststoldme”
“What, I didn't catch that, who told you?” Rozanov questioned, looking more confused than anything else.
“Um… The ghosts?”
“The. Ghosts. What, ghosts like Casper or… I don’t know anymore ghosts.”
Quinn, naturally knows that he sounds insane, so he just nods and confidently as possible.
“Um… No, you're not hot enough to be ghost whispers, she's sexy, you look like ghost.” Rozanov smirks a bit at this, and Quinn feels that maybe he won't be killed by the Slav, for now at least. “Come, we’re going to talk about this somewhere more private.”
They walk away from the coffee shop, towards some hotel that is much nicer than the one the Hughes are staying in, but he stays silent, knowing that saying anything now probably won't be great, or make him look even slightly normal after the whole ‘I see dead people’ revelation.
They make it up to the penthouse suite and a voice comes from the bathroom, “Ilyusha? Did you get me my smoothie or did you decide the line was too long for my boring Canadian kale disaster?” It was Shane fucking Hollander. Omg he was right. Omg the ghosts didn't lie to him. Shit biscuits. What has he got himself into here? Why didn't he keep his mouth shut?
He is led over to a chair near the window and Ilya sits on the small couch across from him. They sit in silence for a minute, with Rozanov making direct eye contact the whole time, until Hollander walks from the bathroom, “Ilyusha, what the fuck, sis you get the smoothie- ohh, hi?”
Rozanov taps the space on the couch next to him, silently asking Shane to sit beside him.
They are sitting together. Silently. Awkward. Uncomfortable.
“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Shane is the one to break the silence.
“Ghosts told this sick Victorian child that we fuck.” Ilya said it so matter of fact that it almost seemed like it made sense.
“Look, Mr. Hollander, I know it seems strange, and like I’m lying, but I promise that it's all the truth. I won't tell anymore. I promise. I shouldn't have even mentioned it today. I'm sorry. Jesus. Sorry.” It comes out rushed. Panicked. But the two men across from him seem to have heard him. “WAIT! What the fuck do you mean sick Victorian child?”
“What? This’s what you look like. You know, like you have tuberculosis or something.” To Quinn’s shock, it was Shane who answered. Nice Canadian golden boy, bullshit. “Don't look at me like that, Scott Hunter called you that first and its kinda accurate.”
“Well look, I’m sorry I worried you but this is what they told me, asshole.” He takes a deep breath, pissed that he's being verbally attacked when he was expecting a serious conversation, “I'm not going to tell anyone that you've been fucking for like year years, its none of my business, I support you, its cool, have fun. Bye… wait tell Hunter he can go fuck himself.”
He rushes out of the hotel suite, not wanting to deal with being insulted, or for the two older hockey players to realise that the ghost thing makes no sense. Or for them to realise that he revealed he knew just how long they had been fucking.
He makes it back to his hotel, and decides that it is time to just sleep for the rest of the day. Luke bumps into him in the hall before he gets to his room and questions the tired look on his face, “Hey, Quinn? You good?”
“Fucking ghosts” Luke understands more than most and just nods and lets his older brother pass him.
A few months later
“Huh? Hughes, you're seeing some sort of ghost puck over there or something?”
Quinn remains quiet, he doesn't bite and just keeps playing, despite all of Hunter's chirps being ghost related. They were all equally shit. So he just shut up and played.
Well until he got the chance to skate behind Hunter and whisper, so only he could hear him, “Hey, Hunter, your mom just asked me if this is your first time playing.” Skating away afterwards, ignoring the stunned Hunter behind him.