#nhl stars | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hockeyluvrr · 15 days ago

Text

The Moment It All Began

au masterlist all other works

pairing: umich luke hughes x plus size oc

summary: the first meeting and everything after...let's just say, feelings are hard huh?

warnings: mild language, internalised fat-phobia, body image/insecurity, self-isolation, angst, self-esteem issues, unresolved tension that is eventually resolved, mutual pining, vulnerable moments, emotional vulnerability, body image issues, panic response

word count: 4,690

It started, like most disasters, with a favour.

“He’s not dumb,” Emily had insisted, propping her chin on her palm as they studied in the common area. “Just… distracted. And you’re the only one I know who can explain physics without making someone cry.”

Phoebe snorted. “So naturally you thought of me?”

“Come on. You’re good at this. You make that professor sound like a guy who actually knows what he’s talking about.” She nudged her. “It’s just one session. Two, tops.”

“Fine,” she sighed, like it wasn’t already a yes. “But he better not be an asshole.”

Emily grinned. “It’s Luke Hughes. He’s literally a golden retriever in human form.”

That should’ve been the first red flag.

———

He was ten minutes late. She was packing up her notes, already annoyed, when he stumbled into the library lounge with a lopsided smile and wind-tousled hair.

“Sorry—practice ran late.” He dropped his bag like it had personally offended him. “You’re Phoebe, right? Emily’s friend?”

“That’s me,” she said, folding her arms, trying to ignore the way he smelled like cold air and something expensive. “You’re lucky I’m patient.”

Luke grinned, sheepish. “I’ll owe you big. Physics is kicking my ass.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—you missed the lecture on Newton’s Third Law because you were doing, like, a triple axel on ice or something?”

He blinked, then laughed, a full-body kind of laugh that startled her with how genuine it sounded.

“Not exactly, but close.”

It was just tutoring. A few sessions here and there. Explaining concepts like vectors and momentum and resistance, drawing diagrams in her notebook because he said it helped him to see it. He was a little scattered, sure, but not in the way she’d expected—he listened. Took notes. Asked questions. And he was funny, in a boyish, easy way. Always a little bit of a mess but never mean about it.

Which made it so much worse when she caught herself watching his hands one afternoon, pencil tapping thoughtfully against his bottom lip, and thought: God, his mouth is pretty.

The thought hit like a freight train. She blinked down at her notes, horrified.

No. Absolutely not.

She shoved the thought down hard and buried it under the safe, familiar weight of physics.

———

The sessions continued. Luke got better. She got worse.

Not at physics—never that. But worse at pretending she didn’t notice the little things.

Like the way he leaned in when he was confused, brow furrowed, lashes dark and long. Or how he laughed with his whole chest, loud and unfiltered. How he always offered to carry her bag, even when she told him not to. How he looked at her—not like she was invisible, or just another tutor-for-hire, but like he actually saw her.

And that terrified her.

Because somewhere along the line, she’d started looking forward to him. To the texts that said “u around? i have no clue what a free-body diagram is”, to the quiet walks back across campus after late-night study sessions, to the smell of cologne and coffee and cold air that followed him everywhere.

And once she’d noticed that? Everything started to unravel.

———

The breaking point was stupid.

A Thursday afternoon. Mid-March. The sky was heavy with the threat of snow, and the library was almost empty. They were hunched over her laptop, going over sample problems, when he stretched his arms above his head and said, “You know, you’re really good at this.”

She shrugged. “I like it. Explaining things helps me learn too.”

“No, I mean…” He sat back, tilting his head. “You’re smart. And you’re nice about it. Most people make me feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she said, too quickly.

He smiled at her then—soft, grateful. That smile that cracked something open inside her every time.

“I like hanging out with you.”

It was such a simple sentence. But it hit her like a punch to the chest.

She looked away. “Luke—”

“What?”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just stood up too fast, heart hammering, stuffing her notebook into her backpack like it had personally betrayed her.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I forgot I—I have a thing. I have to go.”

“Phoebe?” His voice was puzzled, concerned. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she lied, already halfway to the door. “You didn’t.”

———

She didn’t cry until she was halfway home.

And when she did, it wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was the kind of quiet sobbing that felt like shame in motion—tears she didn’t want, for a truth she didn’t want to admit.

She liked him.

God, she liked him.

And how pathetic was that?

Luke Hughes: 6’2”, soft-eyed, NHL-bound, with a smile that could melt glaciers. She could already hear the voice in her head: Delusional much?

Because girls like her—soft and wide and invisible in the way society decided some bodies should be—didn’t end up with boys like that. No matter how sweet he was. No matter how many times he offered to buy her coffee or walked her home or laughed at her dumb jokes. That was just Luke being Luke.

And she—she was ridiculous for thinking it meant something.

She curled up on her bed, stared at the ceiling, and hated herself a little for hoping.

———

She avoided him for four days.

No texts. No library sessions. No walking paths that cut across the hockey facility. When she saw his name light up her phone.

Luke: hey, everything okay?

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know how to explain that she wasn’t mad at him. She was mad at herself. For slipping. For letting him get too close. For thinking—hoping—that maybe she could be the exception to the rule.

By Sunday, Emily cornered her in the hallway outside their dorm.

“You ghosted him.”

She looked away. “I’ve been busy.”

Emily crossed her arms. “He asked if he did something wrong. He looked like a kicked puppy.”

Don’t say that, she wanted to snap. Don’t make him sound sweet when I’m trying to erase him.

Instead, she muttered, “He didn’t. It’s fine.”

“Then tell him that,” Emily said, gentler now. “He’s not a mind reader.”

The thing was—she wanted to. She missed him. Missed his voice, and the way he chewed his lip when he was stuck on a question, and the way his laugh made her stomach flip even when she hated herself for it. But she also knew that if she let him back in, the feelings would follow. And if he didn’t return them—if she caught a flicker of pity in his eyes—it would ruin her.

Hope was a dangerous thing. She’d spent most of her life learning how to live without it.

———

Tuesday night, he caught her.

Literally—rounded the corner outside the library and nearly walked straight into her.

“Oh shit—Phoebe?”

She froze. Too late to run. And honestly, she didn’t have the energy to pretend.

“Hey.”

Luke blinked, then gave her a cautious smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “Just busy.”

“Right.” He shifted his weight, awkward. “You, uh… weren’t answering my texts.”

Her stomach twisted.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A pause. She could feel him watching her—really watching, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“Did I do something?” he asked finally, voice quiet.

“No,” she said, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay. Good. I just—I wasn’t sure. You kinda vanished.”

“I know,” she said again. Her fingers curled around the strap of her backpack. “I just needed some space.”

He nodded slowly, and something about the way he stepped back—gave her that space—made her heart ache even more.

“Well,” he said, voice lighter now, “if you ever wanna go over the review packet, I, uh… I still don’t know what the hell potential energy is.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

“I’ll think about it.”

———

She didn’t mean to let him back in. But a few days later, she found herself at their usual table, notes spread out, laptop open, when he dropped into the seat beside her like no time had passed.

No questions. No guilt. Just his usual grin and a half-empty smoothie in hand.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, sliding the packet over. “You’re gonna keep me from flunking.”

“God forbid you be academically ineligible,” she teased, grateful for the normalcy. “Then who would they use in every single recruiting post?”

“Exactly,” he said with mock-seriousness. “You’d be letting down the entire future of hockey.”

She rolled her eyes, but her throat felt tight.

Because he was still here. Still looking at her like she mattered.

And she still didn’t know why.

————

It happened again the next week.

They were sitting in the back corner of Bert’s Cafe, rainy afternoon light bleeding through the windows, and Luke was chewing on the sleeve of his hoodie while she tried to explain electric fields for the third time.

“Okay,” she said, tapping the diagram on his tablet. “Think of it like gravity. But instead of mass, it’s charge. Opposites attract, remember?”

“So like… if I’m positive, and you’re negative—”

She gave him a look. “You calling me negative?”

He grinned. “You said it, not me.”

She shook her head, biting back a smile—and that’s when he said it.

“You’re cute when you’re frustrated.”

The words landed with a thud in her chest. She went still.

“What?”

Luke blinked. “What?”

“You said—” Her voice caught. “Never mind.”

But he was watching her now, head tilted, brow creased. “Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she said too quickly. Then again, softer, “No. It’s fine.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. But the moment passed. And she was already pulling the conversation back toward electric fields and potential difference and the safety of things that didn’t make her want to cry.

———

Later that night, alone in her room, she stood in front of the mirror and tried to understand what he saw.

She wasn’t soft in the way magazines liked. She wasn’t curvy in the way Instagram liked. She had thick arms, a round belly, wide hips that pulled at the seams of her jeans. Her thighs rubbed holes in leggings by week two. She knew what people like her were called. Knew the names muttered under breath in middle school, the backhanded compliments, the jokes.

And Luke—he was tall and golden and seen. He existed in a world she’d only ever watched from the outside.

So why would he look at her like that?

She squeezed her eyes shut. Swallowed down the guilt of even asking the question.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t mean it. It was just a throwaway comment. A stupid flirt without weight. A joke.

It had to be.

Because the alternative—that he saw her, wanted her—was something she didn’t know how to live with.

———

The physics midterm came and went, and Luke passed—with a B+, no less.

He texted her the second he got the grade.

Luke: ur a genius. my saviour. my queen. how do i repay u

Phoebe: one coffee and maybe a sticker that says “I’m smarter than a hockey player”

Ten minutes later, he showed up at her dorm with two lattes and a pack of glitter star stickers.

“Put one on your forehead,” he said, grinning. “It’s only fair.”

She did. She didn’t even hesitate.

———

After that, the tutoring faded into something else.

They still studied. But now he invited her to late-night diner runs. Walks after class. Study breaks where he begged her to explain memes he didn’t get or tried to teach her how to flick a mini hockey puck across a table using only a spoon.

It wasn’t tutoring anymore.

But it also wasn’t anything else.

Sometimes, she caught him looking at her when he didn’t think she’d notice. And it wasn’t like the way people looked when they were comparing sizes or judging or assessing.

It was soft. Focused.

And God, did that mess her up.

Because she wanted to believe it meant something. Wanted to let herself fall the rest of the way. But the voice in her head always pulled her back.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t embarrass yourself.

She couldn’t afford to lose him. And wanting more? Wanting him?

That was a risk she didn’t think she could take.

———

One night, late April, they found themselves sitting on the grass outside his apartment building after a study session. The air was warm and smelled like budding leaves and cheap beer from a nearby frat house. Luke had his hoodie pulled halfway over his head, eyes squinting up at the sky.

“You ever think about how dumb stars are?” he said suddenly.

She laughed. “What?”

“They’re just… balls of gas. But people write poetry about them and make wishes and shit.”

“That’s not dumb,” she said, pulling her knees to her chest. “It’s kind of beautiful. That people want to believe in something that far away.”

He turned to look at her. “You believe in stuff like that?”

She hesitated. “I want to.”

Luke was quiet for a second. “I think I do. Believe in that stuff.”

She looked over, and he was still watching her. Really watching her. Like he could see right past all the things she tried to hide behind sarcasm and notes and perfectly rehearsed explanations of Coulomb’s Law.

“Do you ever wish for anything?” she asked before she could stop herself.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, just for a second.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

The silence stretched. The air went still. She could feel the pull between them like gravity—heavy, inescapable, terrifying.

She turned away before he could see the hope in her eyes.

———

After that night, everything felt different. Closer. Louder.

He texted more. Sat closer. Let his leg press against hers and didn’t move away. He played with her pen during study sessions, let his fingers brush hers when he handed her his notebook. All little things. All nothing, probably. But to her, they felt like cracks in the dam.

And still—she didn’t say anything.

Because what if she was wrong?

What if this was just how Luke Hughes was with everyone? Warm. Open. Easy to fall for. And what if she confessed and ruined it? Lost him entirely?

She would rather take the ache than the silence of a goodbye.

———

The day it nearly all came crashing down, it was raining.

Not just drizzling—pouring. She’d left class without an umbrella, already soaked by the time she made it to the library steps.

Luke was there.

Waiting.

He was holding an extra hoodie and a coffee, like he’d known exactly how her day would go.

“Jesus,” she said, breathless. “Are you psychic now?”

He grinned. “I knew you’d forget your jacket.”

He draped the hoodie over her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was warm and smelled like him—mint and soap and something woodsy she couldn’t name.

She stared at him. Something in her chest cracked.

“Why are you so nice to me?” she asked quietly, almost too quiet to hear over the rain.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… you don’t have to do this. Bring me coffee. Wait in the rain. Let me steal your hoodie. Why do you—” She broke off. Her throat was thick with it. “Why do you treat me like I’m—special?”

Luke was quiet for a long time.

And then, softly, he said, “Because you are.”

It felt like the world stopped spinning. Just for a second.

She stepped back. Shook her head.

“No,” she said, too fast. “Don’t—don’t say that. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying.” His brows knit, confused. “Why would I—?”

“Because I know how this works,” she snapped, voice sharp with hurt. “I’ve seen the girls you hang out with, Luke. I know what people expect you to want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about me!” she said, voice breaking. “Look at me. I’m not—God, I’m not the girl guys like you fall for.”

Silence.

Luke looked at her like she’d said something impossible. Like she’d just told him gravity wasn’t real.

“That’s bullshit,” he said, voice low.

Her breath caught.

“You think I don’t see you?” he continued. “You think I don’t notice the way you light up when you explain something? Or how you make everything easier just by being around?”

She shook her head. “Don’t—”

“I’m not playing with you,” he said. “I don’t do that. Not with you.”

She stared at him, rain clinging to her lashes, hoodie soaked through. Her heart beat so loud she thought it might split her ribs.

“I don’t get it,” she whispered. “Why me?”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“Because you make me feel like I’m more than some dumb hockey player. Because I like you. I’ve liked you.”

The words were soft. Real. Terrifying.

She didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because if she opened her mouth, she might say I like you too—and she wasn’t ready for what came next.

So she turned.

And she ran.

———

She didn’t sleep that night.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Luke’s face—wet hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wide and confused and hurt. Heard his voice: Because I like you. I’ve liked you.

She pressed her palms over her ears like it would make it all go away.

It didn’t.

————

The next morning, Emily was already in their room, curled up with a blanket and laptop, when she stumbled in.

“You look like you fought God,” Emily said around a spoonful of yogurt.

She dropped onto the bed. “I ran away from Luke.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

“I mean literally ran.” She stared at the ceiling, voice hollow. “He told me he liked me. And I panicked and left him standing in the rain like a goddamn rom-com cliché.”

Emily’s spoon hovered in midair. “Wait—he said he likes you? Like, actually said it?”

She nodded.

“And you ran.”

Another nod.

“Okay. First of all, what the fuck, and second of all—WHAT THE FUCK.”

She groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.

Emily yanked it off. “Phoebe. I love you, but what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t!” she snapped, sitting up. “I was—scared. I am scared.”

Emily’s face softened. “Hey. I get that. But you’ve been pining over him for months. And now he says he likes you back and you think what—he’s lying?”

“Not lying,” she mumbled. “Just… confused.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “You really think someone like Luke Hughes confuses liking someone with what? Friendship? Pity?”

She didn’t answer. Because that was exactly what she’d thought.

Emily sighed. “You know, just because you’ve been told you’re not the kind of girl someone could want doesn’t mean it’s true.”

She didn’t respond.

Because some truths lived too deep to root out in one morning.

———

She didn’t hear from Luke the rest of that day. Or the next.

He didn’t show up to their usual study spot. Didn’t text. Didn’t like her dumb meme about Schrödinger’s cat. His silence hurt more than anything else he could’ve said.

But she didn’t blame him.

Because she knew what it was like to reach out and get burned.

She’d just never imagined she’d be the one holding the match.

———

By Thursday, the guilt was eating her alive. So she did what she always did when she needed to think: she went to the library.

Their table was empty.

Her heart sank.

She sat down anyway, pulled out her notes, and tried to pretend she wasn’t scanning the door every five minutes.

And then—like her thoughts had summoned him—Luke walked in.

He looked tired. Not angry. Not even sad. Just… guarded.

She stood the second she saw him.

“Hey.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Hey.”

They stood there, books and silence between them, until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to run like that.”

Luke didn’t say anything.

She tried again.

“I panicked. It’s not because I don’t—” She swallowed. “It’s not because I didn’t want to hear what you said.”

He looked at her then. “Then why?”

God, she didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to lay herself bare like this. But he deserved the truth. Even if it came out ugly.

“Because I don’t understand why you’d like me,” she said, voice cracking. “I don’t look like the girls you’re supposed to want. I’m not skinny or pretty or—whatever.”

He stared at her like she’d slapped him.

“That’s what you think this is about?” he asked, low.

She blinked.

“Jesus, Phoebe.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You think I care what other people expect me to want?”

“You’re you,” she whispered. “And I’m just��me.”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough to make her feel it.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything.”

She looked away. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” he said. “But I want to.”

A pause. He softened.

“Let me get it.”

She blinked fast. “I don’t want to be someone you regret.”

Luke’s jaw clenched. “I could never regret you.”

The words sat heavy between them.

He looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “I’m not going to push you. But I meant what I said. I like you. And not in some passing ‘oh she’s cute’ way. I like the way your brain works. The way you ramble when you’re trying not to smile. The way you take care of people even when you’re breaking.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears stinging behind her eyes.

“I don’t want this if it’s going to hurt you,” he added. “But if it’s just fear holding you back—please don’t let it win.”

Her heart cracked open.

“Luke…”

“I’ll wait,” he said gently. “Just tell me there’s a chance.”

She looked up at him. Really looked. Saw the honesty, the warmth, the hope he hadn’t let go of—even when she’d tried to push him away.

And for the first time, she let herself believe it.

“Okay,” she whispered. “There’s a chance.”

Luke’s shoulders dropped, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time.

“Okay,” he echoed, soft and sure.

————

They didn’t kiss that day.

He didn’t pull her into his arms or say anything grand or cinematic.

But he did sit beside her, closer than usual, and opened his notebook.

And when their hands brushed, neither of them pulled away.

—————

They didn’t define it right away.

There was no official we’re dating talk, no grand proclamations. But after that afternoon in the library, everything shifted.

Luke texted her good morning now.

He walked her to class, even when it was out of his way.

When they studied, he let his thigh press against hers like it belonged there. Sometimes he brought snacks. Sometimes she brought extra pens because he always lost his. He started saying things like missed you today or this song reminded me of you or you looked really pretty earlier, just so you know, and he said it so easily—so genuinely—that eventually, she stopped flinching when he did.

Eventually, she started believing him.

The voice in her head—the one that told her she wasn’t enough—still lingered. Some days it shouted. But when Luke looked at her like she hung constellations, it was easier to quiet it. Easier to say, Maybe he sees something I don’t. Maybe that’s okay.

————

One night in early May, he texted her.

Luke: come outside

She blinked at the message.

Phoebe: ??? it’s almost midnight

Luke: and? bring a hoodie. trust me.

She found him standing outside her dorm, hair tousled, smile soft, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms. He had a blanket tucked under one arm and two milkshakes in hand.

“You kidnapping me?” she teased.

“Nah,” he said. “Just stealing you for a bit.”

He took her to a hill just outside campus—secluded, grassy, high enough to see the city lights blur in the distance. It was quiet. Private.

He spread out the blanket. Handed her the chocolate shake. Sat so close their shoulders touched.

“Remember that dumb thing I said about stars?” he asked after a while.

She smiled. “That they’re just gas but people still write poetry about them?”

“Yeah.” He looked up. “I get it now.”

She tilted her head. “Yeah?”

Luke turned to her, and his expression made her heart stop. So open. So gentle. Like she was the only thing he saw.

“Some things are beautiful because of what they make you feel,” he said quietly. “Even if they don’t make sense. Even if they’re far away or hard to reach.”

She swallowed. “Are we still talking about stars?”

“No,” he said, soft. “We’re not.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was full. Buzzing. A calm before something that felt like lightning.

Luke leaned in, slow and careful.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

When he kissed her, it was gentle. No fireworks or fanfare. Just warm, steady lips and the feeling of finally, finally, landing somewhere safe.

Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye. He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, heart pounding.

“Yeah,” she said. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Pressed another kiss to her temple like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

————

After that, there were words.

He started calling her his girl.

Introduced her to his teammates—who, shockingly, didn’t bat an eye. If anything, they seemed happy to see Luke looking so settled. (One of them winked at her and said, “Thank God. He’s been unbearable. You’re doing God’s work.”)

Luke held her hand in public. Let her wear his hoodie even when he pretended to pout about it. Texted her things like thinking about you during team meetings and wanna come over and watch dumb sci-fi movies so I can pretend to understand physics.

He never made her feel small.

Never made her feel like he was hiding her, or settling, or choosing her in spite of something.

He just chose her. Over and over again.

And that did something to her.

Something healing.

————

Finals came and went in a blur of caffeine and highlighters and three a.m. breakdowns. She helped him study. He brought her snacks.

On the last day of the semester, after they submitted their final lab report, he took her hand and said, “I think this is the first time I’ve ever liked physics.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Even after all the crying over projectile motion?”

He grinned. “Especially after that. You looked cute when you yelled at me about parabolas.”

She shoved him lightly, but she was smiling.

————

The night before she left for home, he showed up at her door with takeout and a bouquet of wildflowers.

She blinked at them.

“You know this is such a rom-com move , right?” she said.

Luke just shrugged. “You deserve rom-com shit.”

He kissed her like he meant it. Like they had all the time in the world. And when he whispered, “I’m gonna miss you like hell,” against her collarbone, she knew this wasn’t a temporary thing.

They’d figure out the summer.

Figure out everything else, too.

————

A week later, she got a text.

Luke: my mom wants to meet you. she already stalked your Instagram. she thinks you’re cute.

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

And for the first time, that voice in her head—the one that told her she’d never be enough—didn’t say a thing.

Because maybe she was.

Maybe she always had been.