make you miss me • q. hughes

33

"Hey, Jacky," I say. The guy had called me right as I woke up from a nap. I can't imagine how many texts I have waiting for me, he never calls before texting beforehand.

A sigh comes from Jack's end of the phone. "You talk to Quinny today?"

"Before his flight, yeah. They're on a road trip for a little."

"Shit, that's right." He sounds... tired. In a sad-tired way. So sad you're tired. What do I do? I'm not the one to help people work through emotions. That's Val.

This is Jack. I can handle Jack. Maybe. Carefully, I ask, "What's up?"

"Nothin'," he lies.

"Don't bullshit me."

There's silence. My free hand messes with a string coming out of the hem of a UMich hoodie Quinn left at my place last week or something. I'm not going to press him into it. If he ends up telling me to fuck off and that he's not bullshitting me, I'll leave it alone.

But he doesn't. He sighs again. "I kind of... You ever have times where it seems no matter how hard you try things don't go your way?"

"Everyone does," I state.

"I'm having one of those times and it's pissing me off and stressing me out. Even sitting doing nothing I feel so fucking angry that I can't seem to do what I'm being paid so much to do."

My heart breaks a bit. I've heard Finch say similar things. Obviously not about the paying thing quite yet. One time last year, Finch was having a bad week and he came home and he started unloading all of this freak out about pressure to live to the stupid hype put around him. How he hadn't gotten a point in so many games or even come close and it was killing him. I didn't know what to say and so I said nothing and that made it worse.

"I'm not going to sit here and pretend I get exactly what you're going through," I say. "Sports have never been my life or even close to my livelihood. I'm not some hockey hotshot just the friend of a few and the older sister of one. I just... Jack, I'm not sure I'm the one to ask about this. I can't specialize in any advice or comfort."

"I called you for a reason," Jack mumbles.

"To see if I knew where your brother was, I know."

"Nope. Because I knew Quinn wouldn't be able to answer and you're the best replacement for him."

"How?"

"Schuy, come on." He does a little half-laugh. "You guys are two peas in a pod."

"You sound like my grandmother."

His voice sounds lighter than before. "I'm taking that as a compliment."

"Exactly as you should."

"No, but seriously, man. If I needed you and couldn't get a hold of you, I'd call Quinny instead."

I laugh a little. "We're not interchangeable like that."

"Oh my god!" He shouts so loud I move the phone away from my ear. "That laugh was basically Quinn's. Don't— Dude, holy shit."

"Yeah, right."

"Swear to god, Schuy."

"Fuck off."

"I need your advice or something."

"Jack," I sigh. "I don't really have any advice that could help you out here."

"Then do the or something. Y'know, whatever you think I might need to hear. I don't know. If I was near you, I'd let you smack me into the right mindset."

"I wouldn't do that to you."

You can practically hear him roll his eyes. "Yeah, you would."

"What can I say? I love a good slap."

"Slap me with your words," he says. "Lay it on me."

"I guess... I don't know. You have to separate the hockey from the hotshot, I guess. You can't let the pressure of having to be good all the time ruin the game." I take a deep breath and pray this is even useful. I don't want to let Jack down. "You're good. You can have a rough patch. You'll learn from it. What you can't learn from is not enjoying the game. Yeah, anger is kind of engrained into hockey but if you can't have fun through the anger, then you aren't ever going to play well."

There's silence on his end and I feel panic build in my chest. That was probably something he's heard a million times from a million different coaches and trainers and all that shit. It was a basic ass message and he's probably going to be so disappointed that I couldn't do what Quinn could. Not to mention that this feels bigger than trying to help out a friend for some reason. This isn't simply Jack being my friend and needing advice. I don't know what it is. But it's not that.

"Jack, you can tell me that made no sense or sucked or—"

He cuts me off. "Nah. I... That hit differently coming from you. I don't know why."

"I hate hockey players," I mumble.

"Why?" Jack laughs out the word.

"Freaks who can make my melt heart and shit."

"Aw, Schuy, you love me."

"Shut up."

He laughs again. "Please, can I be the first Hughes you say that to? I need to beat Quinn."

"Why do you think Quinn is going to hear it?"

"Uh, duh," he says. "He's giving you flowers, taking you to relive the first time you met—"

"Are you making fun of me or honest to god making the accusation?" I ask. He could have figured it out. But if I tell him, the cat's pretty much out of the bag because of his big ass mouth.

"Just fucking with you."

"You're so funny." I glance at the time on the little clock on my nightstand. "Quinn should have landed by now."

"He's nowhere near as fun to talk to as you."

The laugh that comes out of me gets stuck, making it a coughing fit instead. Jack laughs as I settle it down. "Dude, I need you to record you saying that so I can get Quinn to hear it without him trying to call bullshit."

"Now that I think about it, I'm gonna go call him," he says, obviously biting back a laugh.

"I hate you."

"Don't treat your future favorite brother-in-law like that."

"Luke would obviously be my favorite," I say. Then rush to add, "If that was even a thing. Which it's not."

"Sure it's not."

I scoff and hang up on him before he can even start laughing.