Quinn Hughes

Georgia is a ghost. Not unruly or anything. No haunting. Maybe the occasional shutting a door loudly to scare people, or knocking something off a shelf. A couple light flickers here and there.

Quinn Hughes can see ghosts. He doesn’t think he’s the only person that does, but he’s definitely the only one in the NHL. Out of everyone, of course it had to be him. It was never really an issue. He didn’t make an effort to tell anyone other than his family. There were some ghosts that got attached to him, some that he helped move on to the afterlife, some that didn’t even know he could tell they existed.

One, however, persisted. Georgia, who showed up to every game, slept on his couch, and was insistent on following him everywhere he went. He knew next to nothing about them, other than their name and that they died in a freak car accident. Kinda sucked, but they were nice enough. They talked to him when he was alone, happy to hang out and fill the air for him.

Tonight was one of those nights. Quinn, laying in bed, a half eaten pizza sitting in front of him. Georgia was draped over the end of the bed, pretending to eat a piece.

“I don’t know anything about you,” Quinn murmured, watching them with soft eyes. “Yet you basically live- er, exist, in my house at all times.”