breaking point (part two)
Garrett Graham x Reader
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part one here
You wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.
For a moment, you can’t remember where you are. The bed is too comfortable, the room too clean, the sheets smell wrong — not wrong, just different. Not like Cameron’s cologne and expensive detergent. Like something cleaner. Safer.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The napkin. The attack. Running through Boston in the freezing dark. Garrett’s voice on the phone, steady and sure. The apartment lobby. His car. This house.
You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.
The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple that’s going to turn black soon. There’s a split in your bottom lip you don’t remember getting.
You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.
You look like a victim.
The thought makes you want to throw up.
There’s a knock on the door — soft, hesitant.
“Y/N?” Garrett’s voice. “You awake?”
“Yeah.” Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.
“Can I come in?”
You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware you’re still in yesterday’s clothes. “Sure.”
The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. He’s showered and changed — different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“I brought breakfast,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. He’s weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.”
He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasn’t kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. There’s even a glass of orange juice.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say.
“I know.” Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah. You look-” He stops himself. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“I know what I look like.”
There’s a long pause. Garrett’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. You’re not sure which is worse.
“I think you should go to the police,” he says finally.
Your stomach drops. “Garrett-”
“I know you’re scared. I know you think he’ll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.” He gestures toward the mirror. “You have evidence. Documented injuries. That’s assault. That’s attempted murder.”
“His parents are lawyers-”
“I don’t give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “What he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.”
“And if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?”
“Then at least you tried. At least there’s a record. At least the next time he does this — because there will be a next time, to you or someone else — there’s a paper trail.”
You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this won’t work, why it’s pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.
But Garrett’s looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.
“Will you come with me?” You ask quietly.
“Every step of the way.”
***
The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.
Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. You’re about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.
“Y/N Y/L/N?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Officer Murphy. Come on back.”
She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. It’s exactly like the ones on TV — gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. There’s a camera mounted in the corner.
“For documentation purposes,” Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. “Everything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?”
You nod.
“I’m going to need verbal consent.”
“Yes. That’s okay.”
Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.
“So,” Officer Murphy begins. “You’re here to file a report about an assault?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.”
You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.
“My boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.”
“What time was this?”
“Around eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.”
Officer Murphy is writing everything down. “And what precipitated the attack?”
“He found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.”
“Were you?”
The question catches you off guard. “No. It was just—someone gave me their number and I kept it. That’s all.”
“Okay. So he found this number and then what?”
“He got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-” Your voice catches. “He put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldn’t breathe.”
Officer Murphy’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“Almost. I thought I was going to die.”
“What happened next?”
“He let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.” You point to your cheek. “Then he started choking me again.”
“How did you get away?”
“I kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.”
“Where did you run to?”
“Just … ran. Down the street. I called for help.” You glance at Garrett. “He came and got me.”
Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. “And you are?”
“Garrett Graham. I’m-” He hesitates. “A friend. She called me and I picked her up.”
“You’re a student at BU as well?”
“No. Briar University.”
Something shifts in Officer Murphy’s expression. Recognition, maybe. “You play hockey.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he plays for BU?”
“Yes.”
Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You can’t see what.
“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?”
Your stomach churns. “Do you have to?”
“It’s important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.”
You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. “I’ll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.”
With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.
Officer Murphy’s jaw tightens. “How long has he been hurting you?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Months? Years?”
“About a year. It started small. Then got worse.”
“And you never reported it before?”
The judgment in the question makes you flinch. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.” Your voice rises. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters,” Officer Murphy says firmly. “It always matters.”
She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.
Which, you suppose, you are.
Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
“Alright,” Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. “You can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.”
She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that you’d just tripped.
Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.
Then she asks: “Did he ever sexually assault you?”
The room goes very quiet.
You can’t look at Garrett. Can’t bear to see his reaction.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Can you describe what happened?”
“He would-” Your throat closes up. “He would force me. When I didn’t want to. When I said no.”
“How many times did this happen?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Too many to count.”
“Most recently?”
You close your eyes. “Yesterday morning. I woke up and he was already—he didn’t ask. He just-”
You can’t finish the sentence.
Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. There’s something wet on his palms.
Blood.
His nails have cut into his skin.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
He doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.
Officer Murphy notices too. “Mr. Graham, do you need to step outside?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is rough.
“You’re bleeding.”
Garrett looks down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.
“I’m fine,” he says again.
Officer Murphy doesn’t look convinced, but she continues. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.”
You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until you’re just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.
Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.
When you’re finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.
“Okay. This is what’s going to happen next. We’re going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beck’s arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.”
“Will he go to jail?” You ask.
“That depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. You’ll have to testify.”
Your heart sinks. “I have to see him again?”
“In court, yes. But we’re also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he can’t contact you, can’t come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.”
“His parents are going to fight this,” you say. “They have money. Lawyers.”
“Let them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what you’ve described, this isn’t going to be a hard case to make.”
You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way it’s supposed to.
But you’ve been disappointed so many times before.
“What do I do now?” You ask.
“Go home. Rest. We’ll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.”
“Okay.”
Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. “You did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re incredibly brave.”
You shake her hand, but you don’t feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.
Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.
“Mr. Graham, you should get those looked at.”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. There’s a first aid kit at the front desk.”
Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.
You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.
“Resources,” she explains. “Domestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.”
“Thank you.”
You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You don’t have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.
Everything except your phone and your life.
Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesn’t quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. It’s such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.
Once you’re both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. “Where do you want me to take you?”
You hesitate. “My dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where you’ll be alone.”
“Garrett, I can’t just hide forever-”
“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying until we know he’s been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.” He starts the car. “You’re coming back to the house.”
“I can’t impose like that-”
“You’re not imposing. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”
You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified he’ll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what he’ll do when he finds out you went to the police.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.
“You’re still bleeding,” you say.
“I know.”
“You should clean that.”
“I will.”
But he doesn’t sound like he cares. He sounds like he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.
When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.
“My roommates are home. They know you’re here — I told them last night. They’re cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, that’s fine too.”
“It’s their house. I should at least say hi.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
“Still.”
You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight — messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.
“G, that you?” A voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah. And Y/N.”
Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockey’s most recent post on Instagram — Logan, Garrett’s best friend. The other two you don’t know.
They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries — shock, anger, pity.
“Jesus,” one of them breathes. He’s auburn-haired, built like a tank. “He did that to you?”
You nod, unable to speak.
“I’m Tucker,” he says. “And when I see that motherfucker, I’m going to break every bone in his body.”
“Get in line,” Garrett mutters.
The third guy — tall, blond hair, kind eyes — steps forward. “I’m Dean. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.”
“I don’t want to be a burden-”
“You’re not.” Logan’s voice is firm. “Any friend of Garrett’s is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.”
You’re overwhelmed suddenly. These boys — these strangers — are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.
“Thank you,” you manage.
“You hungry?” Tucker asks. “I made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.”
“I could eat,” you say.
“Good. Sit. I’ll heat it up.”
Garrett leads you to the dining table — a beat-up wooden thing that’s seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.
Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me see your hands.”
“I’m fine,” Garrett says.
“You’re bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.”
Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.
“What the hell did you do?” Dean asks.
“Nothing.”
Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesn’t even flinch.
“We went to the police this morning,” Garrett says. “She filed a report. They’re issuing a warrant for Beck’s arrest.”
The room goes quiet.
“Good,” Tucker says finally from the kitchen. “Fucking good.”
“Did they believe you?” Dean asks you.
“I think so. There’s evidence. Photos. My statement.”
“And if he tries to come near you?”
“Restraining order. But it takes time.”
“Until then, you stay here,” Logan says. It’s not a question. “We’ll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you don’t go anywhere alone.”
“I can’t ask you guys to do that-”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering.” Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.
It’s delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.
“This is really good,” you say.
“Told you.” Tucker grins. “Hockey and cooking. My only two skills.”
Despite everything, you almost smile.
Garrett’s still watching you with that intense expression. Like he’s memorizing every detail. Like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re scared. But we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
You look around the table at these four boys — these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.
“Why?” You ask. “Why are you all doing this?”
The boys exchange glances.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Logan says simply.
“Because that asshole deserves to rot,” Tucker adds.
“Because you deserve better,” Dean says.
Garrett doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like you’re something precious.
You squeeze back.
And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be okay.
***
Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.
Garrett’s been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date he’s been waiting for.
The date he’s going to make Cameron Beck pay.
He’s in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Logan’s taping his stick. Tucker’s blasting music through his headphones. Dean’s doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.
Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.
You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars — pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about “false accusations,” and went right back to his life.
Including hockey.
Boston University’s administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasn’t been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.
Innocent until proven guilty, they said.
Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.
None of that matters to BU’s athletic department as much as their winning record.
Garrett’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Listen up.”
The room quiets.
“We all know what tonight is,” Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. “We all know who we’re playing. And I’m going to say this once: I don’t care about your personal feelings. I don’t care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
Coach’s eyes land on Garrett. “Graham. My office. Now.”
Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.
“Sit.”
Garrett sits.
Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You’re thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.”
Garrett doesn’t confirm or deny.
“I get it,” Coach continues. “I do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, you’re the captain of this team. You’re a junior. You’re probably going to the NHL in a year. You can’t throw that away because you want revenge.”
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“If you go after him tonight, you will be. You’ll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “Yes.”
Coach sighs. “I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to think about your team. About your future.”
“I have thought about it.” Garrett stands. “And I’ve made my decision.”
He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.
“Well?” Logan asks.
“Same as always. Play clean, win the game.”
“And are you going to play clean?” Tucker asks with a knowing smile.
Garrett doesn’t answer. Just pulls on his jersey — number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.
When it’s time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensen’s eye one more time.
“Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
Coach’s brow furrows. “For what?”
“For the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.”
Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrett’s already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words don’t register. There’s only one thing on Garrett’s mind now.
The ice.
***
You’re sitting on Garrett’s bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldn’t watch. Your therapist — the one the victim services advocate connected you with — said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.
But you can’t help it.
You need to see this.
The arena is packed — a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling “one of the most anticipated matchups of the season.” Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.
They have no idea what else this game means.
The camera pans across the Briar bench. There’s Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. You’ve never seen him look like that before — like violence contained in a hockey uniform.
Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.
Cameron.
He’s there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didn’t assault you. Like he didn’t rape you. Like he didn’t leave you so broken you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.
The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that he’s facing “personal legal issues” but don’t elaborate. Wouldn’t want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.
You feel sick.
The door opens and Beau, Dean’s best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look okay.” He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t have to watch this, right?”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to anyway.”
“I need to see it.”
Beau nods like he understands. “Want company?”
“Sure.”
He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. It’s something you’ve noticed about all the boys — they’re incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.
It’s the opposite of Cameron in every way.
The puck drops.
***
Garrett’s never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesn’t cheap shot. Doesn’t go for injuries. Doesn’t use his stick as a weapon.
Tonight’s going to be different.
He’s skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.
Garrett’s vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Can’t just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.
The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in — all legal, all clean — but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.
Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briar’s up 1-0.
The period’s winding down — about three minutes left — when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.
They’re at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
Beck leans in close.
“Hey, Graham,” he says, voice low enough the ref can’t hear. “How’s my girl doing?”
Garrett’s stick tightens in his grip, but he doesn’t respond.
“She still staying at your place?” Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. “That’s cute. Playing house. But we both know she’ll come back to me eventually. She always does.”
The ref’s getting into position.
“She’s a good fuck though, right?” Beck’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tight. Eager. Especially when she cries.”
Something inside Garrett snaps.
The puck hasn’t even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.
His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beck’s head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesn’t stop. He’s on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.
Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrett’s bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.
“You piece of shit-” Punch. “You fucking coward-” Punch. “You think you can talk about her like that-” Punch.
Beck’s nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.
The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.
Garrett’s still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.
Beck’s on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane — some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.
One ref is talking into his mic. “Number 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. You’re done.”
Garrett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.
The Briar bench erupts.
Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. It’s the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.
Support. Solidarity.
They know why Garrett did it. And they’re backing him one hundred percent.
Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even he’s fighting a smile.
As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beck’s sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.
Garrett doesn’t care.
It was worth it.
***
You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.
One second, they’re lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrett’s on Cameron like a feral animal.
Beau jumps up beside you. “Holy shit!”
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameron’s face turns into a bloody pulp.
The commentators are losing their minds.
“Absolutely vicious attack by Graham — completely unprovoked — this is going to be a lengthy suspension-”
But it wasn’t unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.
And Garrett responded.
For you.
The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood — not his own — is splattered across his jersey.
Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.
They’re supporting him.
All of them.
“Did you see that?” Beau’s grinning. “The whole fucking bench. They all know.”
“Know what?”
“Why Garrett did it. They’re telling him they’ve got his back.”
Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.
Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldn’t let it slide.
The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briar’s penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.
When the period finally ends, it’s still 1-0 Briar.
You close the laptop.
“You okay?” Beau asks.
“I don’t know.”
“That was pretty intense.”
“He did that for me.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“He’s going to get in so much trouble.”
“Probably.” Beau shrugs. “But Garrett doesn’t care. You should’ve seen him these past three weeks. He’s been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.”
“I need to-” You stand up. “I need to call him.”
“He’s probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”
You grab your phone, pull up Garrett’s number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me. I just—I saw what happened. What you did. And I-” Your voice cracks. “Thank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know you’re probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I just—thank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.”
You pause, trying to find the right words.
“I’ll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?”
You hang up.
Beau’s watching you with a soft expression. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question.
“He saved my life,” you say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You sit back down on the bed. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything’s so complicated and messed up and I’m barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?”
“He cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.”
“What do you mean?”
Beau hesitates. “He doesn’t really talk about his feelings. None of us do — we’re athletes, we’re emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? I’ve never seen him like that with anyone. He’s protective to the point of obsession.”
“I don’t want to be his redemption project,” you say quietly.
“You’re not. Trust me. If you were, he’d be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesn’t do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.” Beau stands, stretches. “Anyway. I’m going to make some popcorn. You want some?”
“Sure.”
He leaves and you’re alone with your thoughts.
You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briar’s still up 1-0. BU’s pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briar’s goalie is playing out of his mind.
The commentators are still talking about Garrett’s ejection.
“We’re hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.”
Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.
You think about Cameron’s face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since you’ve known him.
You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that you’re glad Garrett hurt him.
But you don’t.
You feel vindicated.
***
Garrett’s in Coach’s office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.
But Garrett wasn’t there to see it.
“The league’s reviewing the footage,” Coach says, arms crossed. “They’re talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
Garrett shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.”
“Did you know Beck is in the hospital?”
That gets Garrett’s attention. “What?”
“Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.”
Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.
He doesn’t.
“Good,” he says.
Coach’s expression hardens. “Garrett-”
“He did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldn’t even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.”
“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Maybe not. But someone had to do it.”
Coach is quiet for a long moment. “What did he say to you?”
“What?”
“At the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?”
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does if it pushed you that far.”
“He talked about her. About-” Garrett can’t repeat the words. Can’t make himself say them out loud. “It was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”
Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “You know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably done for the season.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. “You’re a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.”
“Does that mean you’re not kicking me off the team?”
“I should. But no. You’ll serve your suspension and then we’ll see where we are.” Coach stands. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got someone waiting for you.”
Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.
He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore — he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beck’s face — but it’s a good kind of pain. Satisfying.
His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.
And one voicemail from you.
He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.
Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him you’ll be there when he gets back.
Something in his chest loosens.
He starts the car and drives home.
When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beau’s on the couch, watching TV.
“She’s in your room,” Beau says without looking up.
Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.
His door is closed. He knocks softly.
“Come in.”
You’re sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrett’s breath catch.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“I watched the whole thing.”
“And?”
You stand, walk over to him. You’re close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“You already said that. In your message.”
“I know. But I wanted to say it to your face.” You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
The smallest smile touches his lips. “Maybe a little.”
You hold his hand carefully, like it’s something precious. “You’re probably suspended.”
“Yeah.”
“For multiple games.”
“Probably.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of him,” Garrett corrects. “Because he’s a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.”
You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes Garrett can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.
“No one’s ever stood up for me like that before,” you say.
“They should have.”
“But they didn’t. You did.”
Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that he’ll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.
But he doesn’t.
Because you’re not his to protect. Not really. You’re just someone he couldn’t walk away from. Someone he couldn’t save until you decided to save yourself.
“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “We can talk more in the morning.”
You nod, but you don’t let go of his hand.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it was you. That night. When I called. I’m glad it was you who answered.”
Something in Garrett’s chest cracks open.
“Me too,” he says.
You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back for three weeks.
The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.
And something else. Something he’s not ready to name yet.
But it’s there.
Growing stronger every day.
***
The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for “excessive violence and intent to injure.”
Garrett doesn’t even blink.
Four games. That’s it. He was expecting worse — six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.
“Four games,” Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. “That’s nothing.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.
“Could’ve been better. Could’ve been zero games and a medal.”
Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. “Did you see the prospect rankings?”
“What about them?”
“You moved up.” Tucker grins. “Apparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.”
Garrett sits up. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying you’re exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.”
Dean appears in the doorway. “There’s already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. It’s got like two million views.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.”
Garrett doesn’t care about fame. Doesn’t care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.
You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrett’s old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. You’ve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister — protective, teasing, careful. It’s the safest you’ve felt in over a year.
“What’s all the noise about?” You ask.
“Garrett’s trending on Twitter,” Tucker announces.
“For the fight?”
“For being a badass, apparently.”
You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. It’s become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesn’t flinch when you’re near. You don’t panic when he moves. It’s taken weeks to build this comfort, but it’s there.
“How are the knuckles?” You ask.
“Better. Still ugly.”
“Battle scars.”
“Something like that.”
Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.
“What?” He asks immediately.
“The DA. The trial date got moved up.”
“To when?”
“Three weeks from now.” Your voice is shaky. “April seventh.”
Garrett does the math. That’s right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”
“You’ve been preparing for weeks. You’re ready.”
“Am I?” You look at him, and there’s real fear in your eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?”
“Then I’ll be there to put you back together.”
It’s a promise. Simple and absolute.
You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.
But neither of you do.
***
The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.
The DA — a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep — meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.
“They’re going to try to discredit you,” she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. “They’re going to imply you’re lying, that you wanted it, that you’re just trying to ruin his life because you’re bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.”
“How do I not break?” You ask. “How do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?”
“You remember why you’re doing this. You remember that you’re not just fighting for yourself — you’re fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.”
Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.
“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
The night before the trial, you can’t sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You jump, nearly dropping the mug. “God, you scared me.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep either.”
“Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Yep.”
You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. “What if he gets away with it?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. They’ve got money and connections and-”
“And you have the truth.” Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. “You have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.”
“You can’t testify. You weren’t there.”
“No, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know you’re not alone.”
You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.
“I’m terrified,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“But I’m also angry. I’m so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.”
“He will.”
“Promise?”
Garrett shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Shouldn’t guarantee an outcome that’s out of his control. But looking at you — brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto — he can’t help himself.
“I promise.”
***
The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.
You’re dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.
Garrett’s beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. He’s a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.
“You look good,” you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.
“I look like I’m going to a funeral.”
“And still very handsome.”
He manages a small smile. “You ready?”
“No. But let’s do this anyway.”
Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You don’t let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isn’t a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.”
You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.
The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.
It’s smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces — your parents, who flew in from wherever they’ve been. Julie, who’s been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrett’s teammates.
And Cameron’s parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like they’re at a country club meeting instead of their son’s rape trial.
You don’t look at Cameron. Can’t. Not yet.
The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge — an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes — takes her seat.
“The People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,” the bailiff announces. “Charges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
The trial begins.
***
Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.
The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records — the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphy’s testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.
She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.
Cameron’s lawyer — a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour — objects to nearly everything. “Relevance, your honor.” “Speculation.” “Prejudicial.”
Most of his objections get overruled.
Then it’s time for your testimony.
You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.
Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. “Can you state your name for the record?”
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
“And how old are you, Y/N?”
“Twenty.”
“And you’re a student at Boston University?”
“Yes. Junior. Journalism major.”
“Can you tell the jury how you met the defendant?”
You take a breath. “We met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.”
“And when did the relationship turn abusive?”
“Gradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. He’d grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.”
“And did you tell anyone?”
“No. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, he’d go back to being the person I fell for.”
“When did the physical abuse become severe?”
“Last summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.”
Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.
“And the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?”
This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.
“He would force me. When I said no, he’d do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.”
“How many times did this occur?”
“I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more.”
“And the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?”
You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.
By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.
Then it’s Coburn’s turn.
He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.
“Ms. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?”
“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”
“A fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?”
“I was scared.”
“Scared. Of what?”
“Of him. Of what he’d do if I told anyone.”
“But you told Mr. Graham, didn’t you?” Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. “A hockey player from a rival school. Isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?”
Garrett’s hands clench into fists.
“No,” you say firmly. “I never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didn’t fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.”
“Allegedly tried to kill you.”
“There’s nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.”
“Or perhaps you two had rough sex and you’re retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?”
Katherine jumps up. “Objection! Badgering the witness.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Mr. Coburn, watch yourself.”
But Coburn isn’t done. “You say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?”
“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone who’s been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.”
“Or someone who’s lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You expect this jury to believe that my client — a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record — is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?”
“Based on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.”
Coburn smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “No further questions.”
You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.
The defense presents their case. It’s weak — character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.
It’s all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.
When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.
And then you wait.
***
Two hours feel like two years.
You’re in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.
Garrett’s there too, because they couldn’t make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.
“What if they don’t believe me?” You ask for the hundredth time.
“They will,” Katherine says.
“But what if they don’t?”
“Then we appeal. But they’re going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.”
Your phone buzzes. It’s your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Can’t deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.
Garrett’s phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.
“What?” You ask.
“Logan. He says if Beck walks, they’re going to handle it themselves.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
There’s a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. “Jury’s back.”
Your stomach drops. “Already?”
“Quick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,” Katherine says, standing. “Let’s go.”
You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up — more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.
Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.
The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but they’re all carefully neutral.
The judge addresses the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, your honor.”
“On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant guilty.”
The courtroom erupts. Cameron’s mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.
“On the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
“On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.
The judge is talking about sentencing, but you can’t hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.
“Twenty-five years,” the judge announces. “With possibility of parole after twenty.”
Twenty-five years. Cameron won’t be out until he’s almost fifty.
Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. You’re crying.
And then you’re moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.
He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.
“We did it,” you sob into his shoulder. “He’s going to prison.”
“You did it,” Garrett corrects, voice rough. “You were so fucking brave up there.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you did it anyway. That’s what brave means.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. “So goddamn proud.”
Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. He’s shouting something — probably threats, probably curses — but you don’t care. Can’t hear him over your own heartbeat.
You’re safe. Finally, truly safe.
You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.
He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
You don’t have words for what you’re feeling. Don’t know how to explain that this boy — this stranger who became your savior who became your friend — has somehow become everything.
So you don’t say anything.
You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.
It’s nothing like kissing Cameron. There’s no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.
“Was that okay?” You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.
“That was-” Garrett’s voice breaks. “Yeah. That was okay.”
Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.
His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face — harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like you’re something precious. Something worth protecting.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. Because you didn’t have to do any of it. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.” Garrett’s forehead touches yours. “Not from you.”
Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside — they’re going to want a statement.”
You take a shaky breath. “Can Garrett come?”
“Of course.”
You don’t let go of Garrett’s hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Don’t let go as she explains the next steps — the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order that’s now permanent, the victim services available to you.
Don’t let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.
You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.
The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.
When it’s finally over, when you’re back in Garrett’s car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” you say.
“It’s not over,” Garrett replies. “He’ll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.”
“But the worst part is over.”
“Yeah. The worst part is over.”
You look at him — really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesn’t mean possession.
“What happens now?” You ask.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.”
Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someone’s promise to you actually means something.
You believe in tomorrow.
You believe in healing.
You believe in love — the real kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt.
As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.
She’s not gone.
She’s been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.
And now, finally, she’s ready to wake up.
***
One year later.
You’re standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and you’ve never felt more alive.
The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriend’s team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? You’re just happy to be here.
Happy to be doing what you love.
Happy to be yourself again.
“Alright, Y/N, we’re live in thirty seconds,” your producer says through your earpiece.
You smooth down your blazer — BU red and white, professional but not stuffy — and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briar’s captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.
Who also happens to be the love of your life, but you’re trying to keep it professional.
“And we’re live in five, four, three …” The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.
You smile at the camera. “I’m here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonight’s season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.”
Garrett’s in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.
“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Feels great to start the season with a W.”
“You had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one — the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.”
“Yeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.”
“Lucky?” You raise an eyebrow. “That was pure skill and you know it.”
Now he’s definitely smiling. “Well, I’ve had some good coaching. Great teammates. It’s a team effort.”
“Speaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?”
Something shifts in Garrett’s expression. Gets more serious. “It’s bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But I’m also excited for what’s next.”
You consult your notes, but you’ve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrett’s favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you’re a journalist doing your job.
“Your team has high expectations this year,” you continue. “Returning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?”
“I think we’ve got the talent and the drive. We’ve been working our asses off—sorry, can I say that on air?”
You fight back a smile. “We’re cable. You’re fine.”
“Well, we’ve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyone’s bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think we’ve got a real shot.”
“And what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?”
Garrett looks directly at the camera. “Honestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.”
It’s a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.
You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But there’s something in Garrett’s eyes — a warmth, a familiarity — that makes you relax slightly.
“So,” you say, going slightly off-script. “Three goals on opening night. That’s got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.”
“Oh, especially against BU,” Garrett agrees, and now he’s definitely teasing. “No offense to your school.”
“Some taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.”
“You did. That third period though …” He makes a yikes face.
“Okay, rude.”
“I’m just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought you’d appreciate factual accuracy.”
You bite back a laugh. “I appreciate winning more.”
“Well, you’re dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.”
Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you can’t help it. You grin. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Plus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.”
“Oh, should I?”
“Definitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.”
You feel your cheeks heat up. “Garrett, we’re on camera.”
“I know.” He’s absolutely shameless, that smile widening. “Just keeping things interesting for the viewers.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And okay, you do. You love this — the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the arena.
“Alright, I think that’s probably enough for tonight,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Garrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.”
“Thanks for having me.”
He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, he’s leaning in and kissing you — quick and sweet but definitely not professional — right there on camera.
When he pulls back, you’re frozen, face burning, completely flustered.
“See you at home,” he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.
You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.
“And that’s … that’s the post-game report from Agganis Arena,” you manage. “Back to you in the studio.”
The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. “Well, that’s going viral.”
“I’m so sorry-”
“Are you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Great job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.”
You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. There’s already a text from Julie: OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.
Then one from Logan: G’s getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.
Then one from your mom: Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional 😊
You’re laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrett’s truck — you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but you’ll both end up at the same place.
Home.
It still feels surreal sometimes. That you’re here. That you’re happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like you’re precious.
You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss that’s probably being GIF’d and memed as you drive.
When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.
You let yourself in — still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home — and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.
“Hey, superstar,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.
He looks up, grins. “Hey, yourself. How’d the rest of the interviews go?”
“Fine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.”
“I couldn’t help it. You looked too good.”
You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. It’s automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“With who? Your producer loved it.”
“With my professional reputation.”
“Your professional reputation is that you’re a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briar’s hockey team.”
“Extremely handsome? Really?”
“I’m just reporting the facts.”
You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You played really well tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan — perfect pass.”
“Are you analyzing my game?”
“I’m a sports journalist. It’s literally my job.”
Garrett’s expression softens. “You know what I love about you?”
“My devastating good looks?”
“Well, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You could’ve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didn’t.”
You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago — broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.
But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BU’s sports network.
Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.
“I had help,” you say quietly.
“You did the work.”
“We did the work.”
Because it hasn’t been just you. Garrett’s been there for every step. Patient when you couldn’t be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.
He’s been to therapy himself — dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.
You’ve healed together.
“Come here,” Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.”
He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.
When you break apart, you’re both breathing harder.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says. “For tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.”
“It was just an interview.”
“It wasn’t just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.”
You hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t consciously registered that you were in BU’s arena doing what you love without fear.
“He’s in prison,” you say. It’s a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if he’ll somehow find you. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Garrett agrees. “And even if he could, he’d have to go through me first.”
“My fierce protector.”
“Always.”
You kiss him again, and this time it’s different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.
“Bedroom?” He murmurs against your lips.
“Bedroom,” you agree.
He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs — something that should be cheesy but somehow isn’t, not with him — and lays you gently on the bed.
The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.
Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.
You don’t cry anymore. Now it’s just … good. Better than good. Amazing.
He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.
“This okay?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“Yes.”
It’s something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though you’ve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.
Only gives.
He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameron’s handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.
“Beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.
Hours later, you’re both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks.
“How different everything is.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“The best different.” You tilt your head to look at him. “A year ago, I couldn’t imagine being happy again. Couldn’t imagine feeling safe or loved or … whole.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t imagine anything else.”
Garrett’s quiet for a moment. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you too.”
“I’m going to marry you someday.”
It’s not a proposal — just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. When you’re ready. When we’re ready. But someday, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.”
You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.
But you don’t.
You feel safe.
“Someday sounds good,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.
You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.
She’s still here. She’s been here all along, just waiting to be found again.
And she’s got so much left to do.
Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.
But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her — the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all — she’s exactly where she needs to be.
“Garrett?” You murmur, half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for answering the phone that night.”
His arms tighten around you. “Thank you for calling.”
Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, you’re safe and loved and whole.
And that’s more than enough.
That’s everything.
