Aeyo’s Off Campus Library

You roll over, burying your face in his pillow. It smells exactly like him — a mix of clean laundry, expensive cologne, and something distinctly male. You let out a soft, contented sigh. For your entire life, your brain has been a chaotic storm of equations, schedules, and unrelenting pressure. But right now, in this bed, your mind is blissfully, entirely quiet.

You sit up, pushing your tangled hair out of your face. You look around the room, expecting Garrett to walk through the door with that lopsided, heart-stopping grin. But the room is silent.

Figuring he must be downstairs, you slide out of bed. Your bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, sending a shiver up your spine. You look down at the black silk slip dress pooled on the floor next to your lace underwear. You definitely aren’t putting that back on for a Saturday morning breakfast.

Instead, you walk over to the chair in the corner of the room, grabbing a faded gray Briar Hockey t-shirt and a pair of black gym shorts that clearly belong to him. You pull the shirt over your head — it completely swallows your frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh. You step into the shorts, having to roll the waistband down three times just to get them to stay on your hips.

You walk out into the hallway, your bare feet padding softly against the wood.

As you approach the top of the stairs, you hear the muffled sounds of a television and the distinct clatter of pans. Then, the loud, booming voices of Garrett’s roommates.

You pause on the top step, a sudden wave of shyness hitting you. You’ve never done the “morning after” thing before. You have no idea what the protocol is. Do you walk into the kitchen and introduce yourself? Do you hide upstairs until Garrett comes to get you?

You take a tentative step down.

“Look who’s alive,” a voice — you think it’s Logan — calls out over the sizzle of bacon. “I was starting to think you suffocated in there, G.”

“Very funny,” Garrett’s voice replies. It sounds rough, sleep-heavy, and it sends a pleasant shiver down your arms.

You take a few more steps down the stairs, hiding just out of sight behind the wall that separates the staircase from the open-plan kitchen and living area. You lean against the plaster, biting your lip to suppress a smile. You’ll just wait a second, let them finish their banter, and then go say good morning.

“I’m making eggs,” Dean announces. “You want eggs, loverboy? Or are you too busy mourning the impending loss of your chest hair?”

You frown slightly, your brow furrowing in confusion. Chest hair?

There’s a beat of silence in the kitchen. Then, Garrett sighs. It’s a heavy, exhausted sound. “I’m not losing any chest hair, Dean. I’ll take three eggs. Scrambled.”

Tucker lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Wait. Wait a minute. Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Garrett says, his tone completely flat.

“You actually did it?” Logan asks, his voice rising in disbelief. “You got her in bed?”

Your heart physically stutters in your chest. Your hand flies up to grip the wooden banister, your knuckles immediately turning white. The smile completely drops from your face.

“Yeah,” Garrett says simply. “I did.”

“No way,” Dean laughs, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls like a physical slap. “The lamppost girl? The impenetrable fortress of aerospace engineering? You got her to put the textbooks down long enough to sleep with you?”

“I told you guys,” Garrett snaps, his voice suddenly sharp, carrying an edge of defensive irritation. “I told you I could pull any girl on this campus if I wanted to. You’re the ones who didn’t believe me.”

“Man, I should have never doubted the Graham magic,” Logan says, laughing loudly. “I owe you fifty bucks, Dean. The captain retains his crown.”

“A bet is a bet,” Tucker adds, his southern drawl dripping with amusement. “I gotta admit, G, I didn’t think you had the patience for someone that … intense. We gave you until the end of the semester, and you knocked it out before Thanksgiving. Well played.”

“It took some work,” Garrett says. You can hear the scrape of a barstool as he sits down. “But it’s over now. So, the only ones getting a chest wax are the three of you. Book the appointments.”

The air in your lungs turns to pure ash.

You can’t breathe. You literally cannot draw a single breath into your body. The world around you begins to spin, the edges of your vision blurring with dark spots.

A bet.

It was a bet.

Every single moment of the last month flashes through your mind with violent, devastating clarity. The chair pulling out in the library. The astronaut joke. The coffee and muffins. The lunch at Panera where you laid your soul bare about your scholarship and your childhood in Florida.

The zinnias. God, the zinnias.

He didn’t care about the first flower in space. He didn’t care about your dreams, or your fears, or the fact that you finally felt seen by someone. He cared about his ego. He cared about his chest hair. He cared about proving to his frat-boy friends that he could conquer the campus nerd.

And you gave him your virginity.

You practically begged him for it. You apologized to him for being inexperienced. You let him touch you, let him break down every single wall you spent three years building, all so he could walk downstairs and brag to his friends about winning a game.

A wave of nausea hits you so hard you actually have to slap your hand over your mouth to keep from gagging. The humiliation is a living, breathing thing, wrapping its claws around your throat and squeezing until you feel like you’re going to die right there on the stairs.

“Honestly, I feel a little bad for her,” Dean says casually over the sound of a spatula scraping a pan. “Did she even know what hit her?”

“Drop it, Dean,” Garrett says, his voice suddenly dropping an octave, sounding dangerous. “Just shut the fuck up about it. It’s done.”

It’s done.

You don’t think. The flight response in your brain overrides everything else. You don’t turn around to go back to his bedroom. You don’t go back for your black slip dress, or your lace underwear, or your purse, or your shoes. The thought of being in his room for even one more second makes your skin crawl with absolute revulsion.

You pivot on your bare feet. You practically fly down the remaining three steps, your eyes locked onto the front door at the end of the hallway.

You don’t care who sees you. You don’t care what you look like. You reach the heavy wooden door, grab the brass handle, and yank it open.

The hinges let out a loud, obnoxious squeal, and the door slams shut behind you with a deafening crack that echoes through the entire house.

The freezing November air hits your bare legs like a spray of ice water, but you don’t stop. You leap off the porch steps, your bare feet hitting the unforgiving gravel of the driveway. The sharp stones bite into your soles, but the physical pain doesn’t even register against the agonizing, shattering pain in your chest.

You hit the sidewalk and you run.

You run blindly, your vision completely clouded by thick, hot tears. You don’t know where you’re going. You just know you have to get away from that house. Away from the smell of his cologne on the shirt you’re wearing. Away from the memory of his hands on your skin.

You sprint past rows of off-campus houses, the oversized hockey shirt flapping in the biting wind. A few students walking on the sidewalk turn to stare at the girl running barefoot in men’s clothes, tears streaming down her face, but you ignore them. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, pushing your burning lungs to their absolute limit.

You cross two streets, ignoring the blare of a car horn, and duck into the small, wooded park that borders the edge of the campus.

You push through the treeline, your bare feet snapping twigs and crunching over dead autumn leaves, until you reach the tall chain-link fence at the back of the park.

You hit the metal mesh hard. Your hands reach out, curling through the cold metal links, and your knees completely buckle.

You collapse onto the frozen ground, curling in on yourself as the first sob tears its way out of your throat. It’s an ugly, guttural sound. It doesn’t even sound like you. You press your forehead against the cold metal of the fence, wrapping your arms around your stomach as you cry.

You cry for the girl who thought she was finally good enough. You cry for the trust you so foolishly handed over to a boy with a charming smile and a letterman jacket. You cry because, despite everything your logical, mathematical brain told you to do, you let yourself fall for him.

And he played you. He played you flawlessly.

***

Back in the kitchen, the sound of the front door slamming shut sounds like a gunshot.

Garrett freezes. The coffee mug he was lifting to his mouth stops dead in mid-air.

Dean turns away from the stove, spatula in hand, blinking in surprise. “Who the hell just left?”

Garrett’s heart stops. It actually, physically stops beating in his chest. A sickening, icy dread pours down his spine, paralyzing his limbs.

No.

He slams the coffee mug down on the counter so hard the ceramic chips, hot brown liquid sloshing over the edges. He kicks the barstool back, the wood screeching against the floor, and sprints out of the kitchen.

“Whoa, G, what’s-” Logan starts, but Garrett ignores him.

He hits the hallway, his eyes immediately darting to the front door. It’s closed. He spins around, taking the stairs two at a time, his pulse roaring in his ears so loudly it sounds like a freight train.

Please. Please be in the bathroom. Please be asleep.

He bursts into his bedroom.

The bed is empty. The comforter is thrown back, the sheets still bearing the indentation of your body.

His eyes dart frantically around the room. Your black silk dress is still pooled on the floor next to your underwear. Your purse is still sitting on his desk. Your leather ankle boots are neatly placed by his closet.

The only things missing are his gray t-shirt and his gym shorts.

“Fuck,” Garrett breathes, the word a desperate, broken prayer. “Fuck, fuck, no.”

He runs his hands through his hair, gripping the roots hard enough to hurt. He turns around just as Dean, Logan, and Tucker appear in the doorway, all three of them looking incredibly confused.

“Dude, what is going on?” Dean asks, stepping into the room. He looks at the dress on the floor, then to the empty bed. “Did she leave?”

“Did she leave?” Garrett repeats, his voice trembling with a rage that is entirely directed at himself. “Did she leave? She heard you, you fucking idiots!”

Logan’s eyes go wide. “Heard us? What do you mean she heard us?”

“She was on the stairs!” Garrett explodes, pointing a shaking finger toward the hallway. “She heard us talking about the bet! She heard everything!”

The color completely drains from Tucker’s face. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, oh shit!” Garrett yells, kicking the leg of his desk with a violent burst of anger. The heavy wood groans under the impact. “She ran out the front door! She didn’t even take her shoes! She’s running around campus barefoot in the freezing cold because she heard me bragging about a stupid fucking bet!”

“Garrett, man, calm down,” Dean says, raising his hands defensively. “We didn’t know she was listening. And besides, it was just a bet. You won. You’ll find someone else to-”

Garrett crosses the room so fast Dean doesn’t even have time to blink. He grabs the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, slamming him backward into the doorframe.

“Do not say that!” Garrett roars, his face inches from his teammate’s, his eyes blazing with a feral, terrified intensity. “Do not ever fucking say that to me again! She isn’t ‘someone else’! She isn’t a target! She is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I just destroyed it!”

Logan steps forward, grabbing Garrett’s arm and yanking him back. “Hey! Back off! We’re your friends, Garrett. You’re the one who agreed to the bet. You’re the one who confirmed it downstairs. Don’t put this all on us.”

Garrett rips his arm out of Logan’s grip. The fight drains out of him just as quickly as it spiked, leaving behind a hollow, cavernous ache in his chest that threatens to suffocate him.

Logan is right. It’s his fault. It is entirely, one hundred percent his fault.

He didn’t have to confirm it downstairs. He could have told them to shut up. He could have told them the bet was off. He could have walked into the kitchen and told his three best friends that he was falling in love with you.

Instead, he took the easy way out. He let his pride win. He gave them the answer they wanted just to get them off his back.

“It took some work. But it’s over now.”

The echo of his own words plays back in his mind, and he feels physically sick. To you, standing on those stairs, it must have sounded so cold. So calculated. Like you were nothing but a project he finally finished.

He thinks about last night. He thinks about the blood on the condom. He thinks about the shy, incredibly brave look in your eyes when you told him you wanted him to be your first. You trusted him with the most vulnerable part of yourself, and he repaid you by letting you listen to him treat you like a locker room statistic.

“Garrett,” Tucker says quietly, the usual southern drawl gone, replaced by genuine concern. “Look, man. Let’s just go find her. She can’t have gone far without shoes. We’ll get in the Jeep.”

“No,” Garrett says, his voice cracking. He looks at your dress on the floor. It looks so small. So abandoned. “You guys stay here. If you come anywhere near her right now, I swear to God I’ll break your jaws.”

He turns and grabs his keys off the dresser. He doesn’t bother grabbing a jacket. He just runs.

He bolts down the stairs and out the front door, the cold air hitting him like a wall. He jumps into his Jeep, throwing it into reverse and peeling out of the driveway, gravel flying behind his tires.

He drives frantically. He scans the sidewalks, the bus stops, the paths leading to the engineering building. He drives past the library, his eyes scanning every lamppost, every bench.

“Come on, Starshine,” he mutters to himself, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. “Where are you? Please.”

He checks your apartment complex. Your car is parked exactly where you left it last night, but there’s no sign of you on the stairs or near your door. He knows you don’t have a spare key hidden outside — you told him once that it was mathematically illogical to leave access to your home under a flowerpot. You don’t have your keys. You don’t have your phone.

He drives for forty-five minutes. The panic inside him turns into a cold, hard knot of despair.

He would do anything to take it back. He would wax his own chest every single day for the rest of his life. He would quit the team. He would drop out of school. He would do absolutely anything to rewind the clock to last night, to the moment in the car when he held your hand over the center console, so he could look you in the eye and tell you the truth before it ruined everything.

But he can’t.

He pulls the Jeep over onto the shoulder of a quiet street near the edge of campus, throwing the car into park. He rests his forehead against the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut as a single, hot tear escapes and tracks down his cheek.

He curses his pride. He curses his friends. He curses the stupid, fragile ego that made him agree to the bet in the first place.

He lost you.

He finally found someone who saw through the bullshit, someone who challenged him, someone who made him want to be better than the hockey robot his father designed him to be. And he broke your heart.

Garrett sits in the cold, silent car, the weight of what he’s done crushing him completely. He knows you. He knows how you operate. You build walls to survive. You calculate risks to avoid getting hurt.

He just proved every single one of your calculations right.

And he has no idea how he is ever going to fix it.

***

The first week is a blur of complete, suffocating numbness.

You stop going to the library. The thought of walking up to the third floor, sitting at your usual table, and staring at the empty wooden chair across from you makes your throat close up. Instead, you barricade yourself in your apartment. You skip your morning lectures, something you haven’t done once in three years at Briar.

You sit at your small kitchen table, staring at your laptop screen. The cursor blinks rhythmically at the end of a half-finished paragraph for your aerodynamics paper. It’s been blinking for two hours.

You haven’t typed a single word.

“Hey,” a voice says gently, breaking through the silence.

You blink, slowly pulling your eyes away from the screen. Sarah, your roommate, is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She’s wearing her nursing scrubs, holding a takeout bag from the diner down the street. She looks at you with a mixture of pity and deep concern that makes you want to crawl under the table.

“I brought you a turkey club,” Sarah says, walking over and setting a styrofoam box next to your laptop. “With extra bacon. Your favorite.”

“Thanks,” you say, your voice raspy from disuse. “I’m not really hungry right now. I’ll put it in the fridge.”

“Y/N, you said that yesterday about the pasta I made, and the day before that about the pizza.” Sarah pulls out a chair and sits down, crossing her arms. “You look exhausted. There are literal dark circles under your eyes. You need to eat something.”

“I have to finish this paper,” you lie, turning back to the blinking cursor. “It’s thirty percent of my grade.”

“You haven’t moved from that spot since I left for my clinicals at six this morning,” Sarah points out softly. “Talk to me. Please. Did something happen with that hockey guy? Garrett?”

Hearing his name feels like taking a physical blow to the ribs. Your breath hitches, and you immediately squeeze your eyes shut, fighting back the sudden burn of tears. You haven’t told Sarah what happened. You haven’t told anyone. Saying it out loud would make it real. It would mean admitting that you were stupid enough to fall for a prank.

“We just … we aren’t talking anymore,” you manage to say, keeping your eyes glued to the screen. “It’s fine. It was a distraction. I don’t have time for distractions.”

Sarah reaches out, gently placing her hand over yours on the keyboard. “You are allowed to be upset, you know. You don’t have to be a robot all the time.”

“I’m not a robot,” you snap, pulling your hand away faster than you intend to. The sudden flash of anger dies instantly, leaving you feeling hollow and exhausted. “I’m sorry. I just … I need to work.”

Sarah sighs, standing up. “Eat the sandwich, Y/N. Please.”

She leaves the kitchen. You stare at the styrofoam box for a long time. Eventually, you open it. The smell of the turkey and bacon wafts up, but your stomach violently churns in response. You close the box, push it aside, and rest your forehead against the cool edge of the kitchen table.

***

Across campus, Garrett is systematically destroying himself.

It’s 5:00 AM on a Monday. The rink is completely empty, the overhead lights buzzing loudly in the cavernous space.

Garrett is at center ice, completely alone. He’s running bag skates. Goal line to the blue line, back to the goal. Goal line to center ice, back to the goal. Over and over and over again. His lungs are burning, screaming for oxygen, and his legs feel like they’re made of lead, but he refuses to stop.

He hits the boards, the fiberglass rattling under the impact, and immediately pivots, his skates carving violently into the ice as he launches himself forward again.

He needs the burn. He needs the physical agony to drown out the relentless, echoing loop of the front door slamming shut.

“Graham! What the hell are you doing?”

Garrett ignores the voice echoing from the tunnel. He hits the far blue line, turns, and sprints back.

A loud, shrill whistle pierces the air.

Garrett finally slows to a halt, his chest heaving violently, sweat dripping from his nose onto the ice. Coach Jensen is standing by the bench, a heavy winter coat thrown over his pajamas, holding a clipboard.

Dean and Logan are standing right behind him, both looking deeply uncomfortable.

“I asked you a question, Graham,” Coach Jensen barks, stepping onto the rubber matting near the door. “Ice time doesn’t start for another two hours. Why are you out here running yourself into the ground?”

“Just getting some extra reps in, Coach,” Garrett pants, skating slowly toward the boards.

“Extra reps?” Jensen raises an eyebrow, looking Garrett up and down. “You look like you’re about to puke. I appreciate the dedication, Graham, but not if you tear a groin muscle before our series against Harvard this weekend. Get off the ice. Hit the showers.”

“I’m fine,” Garrett argues, his jaw tightening. “I want to run a few more.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Jensen snaps. “Get. Off.”

Garrett glares at the ice, but he complies. He skates to the door, stepping off the rink and pulling his helmet off. He barely looks at Dean and Logan as he walks past them toward the locker room.

Logan reaches out, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Hey, man. You didn’t come home last night. Where were you?”

“I slept in my Jeep,” Garrett mutters, violently shrugging Logan’s hand off. “Don’t touch me.”

“Garrett, come on,” Dean says, stepping into his path. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ve been a ghost for two weeks. You’re barely speaking to us, you’re sleeping in your car, and Tucker said you completely blew off your sports management midterm.”

“I said I’m fine.” Garrett’s voice is a low, dangerous growl. “Worry about your own grades, Dean.”

“We’re worried about you,” Logan says firmly. “Look, we know you’re messed up over the Y/N thing. We feel like shit about it too. We tried to go to her apartment to apologize, but she wouldn’t even open the door.”

Garrett’s head snaps up, pure, unadulterated rage flashing in his eyes. He shoves Logan hard in the chest, sending his teammate stumbling backward into the cinderblock wall.

“I told you to stay away from her!” Garrett roars, the sound echoing through the empty concrete hallway. “I told you not to go near her!”

“Hey! Back off!” Dean yells, stepping between them and shoving Garrett back. “He was just trying to fix it! We’re trying to help you!”

“You want to help me?” Garrett spits, his chest heaving. “Stay the fuck away from her. And stay the fuck away from me.”

He turns and storms into the locker room, slamming the heavy metal door shut behind him. He walks straight to his locker, sits heavily on the wooden bench, and drops his head into his hands.

His ribs are aching from a brutal hit he took in practice yesterday. His legs are trembling from exhaustion. But none of it hurts worse than the silence that greets him every time he checks his phone.

He’s called you twenty times. Left a dozen voicemails. Sent text after text begging for five minutes to explain. Every single one has been met with absolute, punishing silence.

Garrett closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into them until he sees stars. He deserves this. He deserves every second of it.

***

By the third week, your fortress is officially crumbling.

You are sitting in the front row of your fluid dynamics lecture. The professor is writing a complex equation on the massive whiteboard, droning on about viscosity and shear stress. Normally, your hand would be flying across your notebook, capturing every single variable.

Right now, your notebook is completely blank.

You’re staring blankly at the whiteboard, but the numbers look like a foreign language. Your brain feels like it’s packed with cotton. You haven’t slept more than three hours a night in weeks. Every time you close your eyes, you feel his mouth on yours. You hear the way his voice hitched when he called you beautiful. And then, inevitably, you hear the mocking laughter in that kitchen.

“Y/N?”

You blink, slowly turning your head. Ben, your lab partner, is leaning across the aisle, waving a hand in front of your face.

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“Professor Harrison just asked you a question,” Ben whispers back, his eyes wide.

You jerk your head back toward the front of the room. Professor Harrison is standing by his podium, his arms crossed, peering at you over his glasses. The entire lecture hall, all sixty students, are turned in their seats, staring directly at you.

“I … I’m sorry, Professor,” you stammer, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “Could you repeat the question?”

Harrison sighs, a sound of deep disappointment. “I asked what the Reynolds number signifies in this specific flow regime, Y/N. Given your previous performance, I assumed this would be elementary for you.”

You look at the board. You know this. You studied this. But your mind is completely, utterly blank. A terrifying panic seizes your chest.

“I …” You swallow hard. “I don’t know.”

A quiet murmur ripples through the classroom. Y/N Y/L/N, the resident genius, the girl who corrected this exact professor on the first day of class, doesn’t know the answer.

“I see,” Professor Harrison says, turning back to the board. “Perhaps you should review the reading material before our next session. Moving on …“

You sink down in your seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You stare down at your blank notebook, the grid lines blurring as tears prick the corners of your eyes.

After class, you try to slip out quickly, but Ben catches your arm in the hallway.

“Hey,” Ben says, adjusting his backpack. He’s a nice guy. Smart. Safe. The kind of guy you probably should have dated instead of a reckless, arrogant hockey player. “Are you okay? You’ve been totally out of it lately. You didn’t even show up for our study group on Tuesday.”

“I’m fine, Ben,” you say, pulling your arm away gently. “Just … haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Well, look. I was thinking … maybe we could grab coffee? Or lunch? We can go over the Reynolds equations, and, I don’t know, just hang out?”

He’s asking you out. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

You look at him, and all you feel is an overwhelming, crushing wave of exhaustion. You don’t want to get coffee. You don’t want to banter. You don’t want to risk opening yourself up again, ever.

“I can’t,” you say, your voice flat, devoid of any emotion. “I need to study. Alone.”

“Y/N, you can’t just study all the-”

“I said I can’t, Ben.” You step around him, your tone brokering absolutely no argument. “I’ll see you in lab on Thursday.”

You walk away, leaving him standing in the hallway. You head straight for the engineering building exit, stepping out into the cold November air.

As you walk back to your apartment, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, a small, pathetic spark of hope igniting in your chest despite everything.

It’s an email notification. From the financial aid office.

Subject: Scholarship Academic Warning - Immediate Action Required.

You stop walking. You stand frozen on the sidewalk, your eyes scanning the brief, terrifying text. Your GPA has dipped. The fluid dynamics quiz you failed last week, combined with a missed lab report, has triggered an automated warning. If your grades don’t improve by the end of the semester, your full-ride scholarship will be revoked.

The phone slips from your hand, clattering against the concrete sidewalk.

You don’t pick it up. You just stand there, the wind whipping your hair across your face, realizing that you haven’t just lost Garrett. You are losing everything.

***

The buzzer sounds, echoing loudly through the arena.

Garrett skates slowly toward the bench, his entire left side screaming in agony. The game against Harvard is brutal. The score is tied 2-2 in the third period, and the ice is basically a war zone.

He grabs his water bottle, squirting a stream of water into his mouth before spitting it out onto the rubber matting. He tries to take a deep breath, but a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through his ribs.

He took a massive, dirty hit from a Harvard defenseman in the second period. He’s pretty sure at least one rib is cracked, if not broken. Every time he twists, it feels like a knife is being driven into his side.

“Graham!” Coach Jensen barks, walking down the bench. “You’re moving like molasses out there. What’s wrong with your side?”

“Nothing,” Garrett lies immediately, forcing himself to stand up straighter despite the blinding pain. “Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

“Bullshit,” Jensen says, his eyes narrowing. “You’re wincing every time you take a stride. Trainer! Get over here.”

“Coach, I swear I’m fine,” Garrett insists, panic rising in his chest. “Don’t bench me. Put me back in. I can get the game-winner.”

“You’re useless to me if you can’t shoot,” Jensen says coldly. “Sit down.”

The athletic trainer hops over the boards, gesturing for Garrett to follow him down the tunnel. Garrett violently slams his stick against the boards, the composite shaft cracking under the force. He rips his helmet off, throwing it onto the bench, and storms down the tunnel.

In the quiet, sterile medical room, the trainer carefully helps him remove his jersey and shoulder pads.

Garrett looks down at his torso. His entire left ribcage is a horrific patchwork of deep purple, black, and angry yellow bruising.

The trainer whistles low. “Jesus, Graham. How long have you been playing on this?”

“Happened in the second period,” Garrett grits out.

“Don’t lie to me. Bruises don’t look like this after an hour. You’ve been hiding this for at least a week.” The trainer gently presses two fingers against the darkest spot, and Garrett actually sees white spots dance in his vision. He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood, refusing to make a sound.

“You’re done for the night,” the trainer says, stepping back and writing something on a clipboard. “Probably done for the next three weeks. I need to get you an x-ray. Could be a hairline fracture.”

“I can play,” Garrett argues, his voice tight. “Tape it up. Give me some painkillers. I need to be on the ice.”

“You go back out there and take another hit, you could puncture a lung,” the trainer says flatly. “You’re benched, Garrett. Coach’s orders.”

The trainer leaves the room to grab the x-ray requisition forms.

Garrett is left alone in the small room. He sits on the edge of the examination table, shivering slightly in the cold air, staring at the discolored, bruised skin of his chest.

Suddenly, his phone, sitting in his gym bag on the nearby chair, starts buzzing.

Garrett leans over, wincing as his ribs protest, and pulls it out.

Incoming Call: Phil Graham.

Garrett stares at the screen. His father. Calling to berate him for getting benched. Calling to tell him he looked weak out there. Calling to tell him he’s blowing his stock.

Usually, Garrett would answer. He would take the verbal beating, nod, and promise to be more aggressive. He would swallow the pain and be the perfect, emotionless hockey machine his father built.

Garrett looks at the phone. He thinks about the empty look in your eyes when you asked him if he acted like nothing bothered him because he was trained to shut it off. He thinks about the way he held your hand in the car. He thinks about the fact that the only reason he’s destroying his body on the ice right now is because he doesn’t know how to exist in a world where you won’t even look at him.

He hits decline.

He tosses the phone back into the bag.

He doesn’t want to be a machine anymore. He doesn’t care about the scouts, or his father’s approval, or the stupid captain’s patch on his jersey.

He buries his face in his hands, letting out a raw, broken sound that has nothing to do with his fractured ribs.

He needs you. He needs you so badly it feels like he’s suffocating.

***

You unlock the door to your apartment and step inside, numbly tossing your keys onto the kitchen counter.

Sarah is on a 24-hour shift at the hospital, so the apartment is dark and completely silent. You don’t bother turning on the lights. You walk into the kitchen, shedding your heavy winter coat.

Your eyes fall on the counter.

The bouquet of zinnias is still sitting there in a glass vase.

They are completely dead. The bright pinks, oranges, and yellows have withered into a brittle, decaying brown. The water in the vase is murky and smells vaguely of rot.

You have been avoiding looking at them for three weeks. But right now, standing in the dark, with the weight of the academic warning letter pressing down on your chest, you can’t ignore them anymore.

You walk over to the counter. You reach out, your fingertips brushing against one of the dried, dead petals. It crumbles instantly under your touch, falling to the countertop like ash.

A memory hits you, unbidden and sharp.

“I researched the first flower grown in space.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy them for Logan.”

You let out a harsh, bitter laugh that turns into a sob. You pick up the vase. You walk over to the trash can under the sink, step on the pedal, and dump the entire bouquet into the garbage.

You set the empty vase in the sink. You grip the edges of the porcelain counter, leaning your weight on your arms, and you finally break.

The numbness shatters. You cry harder than you did against that chain-link fence. You cry until your knees give out and you slide down the cabinets, hitting the linoleum floor. You pull your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms, sobbing into the quiet, empty kitchen.

You let him in. You broke every rule you had, you took a risk, and it ruined you.

You have to fix this. You have to save your scholarship. You have to get your life back on track.

Tomorrow, you decide. Tomorrow, you will go back to the library. You will build the wall of textbooks higher than ever before. You will shut everything out, and you will survive.

But tonight, sitting on the cold kitchen floor, you just let yourself miss him.

***

“This is officially pathetic,” Logan announces, throwing his hands up in the air.

He paces the length of the off-campus house living room, kicking a stray sock out of his way. Tucker is slouched on the worn leather sofa, tossing a lacrosse ball up and catching it with a rhythmic, irritating thud. Dean is sitting in the armchair, his phone balanced on his knee, while Beau leans against the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal.

“He hasn’t spoken a full sentence to us in three weeks,” Logan continues, gesturing wildly toward the ceiling, where Garrett’s bedroom is located. “He’s benched. His ribs look like they were run over by a freight train. He’s sleeping in his car half the time, and when he is here, he just stares at the wall like a serial killer.”

“He is in mourning,” Tucker says reasonably, not taking his eyes off the lacrosse ball.

“He’s being an idiot,” Dean corrects, looking up from his phone. “And it’s dragging the whole team down. We lost to Harvard, guys. Harvard. If Garrett doesn’t get his head out of his ass, the scouts are going to write him off completely.”

“It’s not just hockey,” Logan says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I actually feel bad for him. I’ve never seen him like this. He looks like he’s physically dying. We caused this. The bet was our idea.”

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Beau says, raising his spoon defensively. “I wasn’t there for the bet. I’m just an innocent bystander who came over for free Frosted Flakes.”

“You’re an accessory after the fact,” Dean tells him. “And we need your help.”

Beau pauses mid-bite. “Help with what?”

“An intervention,” Dean says, sitting forward and interlacing his fingers. A wicked, brilliant gleam enters his eyes. It’s the same look he gets right before he suggests something highly illegal or incredibly stupid. Usually both. “Talking hasn’t worked. Apologizing hasn’t worked. We’ve been trying to respect his space, but his space is turning him into a zombie. We need to force the issue.”

Tucker catches the ball and holds it. “Force the issue how?”

“We get them in the same room,” Dean says simply. “We lock them in. We don’t let them out until they kiss and make up.”

Silence descends on the living room.

Logan stares at Dean. “You want to lock them in a room.”

“Yes.”

“Dean, that’s kidnapping,” Beau points out, setting his cereal bowl down. “You’re talking about kidnapping two students. One of whom is a girl. I have an NFL draft next year. I am not going to prison for false imprisonment.”

“It’s not false imprisonment, it’s aggressive matchmaking,” Dean argues smoothly. “Look, she won’t talk to him. He won’t talk to anyone. If we lock them in a confined space, they literally have no choice but to hash it out. It’s foolproof.”

“It’s a felony,” Tucker corrects.

“It’s romantic,” Dean insists. “Come on. Think about it. We grab them, toss them in the supply closet at the athletic facility — the big one near the Zamboni entrance with the heavy deadbolt. We stand outside to make sure nobody interrupts. They scream at each other, they cry, Garrett does that pathetic puppy-dog thing, and boom. They’re back together. Garrett stops being a psycho, and we go back to winning hockey games.”

Logan slowly rubs his chin. “I mean … he’s completely unhinged right now. It might be the only way to get him to actually say what he needs to say.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, standing up. “So, here’s the plan. I will take Y/N. I have a general idea of her schedule, and I can grab her from the science building. Have you guys seen her? I can totally kidnap her alone. Piece of cake.”

“And Garrett?” Tucker asks.

Dean looks at Logan, Tucker, and Beau. “Garrett is two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and currently possesses the temperament of a rabid wolverine. It’s going to take all three of you.”

Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you guys. I really do.”

“Suit up, gentlemen,” Dean grins. “We’re doing this for love.”

***

You are standing in the basement level of the science building, glaring at the vending machine.

Your head is pounding. Your vision is slightly blurry from staring at a spreadsheet for five straight hours. You just need a Diet Coke and a pack of Swedish Fish to survive the next three hours of lab work. You slide your crumpled dollar bill into the machine, and it immediately spits it back out.

“Come on,” you mutter, aggressively smoothing the bill against the edge of the machine. You slide it in again. The machine whirs, accepts the dollar, and then completely ignores the buttons you press.

You let out a heavy sigh, resting your forehead against the cool glass. “I hate my life.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

You freeze. The nickname sends an electric jolt straight down your spine. You spin around, your heart leaping into your throat, expecting to see a faded Briar hockey jacket and piercing gray eyes.

Instead, you see Dean Di Laurentis leaning casually against the cinderblock wall.

The brief, pathetic flare of hope in your chest dies instantly, replaced by a surge of defensive anger. You haven’t spoken to Dean since the morning you ran out of their house. You haven’t spoken to any of them.

“Di Laurentis,” you say coldly, crossing your arms over your chest. “What are you doing down here? Did you get lost on your way to a frat party?”

Dean winces slightly, pushing off the wall. “Ouch. Okay, fair point. Look, Y/N, I know you hate my guts-”

“I don’t hate your guts,” you interrupt, your voice flat. “I don’t think about you at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lab report to write.”

You turn away, gripping the strap of your heavy backpack, prepared to march right past him to the stairs. But as you step forward, Dean quickly sidesteps, blocking your path.

“Move, Dean.”

“I can’t do that,” Dean says, offering a highly apologetic smile. “I’m really sorry about this. Truly. But you’ll thank me later.”

You frown, taking a step back. “Thank you for what?”

Before you can even process his movement, Dean lunges forward. He ducks his head, wrapping one thick arm securely around the backs of your knees, and hoists you straight up into the air.

You let out a startled, highly undignified shriek as the world flips upside down.

“What the hell!” You scream, your hands flying out to catch yourself as your stomach hits Dean’s broad shoulder. You are literally slung over him like a sack of potatoes. “Put me down! Di Laurentis, put me down right now!”

“Keep your voice down, sweetheart, we’re in an academic building,” Dean says calmly, adjusting his grip on your legs and starting to jog toward the rear exit doors.

“I will scream! I will call the police! You are kidnapping me!” You start hammering your fists wildly against his back, your legs kicking in his grip, but it’s entirely useless. Dean is a college athlete, and you are fueled by vending machine coffee and despair. He doesn’t even flinch.

“It’s not kidnapping, it’s an intervention,” Dean calls out cheerfully as he hits the push-bar of the exit doors, bursting out into the cold November afternoon. “Just relax. Enjoy the ride.”

“You are insane!” You yell, completely mortified as a group of students crossing the lawn stop to stare at you. “Help! He’s kidnapping me!”

The students just laugh, probably assuming it’s some weird fraternity hazing ritual or a joke between friends.

Dean jogs all the way to the faculty parking lot, where a massive black SUV is idling. He pulls the back door open, unceremoniously depositing you onto the backseat, and slams the door shut before you can scramble out.

The child locks are engaged.

Dean slides into the driver’s seat, hitting the gas before you can even properly right yourself.

“Where are you taking me?” You demand, your chest heaving as you climb up to grip the back of his seat. “If you don’t let me out right now, I swear I am filing charges.”

“You’ll see when we get there,” Dean says, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. His expression softens just a fraction. “Look, Y/N. I’m an idiot. Logan and Tucker are idiots. We made a stupid bet. But Garrett isn’t an idiot. And he’s falling apart without you.”

You freeze. Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip against your ribs.

“I don’t care,” you lie, your voice trembling. You sit back against the leather seat, crossing your arms tightly to keep yourself from shaking. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“Good thing you won’t have a choice,” Dean says, turning the steering wheel sharply.

***

Meanwhile, on the bottom floor of the athletic facility, the situation is going significantly worse.

Garrett is in the varsity weight room. It’s empty, save for the rhythmic clanking of plates. He’s on the bench press, ignoring the screaming protest of his fractured ribs. He has three hundred pounds on the bar, and he’s pushing it up with a slow, agonizing grind, sweat pouring down his face.

He locks the bar out, racking it with a heavy crash, and sits up, wincing sharply.

“You know, for a guy with a broken chest, you’re really stupid,” a voice says.

Garrett’s head snaps up.

Logan is standing by the door. Tucker is leaning against the squat rack to his left. And Beau is standing by the dumbbell rack to his right.

Garrett narrows his eyes, his breathing heavy. “What is this? A fan club? I told you guys to leave me alone.”

“We tried that,” Logan says, taking a step forward. “It sucked. You’re depressing to be around, the house smells like misery, and Coach is ready to bench you for the rest of the season because you’re acting like a ghost.”

“Get out of my face, Logan,” Garrett warns, his voice low and dangerous. He stands up from the bench, his fists clenching at his sides.

“We aren’t leaving without you, G,” Tucker says smoothly, pushing off the rack.

“Are you trying to fight me?” Garrett asks in disbelief, looking between the three of them. “Because I will drop all of you. Ribs or no ribs.”

“We don’t want to fight,” Beau says, holding his hands up placatingly. “We just want to take a walk down the hall. To a closet.”

“A closet.” Garrett stares at Beau. “You’ve all lost your minds.”

Garrett turns to grab his gym bag, intending to storm out.

The second he turns his back, Beau moves.

The quarterback drops his shoulder and tackles Garrett right around the waist. It’s a flawless, Division-I football form tackle. The impact hits Garrett’s injured ribs, and he lets out a breathless grunt, stumbling forward but managing to stay on his feet.

“What the fuck!” Garrett roars, throwing a sharp elbow back.

Logan lunges, grabbing Garrett’s right arm and pinning it behind his back. Tucker is a second later, grabbing his left arm.

“Hold him!” Logan grunts, struggling as Garrett violently thrashes against them.

“I am going to murder every single one of you!” Garrett yells, twisting his upper body with a feral strength that requires all three men to brace their boots against the rubber floor. “Let me go!”

“Just drag him!” Beau yells, wrapping his arms tighter around Garrett’s waist and practically lifting him off his feet.

The three massive athletes shuffle-drag a cursing, thrashing Garrett Graham out of the weight room and down the long concrete corridor. It’s a ridiculous, chaotic sight. Garrett manages to kick Tucker in the shin, earning a colorful string of southern curses, but he can’t break the combined hold of three guys his own size.

They drag him past the locker rooms, past the medical suite, and down the dark hallway that leads to the Zamboni entrance.

Up ahead, standing in front of a heavy metal door marked MAINTENANCE, is Dean.

And standing right next to him, looking absolutely furious, is you.

Garrett instantly stops fighting.

He goes completely still in their grip. His boots hit the floor, his eyes locking onto you. You are wearing an oversized Briar Engineering sweatshirt, your hair is falling out of a messy clip, and you look so completely, devastatingly beautiful that it physically hurts to look at you.

You stare at him. You take in his sweat-soaked t-shirt, his messy hair, and the three massive guys restraining him like a wild animal. The anger in your eyes falters for a split second, replaced by a flash of shock.

“In you go,” Dean says cheerfully.

Before either of you can react, Dean shoves you forward. Logan, Tucker, and Beau propel Garrett right behind you.

You stumble into the dark, cramped closet, bumping into a mop bucket. Garrett crashes in right behind you.

The heavy metal door slams shut.

The deadbolt slides into place with a loud, final thunk.

The closet is plunged into pitch-black darkness. It smells overwhelmingly of bleach, floor wax, and dust.

“Hey!” You yell, immediately spinning around and slamming your palms against the cold metal door. “Dean! Open this door right now! This isn’t funny!”

“We’ll open it when you two work your shit out!” Dean’s voice is muffled through the thick steel. “Have fun!”

“I am calling the police!” You scream, rattling the doorknob aggressively. It doesn’t budge. You pull your phone out of your pocket, but the screen illuminates to show No Service in the concrete basement.

You let out a sound of pure frustration, dropping your forehead against the door.

Behind you, the silence is deafening.

You slowly turn around. The faint sliver of light coming from beneath the doorframe casts just enough of a glow for you to see Garrett’s silhouette. He is standing a few feet away from you, leaning heavily against a metal shelving unit.

He is breathing hard, the sound raspy in the quiet space.

You immediately cross your arms over your chest, pressing your back flat against the door. The familiar scent of his cologne — the same scent that was embedded in the t-shirt you cried in for three days — washes over you, making your chest ache violently.

“Tell them to open the door,” you say, your voice cold and trembling.

Garrett doesn’t move. “They won’t. You heard them.”

“Garrett, I am not doing this.” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block him out. “I have nothing to say to you. Please, just tell your friends to let me out.”

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers. It’s a broken, raw sound that completely strips away the confident, arrogant captain persona.

He takes a step toward you.

“Don’t,” you snap, holding a hand out in the dark. “Don’t come near me. You’ve done enough.”

Garrett stops instantly.

“I know,” he says, his voice thick. He sinks down. You hear the rustle of his clothes, and as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize he has literally slid down the shelving unit to sit on the cold concrete floor, pulling his knees up, keeping a respectful distance.

“I know I’ve done enough,” he continues, his words rushing out now, like a dam breaking. “I know you hate me. You have every right to hate me. If I were you, I’d never look at me again.”

You stare at his shadow on the floor. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, fighting the immediate, pathetic urge to drop down next to him.

“Then why didn’t you leave me alone?” You ask, your voice cracking despite your best efforts. “Why couldn’t you just take your stupid win and go? Why did you have to pretend to care about my scholarship? Why did you buy me those flowers?”

Garrett lets out a ragged breath. “Because the bet was over the second you opened your mouth in that library.”

You scoff, a harsh, bitter sound. “Right. You told them downstairs, Garrett. You told them you got the target in bed. I heard you.”

“You heard me being a coward!” Garrett suddenly pushes himself off the floor. He ignores your command to stay back. He closes the distance between you, stopping just inches away. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is overwhelming. He boxes you in, placing his hands flat against the door on either side of your head.

You look up at him. In the faint light, you can see the desperate, wild look in his eyes. He looks awful. He looks exactly like you feel.

“I was a coward,” Garrett repeats, his voice shaking with intense emotion. “I went downstairs that morning, and they ambushed me. They brought up the bet, and I panicked. I was terrified of you finding out. I was terrified of losing you. So I gave them the answer they wanted to shut them up. I thought I could just … handle it. I thought I could make them drop it, and you would never know.”

“You shouldn’t have made the bet in the first place,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking hotly down your cheek.

“I know.” Garrett’s forehead drops, resting gently against the door right above your head. “I know. It was an arrogant, disgusting, frat-boy mistake. They challenged my pride, and I was stupid enough to take it. But Y/N … I swear to God. Everything after that first day? It was real.”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. “Don’t do this, Garrett. Please.”

“I’m doing it,” he insists, leaning closer. “You have to listen to me. I need you to know. The lunch at Panera? That wasn’t a strategy. Listening to you talk about space shuttles? It was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard. The date at Osteria? It was the best night of my entire life.”

You let out a sob, turning your face away from him. “You took my virginity for a joke.”

“No.” Garrett’s hands leave the door, gently but firmly catching your face. He forces you to look at him, his thumbs wiping away your tears. His hands are trembling. “No, I didn’t. When I saw the blood, Y/N … it destroyed me. I wanted to tell you right then. I wanted to stop. But I looked at you, and you were so beautiful, and you trusted me, and I was so deeply, madly in love with you that I couldn’t pull away.”

Your breath hitches. The words hit you like a physical shockwave.

“You … what?” You breathe.

“I love you,” Garrett says, the truth tearing out of him with absolute certainty. “I don’t care about hockey. I don’t care about my dad. I don’t care about the scouts. I haven’t slept in weeks. I’ve been letting guys use me as a punching bag on the ice because the physical pain is the only thing that distracts me from the fact that I broke your heart.”

You stare up at him, your chest heaving. The walls you’ve spent the last three weeks frantically trying to rebuild are crumbling to dust.

“I got a warning,” you whisper, the confession slipping out before you can stop it. “About my scholarship. My grades dropped because I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. I can’t do anything because all I think about is you.”

Garrett’s face contorts in pure agony. He steps fully into your space, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. He holds you so tightly you can feel his fractured ribs against your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I am so fucking sorry, baby. I will fix it. I’ll hire you a tutor. I’ll do your laundry. I’ll sit outside your door and make sure no one bothers you. I will grovel every single day for the rest of my life if you just give me one more chance.”

You close your eyes. You feel the heat of his skin, the frantic beat of his heart against yours. The logic in your brain is screaming at you to push him away.

But your heart doesn’t care about logic.

You let out a shaky sigh, your hands slowly coming up to grip the fabric of his t-shirt. You pull him closer, burying your face in his chest.

“You’re an idiot,” you sob quietly into his shirt.

“I know,” Garrett breathes, his arms tightening around you like a vice. “I’m the biggest idiot on the planet.”

“If you ever lie to me again, Garrett Graham, I will calculate the exact trajectory needed to launch you into the sun.”

Garrett lets out a wet, breathless laugh, pulling back just enough to look at your face. “I would gladly take the trip.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He ducks his head, capturing your lips in a desperate, bruising kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s entirely fueled by three weeks of pure misery and desperation. Your mouth opens under his, your hands sliding up into his messy hair, pulling him closer as you kiss him back with everything you have.

The spark is instantaneous. The connection that terrified you so much in the beginning is exactly what grounds you now. He tastes like sweat and tears, but he feels like home.

Garrett backs you against the door, his hips pressing heavily against yours as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming you completely. You let out a soft moan, lost entirely in the feeling of him.

***

Out in the hallway, four massive athleted are crouched awkwardly around the door of the maintenance closet.

Dean has his ear pressed completely flat against the metal.

Logan is biting his thumbnail, looking nervous. “Are they yelling? I don’t hear yelling anymore.”

“Are they killing each other?” Beau asks, squinting at the heavy deadbolt. “Because my fingerprints are on Garrett’s arms, and I really don’t want to be implicated in a murder.”

“Shh!” Dean swats blindly at them with one hand. He presses his ear harder against the steel, his eyes widening as he catches the muffled sounds coming from the other side.

A slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across Dean’s face.

He leans back, dusting off his hands and looking at his friends.

“Definitely not killing each other,” Dean announces proudly. “They’re definitely kissing. I told you. I’m a genius.”

Tucker lets out a long sigh of relief, leaning back against the cinderblock wall. “Thank God. I don’t think I could survive another week of Garrett acting like a depressed gargoyle.”

“So,” Logan says, gesturing toward the door. “Do we let them out?”

Dean checks his watch. “Give them another twenty minutes. Let them really hash it out.”

***

Two years can change a lot of things.

If someone had told you during your junior year at Briar University that you would eventually be standing in a luxury suite at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, wearing a floor-length emerald green silk gown, while the newest center for the Boston Bruins kissed the side of your neck, you would have calculated the mathematical probability of that happening and laughed in their face.

But here you are.

Garrett’s lips press warmly against your bare shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind as you both look into the massive gilded mirror of the hotel bathroom.

“You look incredible,” Garrett murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that sends a familiar shiver down your spine.

You lean back into his solid chest, resting your hands over his. The light catches the stunning, two-carat oval diamond sitting on your left ring finger. It’s been there for exactly three months, and you still catch yourself staring at it when you’re supposed to be running data simulations.

“I look like I’m in a costume,” you say, though a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. “I haven’t worn heels this high since … actually, I don’t think I’ve ever worn heels this high. If I trip on the red carpet and take out Connor McDavid, you’re paying for the PR crisis.”

Garrett laughs, a bright, booming sound that fills the suite. “You’re not going to trip. You have excellent balance. It’s all that physics knowledge. Center of gravity, right?”

“That’s not how gravity works in stilettos, Graham.”

Garrett turns you around so you’re facing him. He looks entirely too handsome for his own good. The Bruins’ custom-tailored black tuxedo fits his broad shoulders perfectly, his dark hair is styled just enough to look effortless, and his dark eyes are looking at you with that same, intense devotion that has been there since the day he dragged you out of a maintenance closet.

Garrett put his head down, worked twice as hard, and let his stats speak for themselves. The Boston Bruins signed him as an undrafted free agent at the end of your senior year. Now, he’s coming off a phenomenal rookie season, and tonight, he is officially nominated for the Calder Memorial Trophy awarded to the NHL’s Rookie of the Year.

“Nervous?” Garrett asks, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“A little,” you admit, reaching up to adjust his crooked bowtie. “I’m used to laboratories and wind tunnels, Garrett. Not flashing cameras and sports reporters asking me who I’m wearing. What if they ask me a hockey question? What if I forget what icing is?”

“If they ask you a hockey question, just tell them the refs are blind and the Bruins are going to win the Cup next year. They’ll love it.” Garrett catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. Just hold my hand and look pretty. I’ll handle the media.”

“Deal.” You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. “Are you nervous? The Calder is a huge deal, Garrett. You deserve this.”

Garrett shrugs, a genuinely relaxed smile on his face. “If I win, it’s awesome. If I don’t, I still get to go home with the smartest, most beautiful girl in the room. I already won, Starshine.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does the same pathetic, fluttery thing it always does when he looks at you like that. “You are so cheesy. Dean is right. You’ve gone completely soft.”

“Dean is currently blowing up the group chat because he can’t figure out how to stream the red carpet coverage from his phone,” Garrett points out, pulling his phone from his pocket and showing you a screen filled with frantic texts from Logan, Tucker, and Dean. “He has absolutely no room to talk.”

“Come on,” you laugh, grabbing your small clutch from the bathroom counter. “We’re going to be late, and I refuse to be the reason the Calder nominee misses his own red carpet.”

The ride down to the main floor is quick, and the moment the elevator doors open, the chaos of the NHL Awards swallows you whole.

There are security guards, publicists with clipboards, and a sea of incredibly tall men in expensive suits. Garrett places a firm, protective hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowded lobby toward the VIP exit where the black SUVs are waiting.

The heat of the Las Vegas evening hits you the second you step outside, but it’s entirely eclipsed by the blinding flash of cameras.

The red carpet is a literal madhouse. Fans are screaming from behind velvet ropes, reporters are shouting names, and the energy is electric. Garrett keeps you tucked closely against his side as you walk the carpet. He stops to sign a few jerseys for the fans, but his hand never leaves yours.

“Garrett! Garrett Graham! Over here!”

A young woman in a sharp blazer with an NHL microphone stops you halfway down the carpet, flanked by a cameraman.

Garrett smiles, his PR training kicking in effortlessly. He slides his arm around your waist, pulling you against his side as you both stop in front of the camera.

“Garrett, congratulations on the Calder nomination!” The reporter says, her voice bright and enthusiastic. “What a massive rookie season for you in Boston. How does it feel to be here tonight?”

“It’s incredible,” Garrett answers smoothly, his tone charming and professional. “It’s a huge honor just to be nominated alongside these guys. Honestly, I’m just taking it all in and enjoying the ride. The organization has been amazing, the veterans have taken great care of me, and I’m just happy to be representing the Bruins.”

“Well, you’ve definitely earned your spot,” she says, turning her bright smile toward you. “Now, I have to ask. You brought a stunning plus-one tonight. The fans online are already asking — who is this beautiful woman?”

You feel a brief spike of panic, your instinct telling you to step back out of the frame, but Garrett’s arm tightens around your waist, anchoring you exactly where you belong.

“This is Y/N,” Garrett says, his voice projecting clearly over the noise of the carpet. He lifts your left hand, flashing the diamond ring directly at the camera. “She’s my fiancée.”

The reporter’s eyes go wide, a genuine look of surprise crossing her face. “Fiancée! Wow, breaking news on the red carpet! Congratulations to you both. That is a gorgeous ring.”

“Thank you,” you say, offering a polite, slightly shy smile.

“So, Y/N, how do you handle the crazy hockey schedule?” the reporter asks, leaning the microphone toward you. “Are you adjusting to the NHL lifestyle?”

Before you can answer, Garrett leans into the microphone.

“Actually, her schedule is crazier than mine,” Garrett says, looking down at you with a mix of awe and fierce, undeniable pride. “She’s a rocket scientist.”

The reporter lets out a loud, polite laugh, clearly assuming it’s a hockey player joke. “A rocket scientist! That’s a good one. Seriously though, what do you do?”

Garrett doesn’t laugh. His expression remains entirely deadpan. “I’m completely serious. She’s getting her PhD in Aerospace Engineering at MIT right now. She’s currently working on NASA-affiliated research for atmospheric entry vehicle designs. She literally builds spaceships.”

The reporter stops laughing. She looks from Garrett’s completely serious face to your slightly blushing one. Her mouth actually drops open for a split second. “Wait. You’re … you’re actually a rocket scientist? Like, NASA?”

“I’m a researcher,” you correct modestly, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “But yes. My focus is on orbital mechanics and thermal protection systems for spacecraft.”

The reporter stares at you as if you’ve just grown a second head. It’s a look you’ve gotten used to over the last two years whenever Garrett introduces you to his teammates or sports agents. The contrast between the bruising, violent world of professional hockey and the intensely academic halls of MIT is stark, but to you and Garrett, it’s just your normal.

“That is … that is absolutely incredible,” the reporter finally stammers, clearly scrambling to adjust her interview questions. “So, wait. MIT? NASA? How did a rocket scientist end up engaged to a hockey player?”

You look up at Garrett. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles down at you, and you can see the exact memory playing in his head. The library. The blank notebook. The worst, most transparent lie he ever told.

“He told me he wanted to be an astronaut,” you tell the reporter, deadpan.

Garrett bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. “It’s true. I walked up to her in the library and told her I had a deep appreciation for thrust. It was the worst pickup line in the history of the world.”

“It really was,” you agree, turning back to the microphone. “But he brought me coffee and muffins, so I decided to keep him around. He has excellent hand-eye coordination. It’s a good trait for a lab assistant.”

The reporter is eating it up now, laughing genuinely as the cameraman zooms in on the two of you. “Well, you are officially the most intimidating power couple on this red carpet. Garrett, good luck tonight with the Calder, and Y/N, good luck with … space!”

“Thanks,” Garrett grins, guiding you smoothly away from the camera and down the rest of the carpet.

The moment you are out of the immediate glare of the press line, you let out a long breath, leaning your weight against his side.

“You just had to tell her I build spaceships, didn’t you?” You mutter, though you are smiling.

“I will tell anyone who listens,” Garrett says fiercely, pressing a quick, fierce kiss to your temple. “You’re brilliant. I want the whole world to know it. Besides, watching their brains short-circuit when they realize you’re smarter than everyone in this building combined is my favorite hobby.”

You shake your head, walking with him into the grand, dimly lit theater where the awards are being held.

The ceremony is a blur of speeches, highlight reels, and loud applause. You sit at a round table near the front, your hand securely locked in Garrett’s under the white tablecloth. Every time his name is mentioned on stage, his grip tightens just a fraction, the only physical sign that the cool, calm exterior is masking a current of nervous energy.

When it comes time for the Calder Memorial Trophy, the presenter opens the envelope, pausing for dramatic effect.

“And the winner of the Calder Memorial Trophy is … Garrett Graham, Boston Bruins!”

The table erupts. Garrett lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, standing up as the room fills with deafening applause. But before he turns to the stage, he turns to you. He pulls you up by your hand, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck, exactly the way he did in the maintenance closet two years ago.

“I love you,” he whispers fiercely against your skin, totally ignoring the cameras broadcasting them to millions of people.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, tears pricking your eyes. “Go get your trophy, Captain.”

He kisses you — a hard, fast, claiming kiss — before turning and making his way up to the stage.

You watch him stand at the podium, looking out over the crowd of NHL legends and executives. He doesn’t look like the broken, haunted boy who used to run suicide drills at 5:00 AM to escape his father’s voice. He looks like a man completely in control of his own destiny.

He gives his speech. He thanks the Bruins organization, his coaches, and his teammates. He thanks Dean, Logan, and Tucker for keeping him sane.

And then, he looks directly down at you.

“And finally, I have to thank my fiancée, Y/N,” Garrett says, his voice echoing through the silent theater. He isn’t smiling for the cameras anymore. He’s just talking to you. “A few years ago, I was lost. I was playing hockey for all the wrong reasons, and I didn’t really know who I was off the ice. And then I met a girl who ran into a lamppost because she was too busy doing math.”

A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, and you bury your face in your hands, blushing furiously.

“She didn’t care about my stats. She didn’t care about my reputation,” Garrett continues, his voice softening. “She challenged me. She saw right through me. And she taught me that it’s okay to care about things outside the rink. I wouldn’t be standing on this stage right now if she hadn’t given me a second chance when I absolutely didn’t deserve one. You’re my whole world, Starshine. Thank you.”

The applause is thunderous. You wipe a tear from your cheek, smiling so hard your face hurts.

***

Hours later, the chaos is finally over.

You have managed to escape the after-party, retreating back to the quiet sanctuary of your luxury suite at the Bellagio.

Your heels have been abandoned by the front door. Your emerald gown is pooled on the floor of the bedroom. You are currently wearing one of Garrett’s oversized white undershirts and a pair of silk pajama shorts, standing out on the suite’s massive balcony.

The Las Vegas strip is a sea of neon lights below you, flashing and buzzing with life, but up here, it’s peaceful.

You hear the slide of the glass balcony door. Garrett steps out into the warm night air. He has stripped out of his tuxedo, wearing only a pair of dark gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips.

He walks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your back flush against his bare chest. He rests his chin on the top of your head, looking out at the city below.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

“I’m perfect,” you say, resting your hands over his arms. “I am so incredibly proud of you, Garrett. Today was amazing.”

“It was exhausting,” he corrects, letting out a heavy sigh. “I love hockey, but the media circus is brutal. I just want to be right here. With you.”

You turn around in his arms, looking up at him. The Calder Trophy is sitting on the dining table inside, glinting in the dim light of the suite, but Garrett isn’t looking at it. He is looking at you like you are the only thing that matters.

“You know,” you say softly, trailing a finger over the smooth, hard plane of his chest. You trace the faint, silvery scar on his ribs — a permanent reminder of the Harvard game two years ago. “When you walked up to my table in the library, I was convinced you were the most arrogant, irritating person I had ever met.”

Garrett smiles, a slow, lazy smirk that makes your heart skip a beat. “I was. But I had a strategy. I wore your defenses down.”

“You brought me muffins. That’s just bribery.”

“Whatever it takes.” Garrett’s smirk fades, his expression turning entirely serious. He reaches up, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “I meant what I said on that stage today, Y/N. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself, Garrett,” you correct him gently. “I just reminded you that you were worth saving.”

Garrett shakes his head, leaning his forehead against yours. “No. It was you. It’s always been you. From the second you apologized to that lamppost, I was done for. The bet was just a stupid excuse because I didn’t know how to talk to a girl who didn’t immediately fall at my feet.”

You smile against his lips. “Well, for the record … I fell pretty hard.”

“I caught you,” he whispers.

“You did.”

Garrett kisses you, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of his love into the movement of his mouth. It’s a kiss that tastes like victory, like forgiveness, and like the promise of an entire lifetime together.

When he finally pulls back, you are both breathless.

“So,” Garrett says, his eyes glinting with a familiar, playful spark in the neon light of the strip. “Since you’re a rocket scientist now ...”

“I’m getting there,” you laugh.

“Does that mean you can finally explain the physics of thrust to me in a way I’ll understand?”

You roll your eyes, groaning loudly. “Graham, I swear to God-”

Garrett laughs, sweeping you up into his arms effortlessly. You let out a squeal as he carries you off the balcony, kicking the glass door shut behind you.

“Come on, future Dr. Y/L/N,” Garrett teases, carrying you toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the suite. “I am a very physical learner. I’m going to need a hands-on demonstration.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder as you laugh.

He didn’t end up having to wax his chest. And he never became an astronaut.

But as Garrett tosses you onto the soft mattress, following you down and caging your body with his, you know with absolute, mathematical certainty that you wouldn’t change a single variable of your story.

“My equipment is perfectly fine,” Garrett snaps, glaring at his teammate. “I’m focusing on hockey. We have a championship to win this year, in case you forgot. And my grades actually matter if I want to keep my spot on the roster.”

Logan snorts from his spot next to Dean, running a hand through his dark hair. “Please. You’ve been coasting on a B-minus average since freshman year. This sudden dedication to academia is a smoke screen. You’ve lost your touch.”

“I haven’t lost anything.” Garrett sits up, grabbing the water bottle at his side. He takes a long swig, ignoring the way the cold water does nothing to cool his rising irritation. It’s not that they’re completely wrong. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone lately. But it’s not because he can’t. It’s because he doesn’t want to.

Between the pressure of being captain, the scouts watching his every move on the ice, and the lingering, suffocating weight of his father’s relentless phone calls, Garrett just doesn’t have the energy for meaningless hookups. Phil Graham is a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate, a constant reminder of the bruises he used to hide and the mother he couldn’t save. Her battle with lung cancer took the only good thing out of that house, leaving Garrett alone with a man whose fists spoke louder than words. Garrett pushes the thought down, locking it away where he keeps everything else.

“He’s in a slump,” Tucker adds smoothly, his Southern drawl making the insult sound entirely too polite. He’s leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree, arms crossed over his chest. “Happens to the best of us, buddy. No shame in it.”

“I am not in a slump,” Garrett says, his voice dangerously low. “It’s completely voluntary.”

“Voluntary celibacy,” Dean says, nodding solemnly. “Right. Sure. Because the captain of the hockey team, the guy who practically had a waiting list outside his bedroom door last spring, just suddenly decided to become a monk.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“You’re drying up,” Logan counters, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I bet you couldn’t pull a number right now if your life depended on it.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Watch it, Logan.”

“Or what? You’ll glare at me to death?” Logan chuckles. “Admit it. You’ve lost your mojo.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Pride is a dangerous thing, and Garrett has always had too much of it. It’s what makes him a lethal center on the ice, but it’s also what gets him into stupid situations off it. “I could pull any girl on this campus if I wanted to.”

Silence falls over the small group. Dean stops tossing grapes. Tucker raises an eyebrow. Logan’s grin simply widens into something predatory.

“Any girl?” Dean repeats, the words tasting like a challenge.

“Any. Girl.” Garrett enunciates every syllable, crossing his arms. “I just haven’t felt like it. But if I wanted to, I could have anyone.”

Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Those are fighting words, G.”

“It’s the truth,” Garrett insists, though a small voice in the back of his head is already telling him to shut up. He ignores it. “Name a girl. Any girl at Briar. I’ll prove it.”

“Oh, we’re making a bet out of this?” Dean is practically vibrating with excitement. He sits up straight, his eyes scanning the crowded quad. “This is fantastic. I love bets.”

“What are the stakes?” Logan asks, leaning forward.

Garrett shrugs, feigning a nonchalance he doesn’t entirely feel. “You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.”

“The end of the semester?” Dean balks. “That’s in December. It’s September, man. That gives you three whole months.”

“Quality takes time,” Garrett says smoothly. “Besides, if I’m pulling someone out of my usual demographic, I need time to lay the groundwork. I’m not an animal.”

“Fine. End of the semester,” Logan agrees. “But if you fail … you wax your chest.”

Garrett chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“You heard me,” Logan says, his eyes gleaming. “Full chest wax. At that salon down on Main Street. The one with the windows that face the sidewalk.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Garrett says.

“Why? Are you scared?” Tucker asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Thought you could pull anyone, Graham.”

Garrett looks at his three best friends, seeing the collective challenge in their eyes. He’s the captain. He doesn’t back down. “Fine. But if I win, the three of you have to wax yours.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, extending a hand.

Garrett shakes it, sealing his fate. “Alright. Pick the target.”

The three of them immediately turn their attention to the quad, scanning the throngs of students rushing between classes. It’s peak hour. The pathways are packed with girls in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts, girls in sundresses clinging to the last days of summer, and girls huddled over their phones.

“What about her?” Dean points to a blonde sitting on a bench, expertly applying lip gloss.

Logan shakes his head. “Too easy. That’s a puck bunny. She’d jump into Garrett’s bed before he even finished his opening line.”

“Fair point,” Dean concedes.

“How about the brunette by the fountain?” Tucker suggests.

Garrett squints. “We hooked up sophomore year. Doesn’t count.”

“Damn it, Garrett, you’ve slept with half the campus,” Logan complains.

“I have not,” Garrett argues, though he knows it’s a losing battle. “Just pick someone.”

They sit in silence for another three minutes, watching the foot traffic. Garrett is starting to think they’re going to give up when a loud thwack echoes across the pavement, followed by a startled gasp.

All four of them turn their heads toward the sound.

Garrett sees you first.

You’re clutching a thick, leather-bound notebook to your chest, your other hand rubbing the center of your forehead. Your hair is half falling out of a messy bun, and you’re wearing an oversized Briar Engineering hoodie that swallows your frame. You’ve just walked face-first into the cast-iron lamppost near the library steps.

“Oh, my bad,” you say, your voice muffled but completely sincere. “Sorry about that.”

You are apologizing. To a lamppost.

Dean bursts out laughing, a loud, barking sound that makes a few passing students turn and stare.

You don’t notice. You don’t even look around to see if anyone saw you. Instead, you drop your hand from your forehead, adjust your heavy-rimmed glasses, and immediately bury your nose back into the notebook, resuming your frantic scribbling as you continue walking down the path. You narrowly miss colliding with a garbage can.

“Who the hell is that?” Logan asks, staring after you in disbelief.

“I have no idea,” Dean says, wiping a tear from his eye. “But she just apologized to an inanimate object.”

Tucker is grinning. “That’s her.”

Garrett snaps his head toward Tucker. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the girl,” Tucker says, pointing a finger in your direction. You’re halfway down the path now, still completely oblivious to the world around you. “That’s your target.”

Garrett stares at you. He takes in the oversized hoodie, the complete lack of spatial awareness, the way you’re muttering to yourself while you write. He doesn’t know your name, but he knows exactly what you are.

You’re a ghost. One of those hyper-focused academics who live in the library and survive on vending machine coffee and sheer panic.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garrett says, his voice flat.

“He’s absolutely right,” Logan says, catching on immediately. “She’s perfect. Look at her, Garrett. She’s gorgeous.”

Garrett squints. You are turning the corner now, and for a brief second, he catches a glimpse of your profile. Logan isn’t wrong. Underneath the bulky clothes and the distracted demeanor, you are stunning. Striking features, clear skin, and eyes that he can’t quite make out the color of from this distance, but they look intense.

But you are also completely, unequivocally, off the grid.

“She’s an Aerospace major,” Dean says suddenly, snapping his fingers. “I had a general physics elective with her freshman year. She sat in the front row and corrected the professor on day one. She doesn’t go to parties. She doesn’t go to games. I don’t think she even talks to people unless it’s about thermodynamics.”

“You know her name?” Garrett asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Nope. Just remember the professor looking like he wanted to cry when she started talking about orbital mechanics.” Dean claps Garrett on the shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”

“This is insane,” Garrett argues, watching the spot where you disappeared. “She’s not going to talk to me. She probably doesn’t even know what hockey is.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Logan says smugly. “You said any girl. You said you could pull anyone. So … pull her.”

Garrett looks at his friends. They look entirely too pleased with themselves. The trap is perfectly set. If he backs out now, he admits defeat. He admits his slump. He admits that there’s a girl on campus who wouldn’t fall for the Garrett Graham charm.

And then he has to wax his chest.

Garrett exhales a sharp breath, running a hand over his face. He thinks about the playbook. He thinks about the scouts. He thinks about the suffocating pressure of his father’s voice echoing in his head, telling him he’s never quite good enough.

He needs a distraction.

Maybe the girl who apologizes to lampposts is exactly what he needs.

“Fine,” Garrett says, his voice hard with resolve. “Her. I’ll do it.”

“End of the semester,” Logan reminds him, holding up a finger.

“I won’t even need that long,” Garrett lies, leaning back on his elbows. “Consider it done.”

Dean snickers. “I’m booking the wax appointment right now. Just to be safe.”

Garrett ignores him, turning his gaze back to the path where you vanished. He has no idea how he’s going to get your attention. He doesn’t even know where to start. But as he watches the spot where you stood, a strange, unfamiliar flicker of anticipation settles in his chest.

Game on. 

***

It takes Garrett three full days to figure out how to approach you.

Three agonizing days of strategically loitering around the engineering building, looking like an idiot while pretending to check his phone, only to realize he’s hunting in the wrong territory. You don’t hang out on the quad. You don’t grab coffee at the student union. And you definitely don’t go to the campus bars.

He finally accepts the cold, hard truth: you are a creature of the library.

Which is how the captain of the Briar hockey team finds himself on the third floor of the campus library on a Thursday night, navigating a maze of dusty bookshelves and stressed-out undergrads. The air up here smells like old paper, stale espresso, and desperation. It’s entirely foreign territory.

Garrett spots you in the far corner.

You’ve constructed a literal fortress out of textbooks. It’s actually impressive. There’s a towering stack of hardcovers to your left, a barricade of notebooks to your right, and in the center, you’re hunched over a laptop, typing with a furious speed that suggests the fate of the free world depends on your keystrokes. You’re wearing the exact same oversized hoodie you had on when you fought that lamppost, with your hair twisted up in a messy clip.

He stands there for a moment, observing. He’s used to girls noticing him the second he walks into a room. He’s used to the sideways glances, the whispers, the subtle adjustments of hair and posture.

You don’t even blink.

Garrett rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He’s Garrett Graham. He doesn’t get nervous. He thrives under pressure.

He closes the distance between you and pulls out the heavy wooden chair directly across from you. It scrapes against the floor with a loud, obnoxious screech. Several people at nearby tables glare at him.

You don’t. You just keep typing.

Garrett slowly lowers himself into the chair. He props his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge his presence.

A minute passes.

Then two.

He clears his throat.

Nothing. Not a twitch.

“Okay,” Garrett mutters under his breath. He reaches over and lightly taps the back of your laptop screen.

You finally pause. Slowly, you lower the screen about three inches, just enough to peer over the top of it. Your eyes are deep and piercing, framed by thick lashes and currently narrowed in absolute irritation.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is flat, lacking any recognizable trace of awe or interest.

“Is this seat taken?” Garrett flashes his signature smile. The one that usually results in a phone number within thirty seconds.

You look around the library. “There are roughly forty empty chairs on this floor alone. Three of them are at the table right behind you.”

“I like this one,” Garrett says smoothly. “It has a great view.”

He expects a blush. A giggle. Even an eye roll would be something. Instead, you stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before lifting your laptop screen back up, effectively hiding your face again.

“Suit yourself. Just keep it quiet. I have a fluid dynamics midterm on Monday.”

The typing resumes.

Garrett stares at the silver Apple logo on the back of your computer, his jaw slightly slack. He’s been dismissed. Summarily and completely dismissed. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, spikes in his chest. This isn’t going according to plan. You’re not supposed to ignore him. You’re supposed to be flustered.

“Fluid dynamics, huh?” Garrett tries again, raising his voice slightly over the clatter of your keys. “Sounds intense.”

“It is,” you reply, not looking up.

“I’m more of a … physical learner, myself.”

“That’s fascinating.” Your tone is drier than the Sahara.

Garrett rubs the back of his neck. His usual playbook is entirely useless here. Flirting isn’t working. Charm is bouncing right off your textbook fortress. He needs an angle. Fast.

“Actually,” Garrett blurts out, the words leaving his mouth before his brain can filter them. “I’ve always had a really deep appreciation for aerospace.”

The typing stops abruptly.

The laptop screen is lowered again. This time, you don’t just peer over it. You push the laptop back entirely, resting your arms on the table and giving him your full, undivided attention. It’s intense enough to make him want to squirm.

“You,” you say slowly, “have a deep appreciation for aerospace.”

“Yep.” Garrett nods firmly. “Huge fan. Always have been.”

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a particularly confusing equation on a whiteboard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Garrett. Garrett Graham.”

“Well, Garrett Graham. Do you even know what aerospace engineering is?”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs, offended. “It’s … space. And planes. Rockets. Thrust.”

“Thrust,” you repeat, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow shooting upward.

“Yeah. Aerodynamics and all that.” Garrett is fully committed now. He’s digging a hole, but he’s determined to dig it with confidence. “I actually … I want to be an astronaut.”

The moment the word leaves his lips, Garrett wants to punch himself in the face.

An astronaut. Really? He’s a twenty-two-year-old hockey player majoring in history because it requires the least amount of science. He hasn’t taken a STEM class since his junior year of high school, and he only passed that because his lab partner felt sorry for him.

But he can’t take it back now.

You stare at him. The silence stretches between you, heavy and thick. Garrett braces himself for the rejection. For you to pack up your bags and leave.

Instead, a slow, amused expression begins to pull at the corners of your mouth. You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

“An astronaut,” you say, your voice dripping with sweet, lethal sarcasm.

“That’s right.”

“NASA or SpaceX?” You ask, firing the question like a slapshot.

“NASA, obviously,” Garrett counters, leaning into the lie. “Classic. You can’t beat the original.”

“Right. Because nothing says NASA material quite like a Briar University hockey jacket.” You nod toward his chest, where the interlocking BU logo sits over his heart.

Garrett glances down, momentarily cursing his wardrobe choices. “Hey, astronauts need to be in peak physical condition. Hockey is just … cross-training.”

“I see.” You tap a pen against your lower lip, a gesture that immediately draws his attention. “So, let’s look at the facts. You’re Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. You lead the division in scoring, but you also lead the team in penalty minutes.”

Garrett blinks, genuinely surprised. “You follow hockey?”

“I read the campus newspaper,” you correct him. “It’s practically shoved down our throats. So, you spend most of your weekends getting slammed into fiberglass boards by men who weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“It’s a contact sport.”

“It’s a concussion factory,” you deadpan. “You willingly subject yourself to repeated, blunt-force head trauma on a bi-weekly basis. And your GPA … well, considering I’ve never seen you in the science building, I’m going to guess you aren’t exactly pulling straight As in quantum mechanics.”

“My grades are perfectly fine.” It’s a defensive snap, and he hates how quickly you got under his skin.

“I’m sure they are. For history.” You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand. The annoyance from earlier has completely vanished, replaced by a sharp, analytical curiosity. “So, tell me, Garrett. How exactly does your propensity for violence and your complete lack of STEM experience translate to surviving zero gravity and piloting a multi-billion dollar spacecraft?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Closes it. He stares at you, momentarily paralyzed by how effortlessly you just dismantled him.

You aren’t intimidated by him. You aren’t swooning. You’re looking right through the bravado, the captain’s patch, and the reputation, and you’re calling his bluff with ruthless efficiency.

It’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

“I have excellent hand-eye coordination,” Garrett finally says, offering a lopsided grin.

You let out a short, sudden laugh. It’s a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the sterile quiet of the library. It hits Garrett squarely in the chest.

“Hand-eye coordination,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Well, I’m sure NASA will be thrilled to hear that. You can swat away the space debris with your hockey stick.”

“Exactly. See? I bring a unique skill set to the table.”

“You are completely full of shit,” you say, though there’s no real malice in your tone anymore.

“Guilty as charged.” Garrett shrugs, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “I don’t want to be an astronaut. I don’t even like flying on commercial planes. The legroom is terrible.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because you were ignoring me.” Garrett drops the charm, allowing a sliver of honesty to peek through. “And I’m not really used to being ignored.”

You study him for a moment, the amusement fading back into something more cautious. You glance down at the heavy textbook sitting open in front of you, the pages filled with complex equations and diagrams that make Garrett’s head hurt just looking at them.

“I wasn’t ignoring you to be rude,” you say quietly. “I’m just busy. This major isn’t a joke. If I don’t keep my head down, I’ll drown.”

“I get it,” Garrett says, and surprisingly, he does. He knows what pressure feels like. He knows what it’s like to have something you can’t afford to fail at. For you, it’s aerospace. For him, it’s hockey. If he fails, he has to face his father. The thought makes his stomach tighten. “You don’t have time for distractions.”

“No. I don’t.” You look back up at him. “And you, Garrett Graham, look exactly like a distraction.”

“I can be very helpful,” he argues. “I could … quiz you.”

“On fluid dynamics?”

“I can read flashcards. I know the alphabet.”

You smile again, a small, subtle curve of your lips, but it feels like a massive victory. “I don’t use flashcards.”

“Then I’ll just sit here and look pretty while you work.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Instead, you reach out and slowly pull your laptop screen back up.

“You have exactly twenty minutes before I pack up,” you tell him from behind the silver Apple logo. “If you breathe too loudly, I’m throwing a textbook at your head.”

“Deal.”

Garrett leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He spends the next twenty minutes in absolute silence, watching you work. He watches the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re frustrated. He watches the way you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. He watches the sheer, undeniable brilliance radiating from you as you tear through your notes.

When your phone alarm vibrates softly on the table, signaling that your twenty minutes are up, you immediately begin stacking your books.

Garrett sits forward, ready to offer to carry them, to walk you home, to do something, but you’re too fast. You shove everything into a worn-out backpack with practiced efficiency.

You stand up, slinging the heavy bag over one shoulder.

“Goodbye, Garrett,” you say.

“I’ll see you around, astronaut,” he replies.

You pause, looking down at him. “It’s Y/N.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t, actually. He hadn’t bothered to ask Dean if he ever figured it out. But he likes the way your name sounds in his head.

You shake your head, turning away. “Good luck with your thrust.”

Garrett watches you walk away, weaving your way through the tables until you disappear down the stairwell. He remains in the chair for a long time, the silence of the library pressing in around him.

He didn’t get your number. He didn’t secure a date. By Dean and Logan’s standards, this interaction was a complete and utter failure.

But as Garrett finally stands up and pushes his chair in, he can’t help but smile. He got you to look at him. He got you to laugh. He got you to admit that he wasn’t completely repulsive.

It’s a small win.

But Garrett is a competitor. He knows that championships aren’t won in a single game. They’re won shift by shift, battle by battle.

He walks out of the library, the cool night air hitting his face.

You are a fortress. You are heavily guarded, entirely focused, and completely unimpressed by everything he usually relies on.

This isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to take time, patience, and a whole lot of effort.

And for the first time in a very long time, Garrett is actually looking forward to it.

***

“What in the actual hell are you doing?”

Garrett doesn’t take his eyes off the television screen. He reaches blindly into the bowl resting on his stomach, grabs a handful of popcorn, and shoves it into his mouth. “I’m conducting research.”

Dean drops his hockey bag by the front door of the off-campus house they share with a heavy thud. He walks into the living room, staring at the screen in utter bewilderment. Logan and Tucker follow close behind, both stopping dead in their tracks.

On the screen, a laugh track blares as a tall, painfully thin guy in a Flash t-shirt says something about string theory.

“You’re watching The Big Bang Theory,” Logan says, his voice flat.

“Episode four, season one,” Garrett confirms, chewing thoughtfully. “I think I’m starting to pick up on the terminology. Bazinga.”

Tucker lets out a loud, wheezing laugh, doubling over. “Oh, my God. He’s broken. Our captain is broken.”

“I’m not broken,” Garrett snaps, pausing the TV. He turns to glare at his three teammates. “I’m adapting. You guys gave me an impossible target. The girl practically speaks a different language. If I’m going to get close to her, I need to understand her people.”

“Her people,” Dean repeats, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Garrett, she’s an engineering major, not an alien species. And I’m pretty sure watching a ten-year-old sitcom isn’t going to magically teach you thermodynamics.”

“It’s about the culture,” Garrett argues, though he knows he sounds completely ridiculous. He defends his ground anyway. “I need to know how to banter with her. Do you know what a quark is? Because I do now.”

“You are pathetic,” Logan says, walking over and snatching the popcorn bowl right off Garrett’s stomach. “You’re telling me you haven’t even talked to her since the library?”

“I have a strategy.” Garrett sits up, crossing his arms.

“Yeah? What’s the strategy? Quoting Sheldon Cooper until she sleeps with you?” Dean asks, throwing himself onto the adjacent armchair.

“Attrition,” Garrett says, pointing a finger at Dean. “It’s a classic military tactic. You wear the enemy’s defenses down over time. She’s heavily guarded. If I rush in there with cheesy pickup lines, she’s going to shut me down and ignore me until graduation. I have to acclimate her to my presence.”

Tucker snorts, heading for the kitchen. “Acclimate her. Like a feral cat.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, ignoring the insult. “I’m going to just … be there. Until she gets used to me. Until she expects me.”

“Well, good luck, Spock,” Logan says, tossing a piece of popcorn at Garrett’s head. “Just remember, the clock is ticking.”

Garrett brushes the popcorn off his shirt. The clock is ticking, but he isn’t worried. He has a plan.

***

Phase one of Garrett’s master plan begins the very next evening.

He finds you in your usual spot on the third floor of the library, fortified behind a wall of textbooks. He pulls the chair out across from you, the scrape of the wood cutting through the silence.

You slowly lower your laptop screen. The irritation in your eyes is palpable.

“I thought we established that you are not going to be an astronaut,” you say flatly.

“We did,” Garrett agrees, taking a seat and pulling a totally blank notebook out of his backpack. “I’ve moved on to a new dream. I’m thinking of working on a memoir. Requires a lot of writing. So, I’m here to write.”

You stare at the blank notebook. Then you look at him. “You don’t have a pen.”

“I’m a mental writer.”

You let out a heavy sigh, shaking your head before pulling your screen back up. “Don’t breathe too loud, Graham.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N.”

And that’s all he does. He sits there for two hours, pretending to look at his phone, while actually watching you work.

He does it again two days later. This time, you don’t even lower your screen. You just slide a loose piece of notebook paper across the table toward him without looking up. Written on it in neat, precise handwriting are the words: silence is golden.

He writes back: I’m the quietest guy you know. And slides it back.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you tuck the paper away.

By the end of the second week, Garrett notices a pattern. You are a machine, churning through complex equations and drafting endless schematics, but your fatal flaw is your basic human maintenance. Specifically, you forget to eat.

On a Wednesday night, after watching you rub your temples and wince for the fourth time in an hour, Garrett stands up. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks away.

Twenty minutes later, he returns.

You flinch slightly as a large, steaming paper cup and a brown pastry bag are deposited directly onto your open textbook.

You look from the cup, to the bag, and then up to Garrett as he takes his seat across from you.

“What is this?” You ask, your voice a mix of suspicion and exhaustion.

“Black coffee. Two sugars. And a blueberry muffin from the café downstairs,” Garrett says casually, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been staring at that same page for forty-five minutes. Your blood sugar is crashing. You look like a zombie.”

Your eyes narrow. “I do not look like a zombie.”

“You really do. A cute zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.”

The word slips out before he can stop it, but he doesn’t regret it when he sees a faint pink flush creep up your neck. You look down at the coffee cup, wrapping your hands around the warm cardboard.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” you say softly.

“I know,” Garrett replies. “Eat the muffin before I throw it at you.”

You finally open the bag, tearing off a piece of the muffin. You take a bite, and he watches your shoulders physically drop an inch as the sugar hits your system. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Just consider it a peace offering.”

“For what?”

“For taking up your oxygen.”

You take a sip of the coffee, closing your eyes for a brief second. “It’s good coffee.”

“I aim to please.”

The next time he comes to the library, he brings a turkey and swiss sandwich. You protest, but you eat the entire thing in under four minutes. The time after that, it’s a pack of peanut butter crackers and a Gatorade.

Slowly, the fortress starts to lower. You stop glaring when he pulls out his chair. You start greeting him when he sits down. Sometimes, when you take a break to rest your eyes, you actually complain to him about your professors.

Garrett listens. He doesn’t understand a word of the orbital mechanics jargon you vent about, but he listens to the tone of your voice, watches the animated way you wave your hands when you’re annoyed, and realizes, with a slight jolt of panic, that he genuinely enjoys your company.

It’s been three weeks. The acclimation phase is complete. It’s time to make a move.

***

It happens on a Monday.

Garrett tracks you down not in the library, but in a small courtyard outside the engineering building. It’s noon, the sun is shining, and you are sitting on a concrete bench with a terrifyingly thick textbook balanced on your knees.

He walks up, casting a shadow over your pages.

You blink, looking up and squinting against the sunlight. “Graham. What are you doing out here? It’s daylight. You’re usually a nocturnal pest.”

“Very funny,” Garrett says, offering a grin. He gestures toward the street. “Come on. Pack it up.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s lunchtime. You need to eat. And I am starving after morning ice time.”

You immediately shake your head, clutching the textbook tighter. “No way. I can’t. I have a lab report due at four, and I’m only halfway through the data analysis. I’m just going to skip lunch.”

“Skipping lunch is bad for cognitive function,” Garrett counters smoothly. “You told me that yourself two days ago when I tried to skip breakfast.”

“That’s different. You’re an athlete. You need calories to smash people into boards.”

“And you need calories to do math that looks like an ancient alien language.” Garrett steps closer, reaching out and gently tapping the cover of your book. “Come on. Just a quick bite. Thirty minutes. You’ll work twice as fast after you get some real food in you.”

“Garrett, I really can’t-”

“Please.” He drops his voice, leaning in just a fraction. He uses the look. The one that works on everyone. But he tempers it, adding a layer of genuine pleading. “I don’t want to eat alone. My teammates are animals and I need civilized company.”

You stare at him, your resolve visibly wavering. You look from his face, to your textbook, and back again. Finally, you let out a dramatic sigh that he’s coming to recognize as your personal white flag.

“Fine. Thirty minutes. Not a second more.”

“Deal.”

Garrett waits as you shove your massive book into your backpack. You stand up, adjusting the strap over your shoulder, and he falls into step beside you.

“There’s a Panera just off campus,” Garrett suggests. “Fast, decent food, and they have that green tea you like.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You noticed I drink green tea?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says, keeping his tone light.

The walk to the restaurant is surprisingly easy. You don’t talk much, still clearly pre-occupied with your lab report, but it’s a comfortable silence. When you arrive, the lunchtime rush is in full swing, but they manage to find a small booth near the window after ordering.

As the cashier rings them up, you immediately start digging into your backpack for your wallet.

“Don’t bother,” Garrett says, already handing his debit card to the cashier.

Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not. I’m paying for my own food.”

“I asked you out,” Garrett says, stepping smoothly in front of the card reader to block you physically. “I pay.”

“It’s not a date, Graham,” you hiss, trying to reach around his broad shoulder. “It’s a hostage situation you initiated.”

“Call it what you want. I’m paying.” He shoots the cashier a charming smile. “Just put it all on the card, please.”

You huff in annoyance, your arms crossing tightly over your chest as the receipt prints. “I’m paying you back.”

“You can try,” Garrett says, grabbing the pager and turning to you. “But I’m surprisingly fast for my size.”

You roll your eyes, but the fight drains out of you. You follow him to the booth, sliding into the vinyl seat with a heavy sigh.

Garrett sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. In the bright, natural light of the restaurant, away from the dim fluorescent bulbs of the library, he takes a moment to really look at you. The way your hair catches the light, the faint blush spreading across the bridge of your nose that he hadn’t noticed before. The sheer exhaustion pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“So,” Garrett starts, deciding to drop the playful banter for a moment. “Lab report due at four. Midterm on Thursday. Do you ever actually sleep, or do you just power down like a robot?”

You offer a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Six hours a night. Mostly. It’s just … crunch time right now.”

“It’s always crunch time with you,” Garrett observes. “I’ve never seen anyone study as much as you do. Not even the pre-med guys.”

You trace a pattern on the laminate table top with your fingernail. For a moment, he thinks you’re going to brush off the comment with a sarcastic remark. But instead, you let out a slow breath.

“I don’t really have a choice,” you say quietly.

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Not if I want to stay at Briar.” You look up, your eyes meeting his, stripped of their usual defensive walls. “I’m not here on a hockey scholarship, Garrett. I’m here on a full-ride academic scholarship. The only way I could afford this school.”

Garrett pauses, all the teasing immediately evaporating from his system. He leans forward, his full attention focused entirely on you. “Okay.”

“The terms are strict,” you continue, your voice low. “If my GPA drops below a 3.8, I lose the funding. Instantly. No probation, no second chances. I pack my bags and I go home. Aerospace is one of the hardest programs at this university. If I slip up on one lab report, or bomb one midterm, that 3.8 drops. So … I study.”

Garrett feels a sudden, sharp twist in his gut. All this time, he thought you were just a typical overachiever, obsessed with grades for the sake of being top of the class. He had no idea you were constantly walking a tightrope, with your entire future hanging in the balance.

It makes the crushing pressure he feels from his father seem almost … different. He plays hockey to escape his dad. You do math to secure your survival.

“That’s a hell of a lot of pressure,” he says honestly.

“It is what it is.” You shrug, though the tension in your shoulders betrays the casual movement. “It’s worth it. If I make it through, I get to do exactly what I want for the rest of my life.”

The pager on the table buzzes loudly, startling them both. Garrett jumps up quickly. “I’ll grab the food.”

When he returns with their trays, setting your soup and salad in front of you, he sits back down, his mind racing. The bet with the guys suddenly feels incredibly juvenile. Gross, even. You’re sitting here fighting for your academic life, and he’s treating you like a game to stroke his own ego.

He pushes the thought down. He can’t back out now, but he can at least make sure this isn’t a complete joke.

“So,” Garrett says, opening his sandwich wrapper. “Why aerospace? Out of everything you could have chosen. Why rockets and thrust?” He smirks slightly at the callback to your first conversation.

You roll your eyes, taking a spoonful of your soup. But as you swallow, a genuine, completely unguarded smile breaks across your face. It completely transforms you, wiping away the exhaustion and replacing it with pure, radiant passion.

“I grew up in Cocoa Beach,” you tell him, your voice softening.

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Florida?”

“Yeah. Right there on the Space Coast. When you live down there, launches are just a thing that happens in the background, you know? You’re playing in the yard, and suddenly the sky lights up and the windows rattle.” You pause, looking past him, lost in a memory. “But the last space shuttle launch. The final one back in 2011. STS-135 Atlantis.”

“You were there?”

“My dad took me out to the beach to watch it,” you say, your eyes practically glowing now. “I was young, just a teen, but I remember it perfectly. There were thousands of people packed onto the sand. And when the countdown hit zero, you didn’t just hear it. You felt it. The ground literally shook beneath my feet. And then this massive, beautiful machine just tore through the sky, defying gravity, heading for the stars.”

Garrett stops chewing his food. He’s completely captivated. Not by the story, but by the way you’re telling it.

“I looked up at that streak of fire in the sky,” you continue, your hands moving as you speak, “and I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I didn’t just want to watch them anymore. I wanted to build the things that go up there. I wanted to understand the math that makes the impossible, possible.”

You suddenly blink, pulling yourself back to the present. You clear your throat, picking up your spoon again, suddenly looking incredibly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m nerding out. You don’t care about this.”

“Are you kidding me?” Garrett asks, his voice thick with a sincerity that surprises even him. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You look at him, searching his face for any sign of mockery. When you find none, you relax slightly against the back of the booth. “It was pretty incredible.”

“I’ll bet.” Garrett takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, you’re from Florida. That explains why you look like you’re freezing to death every time the wind blows here.”

You let out a loud laugh, the sound bright and warm. “It is so cold here, Garrett. Unreasonably cold. Why do people live in this state?”

“It builds character,” he jokes. “Besides, it makes for good hockey.”

“Right. Hockey.” You tilt your head, studying him with that same analytical gaze from the library, but the edge is completely gone. It’s softer now. Curious. “So, tell me. Why do you do it? And don’t tell me it’s for the character building.”

Garrett hesitates. He doesn’t talk about hockey in a serious way. He talks about the glory, the hits, the stats. He never talks about the fact that the ice is the only place he feels completely in control. The only place where the ghost of his mother’s illness and the reality of his father’s fists can’t reach him.

He looks at you. You just handed him a piece of your soul, wrapped up in a story about a space shuttle.

“It’s quiet,” Garrett says slowly, the truth slipping out before his defenses can catch it.

Your brow furrows. “Quiet? I’ve seen clips on ESPN. It looks like the exact opposite of quiet.”

“The arena is loud,” Garrett clarifies, leaning forward. “The fans, the sirens, the coaches yelling. But when I’m on the ice … when I have the puck on my stick and I’m moving toward the net … everything else just turns off. The noise goes away. It’s just me, the ice, and the goal. It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up.”

You stare at him, your eyes wide, processing his words. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The clatter of the busy restaurant seems to fade away, leaving only the charged space between the two of you.

“I get that,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s how I feel when I finally solve an equation that’s been taking me days. The world just stops for a second.”

Garrett smiles, a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. He realizes, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that Dean, Logan, and Tucker were wrong.

He didn’t just pull a target. He found someone who actually understands him.

“Eat your soup,” he says softly. “You have a lab report to write.”

You smile back, picking up your spoon. “Yes, Captain.”

Garrett eats the rest of his sandwich, his heart beating a slightly different rhythm in his chest. He knows he has to win this bet. But as he watches you wipe your mouth with a napkin, he realizes he wants to win for entirely different reasons now.

He doesn’t just want you in his bed. He wants you in his life.

***

Garrett feels like an absolute idiot.

He is walking across the bustling Briar University quad on a Thursday afternoon, carrying a bouquet of bright, aggressively cheerful flowers wrapped in brown paper. He’s getting stares. A few whispers. Two girls from his sports sociology seminar actually stop in their tracks and giggle as he walks past.

He ignores all of it, adjusting his grip on the stems. He spent two hours on the internet and visited three different florists in town to find these specific flowers. If Logan, Dean, and Tucker could see him right now, he’d never hear the end of it. The captain of the hockey team, reduced to a lovesick errand boy.

But as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the engineering building, Garrett realizes he doesn’t actually care.

He checks the schedule you mentioned offhandedly two days ago. You should be getting out of your aerodynamics lecture right about now. He posts up against the tiled wall near the lecture hall doors, crossing his ankles and waiting.

Ten minutes later, the double doors swing open, and a flood of exhausted-looking students pours into the hallway. Garrett scans the crowd until he spots you. You’re wearing your signature oversized Briar hoodie, your hair clipped up, your nose already buried in a planner as you walk.

Garrett steps right into your path.

You stop short, narrowly avoiding a collision with his chest. You blink, looking up from your planner, the familiar flash of annoyance in your hazel eyes instantly softening when you register who it is.

“Graham,” you say, a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Are you stalking my classes now?”

“Just providing an escort service,” Garrett says casually. He pulls his hand from behind his back and extends the bouquet toward you. “Here.”

You freeze. Your eyes drop to the bright orange, pink, and yellow petals bursting from the paper. You don’t reach for them right away. Instead, you look back up at his face, your expression a mixture of confusion and deep suspicion.

“What is this?” You ask slowly.

“They’re flowers, Y/N. Usually, people give them to other people as a gesture of goodwill.”

“I know they’re flowers,” you say, rolling your eyes, though a faint pink flush is already rising on your cheeks. “But why are you giving them to me? Did you accidentally run over someone’s garden and need to ditch the evidence?”

Garrett laughs, stepping a fraction closer. “Take them.”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take the bouquet. You look down at the blooms, your fingers gently brushing against a bright orange petal. “They’re … really beautiful. What kind are they?”

“Zinnias,” Garrett says.

“Zinnias,” you repeat. You look up at him, waiting for the punchline. “Okay. Is there a joke I’m missing?”

“No joke.” Garrett shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, suddenly feeling entirely too vulnerable. He clears his throat. “I, uh … I read an article online. Well, Wikipedia. But the source cited an actual NASA press release, so I think it checks out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “NASA?”

“Yeah.” Garrett shifts his weight. “In 2016, astronaut Scott Kelly tweeted a picture of a flower from the International Space Station. It was the first flower to ever bloom entirely in space, in zero gravity.” He nods toward the bouquet in your hands. “It was a Zinnia.”

The hallway around them is noisy, filled with the chatter of students rushing to their next classes, but Garrett barely hears any of it. He is entirely focused on your face.

You look down at the flowers again. Your breath hitches, just slightly, but he catches it. When you look back up at him, your eyes are wide, shining with an emotion he can’t quite decipher. It’s a look of total shock.

“You …” you start, your voice barely a whisper. You clear your throat and try again. “You researched the first flower grown in space?”

“I did.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy them for Logan,” Garrett deadpans.

You let out a startled, breathless laugh, clutching the flowers closer to your chest. The walls you constantly keep up — the defenses, the sarcasm, the intense academic focus — seem to crumble right in front of him. You look genuinely touched.

“Garrett,” you say softly. “This is … I don’t even know what to say. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Say you’ll go on a date with me,” he counters smoothly, seizing the opening. “A real date. Friday night. Not Panera. Not the library. An actual dinner.”

You bite your lower lip, a habit he’s quickly becoming obsessed with. “I have a fluid dynamics quiz on Monday.”

“You’ve been studying for it since Tuesday. You know the material.” Garrett pulls one hand from his pocket and gently taps the cover of your planner. “Take one night off. Give your brain a rest. Let me take you out.”

You look from him, to the Zinnias, and then back to him. The hesitation in your eyes dissolves, replaced by a warm, definitive spark.

“Okay,” you say.

Garrett’s chest swells with a massive, undeniable sense of victory. “Okay?”

“Yes, Graham. It’s a date.” You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress nice. I’m taking you somewhere that uses real cloth napkins.”

You laugh again, a sound Garrett wants to bottle up and keep. “I’ll see you at seven.”

***

Friday night arrives, and the energy in the house is chaotic.

Garrett stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the cuffs of a crisp, dark blue button-down shirt. He checks his hair, runs a hand over his jaw to make sure his shave is clean, and grabs his favorite cologne.

The door to his bedroom swings open without a knock.

“Hey, G, are we ordering pizza or-” Dean stops dead in the doorway. His eyes go wide. “Whoa. Look at you.”

Logan and Tucker appear behind Dean a second later, peering into the room.

“Is there a funeral?” Tucker asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Very funny,” Garrett mutters, grabbing his wallet and keys off the dresser. “I’m going out.”

“With the lamppost girl?” Logan asks, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re wearing a collar for the lamppost girl? Damn, the strategy must be working.”

Garrett shoots Logan a dark look. “Her name is Y/N. And yeah, I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Where? The dining hall?” Dean teases.

“Osteria.”

The three guys fall completely silent. Osteria is the nicest Italian place in town. It takes a week to get a reservation, and it definitely isn’t cheap.

“You’re taking the bet to Osteria?” Logan asks, his smirk fading into genuine confusion. “Garrett, you just need to get her in bed. You don’t need to buy her a fifty-dollar steak.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Hearing them call you that suddenly makes his stomach turn. It feels dirty. It feels wrong. The bet was a stupid, arrogant mistake, but the date tonight? The date is real. He wants it to be real.

“I know what I’m doing,” Garrett snaps, pushing past them into the hallway. “Don’t wait up.”

He leaves the house before they can say anything else, his pulse drumming a heavy beat against his ribs.

Twenty minutes later, Garrett pulls his Jeep up to the curb outside your apartment complex. He walks up the exterior stairs to the second floor, his palms actually sweating. He wipes them on his dark jeans before raising a hand to knock on your door.

He waits. He hears footsteps inside, the slide of a deadbolt, and then the door pulls open.

Garrett’s brain instantly flatlines.

You are standing in the doorway, and you look absolutely devastating. The oversized hoodies and messy buns are completely gone. In their place is a sleek, black slip dress that hugs your curves perfectly, the silk material catching the warm porch light. Your hair is down, falling in soft, loose waves over your shoulders. You’re wearing a touch of makeup — dark mascara that makes your eyes pop, and a dark red lip that makes Garrett’s mouth go entirely dry.

You aren’t wearing your glasses.

“Hi,” you say, a nervous, shy smile breaking across your face.

Garrett realizes he hasn’t spoken. He’s just staring. He forces his vocal cords to work. “Hi. Wow. You look … wow.”

You laugh, the sound a little breathless, and step out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind you. “Is that a good thing, or do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“It’s a very, very good thing,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. You look stunning. You look like the kind of girl who stops traffic. “I feel incredibly underdressed.”

“You look great, Garrett,” you say softly, your eyes raking over his button-down and jeans. You step closer, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral washing over him. “Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Garrett clears his throat, finally finding his brain again. He steps to the side, pressing a light hand against the small of your back to guide you toward the stairs. “My car is right down here.”

The drive to the restaurant is easy, filled with light banter about the horrific traffic on campus and a debate over the local sports radio station playing quietly in the background. But the moment they walk into Osteria, the atmosphere shifts into something more intimate.

The restaurant is dimly lit, smelling of garlic, roasting meats, and expensive wine. The maître d’ leads you to a secluded booth in the back corner.

Once they’re seated, Garrett watches you pick up the menu. The candlelight flickers across your face, highlighting the sharp line of your jaw and the soft curve of your lips. He is genuinely captivated.

“Okay, I stand corrected,” you say, scanning the menu. “They do use real cloth napkins here. And the prices don’t actually have dollar signs next to them. That’s how you know it’s fancy.”

“Don’t worry about the prices,” Garrett says immediately. “Order whatever you want.”

You lower the menu, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to bribe me, Graham?”

“I’m trying to impress you,” he admits, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You already gave me space flowers,” you point out, a soft smile playing on your lips. “The bar is pretty high.”

“I like a challenge.”

The waiter arrives, and they order. Garrett asks for a bottle of red wine, and you don’t object, even allowing him to pour you a glass when it arrives.

Once the waiter leaves, the quiet intimacy of the booth settles over them again. You take a sip of the wine, your eyes locking onto his.

“So,” you say, tracing the rim of your glass. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the team. Unlikely future astronaut. You know all about my stress, my scholarship, and my deep, abiding love for rockets. But I feel like I barely know anything real about you.”

Garrett shifts slightly in his seat. He’s used to girls asking him about his stats, his NHL chances, or his workout routine. He isn’t used to anyone asking him to be real.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Start with the basics,” you suggest. “Where are you from?”

“In New York. The city, mostly. But my dad moved us out to the suburbs when I was in middle school so I could play for a better youth hockey program.”

“Ah,” you nod slowly. “A hockey family.”

“Something like that.” Garrett takes a long drink of his wine. The familiar, bitter taste of resentment coats his tongue whenever he thinks about his father. He decides to test the waters, offering a piece of the truth he rarely shares. “My dad played in the NHL. Phil Graham. He had a solid career with the Rangers. Made a lot of money. Won a Norris.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Wow. That’s a huge legacy to follow.”

“Yeah. It is.” Garrett stares into his glass. “He’s … intense. To put it mildly. He thinks second place is just the first loser. If I don’t score a hat trick, the game is a failure. If I don’t get drafted in the first round, my career is a bust.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you say softly.

Garrett looks up. There’s no pity in your eyes. Just a quiet, steady understanding. “It is. But it’s the way he is. He trained me to be a machine. No distractions. No emotions. Just the puck and the net.”

“Is that why you act like nothing ever bothers you?” You ask, your tone completely devoid of judgment. “Because you were trained to shut it off?”

Garrett feels a jolt of shock run through him. You see right through him. You always have, from the very first day in the library. You don’t buy the charming, carefree persona he projects to the rest of the world.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice thick. “I guess it is. If I don’t care, he can’t use it against me.”

You reach across the small table. Your fingers lightly brush against his knuckles, a fleeting, electrifying touch that makes Garrett’s breath catch.

“You’re allowed to care, Garrett,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

He flips his hand over, catching your fingers before you can pull away. He intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand on the table. Your skin is soft, warm, and the connection sends a rush of heat straight to his chest. You don’t pull back. You just look at him, your eyes dark and magnetic in the candlelight.

“I’m starting to care about a lot of things,” he says, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

The waiter returns with their food, forcing you to break apart, but the tension between you only thickens as the meal progresses. The conversation flows effortlessly. You argue playfully about the best sci-fi movies, you mock the pretentious names of the dishes on the menu, and you share stories about their worst college professors.

Garrett realizes, halfway through his steak, that he is having the best night of his life. He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to be the cool, detached captain. He is just Garrett, and you are looking at him like he’s the only person in the room.

By the time the waiter clears their plates and brings out a slice of tiramisu to share, the air between them is practically humming with electricity.

You take a bite of the dessert, groaning softly as the chocolate and espresso hit your tongue. “Oh, my god. That is incredible.”

Garrett watches the movement of your mouth, his mind suddenly going entirely blank of anything but the intense, overwhelming urge to kiss you.

“Glad you like it,” he manages to say, his voice tight.

“You aren’t having any?” You ask, offering him the fork.

“I’m good,” he says, his eyes locked on your lips. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching again. The playful banter fades away, replaced by a heavy, charged silence. You put the fork down, your eyes dropping to his mouth before rising back to his eyes.

Garrett signals for the check, pays quickly, and they step out of the restaurant into the cool, crisp autumn air.

You shiver almost instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Okay, the food was amazing, but I officially hate Massachusetts weather.”

Without a word, Garrett shrugs off his suit jacket and steps behind you, draping it over your bare shoulders. The warmth of his body heat transfers to you, and you lean back slightly into his chest, letting out a soft sigh.

“Better?” He asks, his voice rumbling right by your ear.

“Much,” you whisper.

He rests his hands lightly on your shoulders for just a second longer than necessary before guiding you to the Jeep.

The drive back to campus is quiet, but it’s not the comfortable silence of earlier. It’s heavy. It’s loaded with anticipation. The radio plays softly, but Garrett barely registers the song. His hands grip the steering wheel tight, his mind racing.

He wants to keep you. He wants to drag this night out until the sun comes up.

He pulls up to the intersection where he normally turns right to head to your apartment.

The blinker ticks loudly in the quiet cab of the car.

Garrett doesn’t turn the wheel. He hits the brake, sitting at the red light, and looks over at you. You are already looking at him, buried in his suit jacket, your eyes dark and expectant in the shadows of the car.

“I don’t want to take you home yet,” Garrett says, the words spilling out before he can overthink them. He is laying all his cards on the table. No games. No strategies. Just the raw, honest truth. “I don’t want this night to end.”

You hold his gaze, the silence stretching out between you. Garrett’s heart hammers against his ribs. He waits for the rejection. He waits for you to tell him about the fluid dynamics quiz, or the late hour, or the fact that you need to go to sleep.

Instead, you reach out and place your hand gently over his on the center console.

“I don’t want it to end either,” you say softly.

Garrett turns his hand, threading his fingers through yours once again. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Do you … do you want to come back to my place?”

The light turns green.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” you say. “Take me to your place, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding since he met you. He flips the blinker off, hits the gas, and drives straight through the intersection, heading away from your apartment, and straight toward the house.

***

The drive takes less than ten minutes, but to Garrett, it feels like an eternity. Every time he shifts gears, his knuckles brush against the soft fabric of his suit jacket still draped over your shoulders. The car is completely silent save for the low hum of the engine and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

He pulls into the gravel driveway and cuts the engine. The house is dark. Dean, Logan, and Tucker are out, probably at whatever Friday night mixer is happening on campus. For the first time in his life, Garrett is overwhelmingly grateful for his teammates’ predictable party habits.

“They’re not here,” Garrett says, his voice low in the quiet cab.

“Good,” you murmur, turning your head to look at him. Your eyes catch the faint amber glow of the streetlamp outside. There’s a nervous energy radiating from you, but there’s no hesitation in your voice.

He gets out, walking around the front of the Jeep to open your door. You step down, shivering slightly as the brisk autumn air hits your bare legs, and Garrett instinctively wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your side flush against his chest.

“Let’s get you inside,” he whispers.

He guides you up the porch steps, his keys jingling as he unlocks the front door. The house smells faintly of stale beer and athletic gear, but Garrett barely registers it. He leads you straight past the living room and up the wooden stairs to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

He pushes the door open and reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, bathing the room in a warm, dim light. His room is surprisingly clean — he’d practically scrubbed it top to bottom before the date, just in case.

You step inside, your eyes darting around the space, taking in the framed hockey jerseys, the neatly made bed, the stack of textbooks on his desk. Garrett closes the door behind you, the click of the latch echoing loudly in the quiet room.

The moment the door shuts, the reality of the situation settles over you both. The air is suddenly heavy, thick with anticipation. Garrett stays by the door, his hands in his pockets, watching you. He’s dying to touch you, to close the distance, but he forces himself to stay put.

“Y/N,” he says softly.

You turn to face him, clutching the lapels of his oversized jacket. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his gaze locking onto yours. He needs to know. He needs to hear it. “Because we can just hang out. You can borrow a t-shirt and go to sleep. I don’t want you to feel pressured just because I bought you dinner.”

A small, genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a step toward him. Then another. Until you are standing right in front of him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body.

“I’m sure, Garrett,” you whisper, tilting your head up. “I want to be here.”

That’s all it takes.

Garrett’s hands come out of his pockets, immediately finding your waist. He pulls you against him, ducking his head, and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is explosive. It’s not slow or tentative. It’s exactly what he’s been craving all night. His mouth opens over yours, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting the sweet, dark hint of the tiramisu and the intoxicating flavor that is just you. You let out a soft gasp, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you kiss him back with a fierce, unexpected intensity.

“Fuck,” Garrett groans against your mouth. His hands slide up your back, gripping the jacket and pulling it off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

He steps forward, backing you slowly across the room until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You tumble back onto the comforter, and Garrett follows you down, bracketing your body with his arms.

He takes a second to just look at you. Your dark hair is fanned out across his pillows, your lips are swollen and slick from his mouth, and the black silk slip dress rides dangerously high on your thighs.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw, down the column of your neck. He feels your pulse jumping wildly against his lips.

“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Take this off. Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits up slightly, grabbing the hem of your slip dress. “Lift your arms.”

You comply, and he pulls the silk over your head, tossing it aside. You are left in a matching set of black lace underwear, and Garrett feels his mouth go completely dry. He traces a finger down the center of your stomach, watching the way your muscles jump and quiver under his touch.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, leaning down to press a hot, wet kiss to your stomach.

Garrett takes his time. He wants to memorize every inch of you. He unhooks your bra, peeling it away, and his mouth immediately replaces the fabric. He circles the tight peak of your nipple with his tongue, sucking gently, and you let out a high, sweet moan that sends a surge of blood straight to his groin.

“You like that, Starshine?” He asks, his voice thick and raspy.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips arching up off the mattress involuntarily. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He continues to worship your chest, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your lace panties, slowly dragging them down your legs and tossing them onto the floor.

You instinctively try to cross your legs, a sudden flash of vulnerability crossing your face, but Garrett gently catches your knees, pressing them open.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble. He rests his forearms on your thighs, looking at you. “I want to see you.”

He leans in, pressing his mouth to the soft skin of your inner thigh, right near your center. You jump, your fingers digging into his bedsheets.

“Garrett-”

“Relax,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you first.”

He trails his lips higher, his breath ghosting over your slick, swollen folds. The scent of your arousal fills his senses, sweet and completely intoxicating. He traces the delicate seam with the tip of his nose, and then, slowly, he presses his tongue flat and takes a long, slow drag upward.

You scream his name, your entire body bucking off the bed.

“Shh,” he soothes, though he’s smiling against you. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you higher, tilting your hips exactly where he needs them. “I’ve got you.”

He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. He swirls his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking hard, and then diving two fingers inside you. You are incredibly tight, and so wet his fingers slide in effortlessly. He curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust of his hand, mirroring the flick of his tongue.

“Oh my god,” you sob, thrashing on the pillows. “Garrett. Please. I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, quickening his pace. “Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it.”

You unravel completely. Your thighs clamp down on his head, your nails ripping into the sheets as a violently intense orgasm tears through your body. You cry out, your core pulsing and clenching frantically around his fingers, milking him of every drop of sanity he has left.

Garrett waits until the last of your tremors subside before he pulls away. He crawls back up your body, his chest heaving, and captures your lips in a devastating kiss, letting you taste your own release on his tongue.

You are completely limp, your eyes half-closed, a dazed, blissful smile on your face.

Garrett pulls back, stripping off his button-down shirt and throwing it across the room. He kicks off his shoes, shoves his jeans and boxers down his legs, and stands by the bed, completely bare.

Your eyes drag down his chest, lingering on the hard planes of his stomach, before dropping lower. Your eyes go wide, a flash of something akin to panic crossing your face for a fraction of a second, but you quickly mask it, biting your lower lip.

Garrett turns, opening the drawer of his nightstand and pulling out a foil packet. He tears it open, quickly rolling the condom down his length, before moving to hover over you.

He settles between your legs, his knees sinking into the mattress. He braces his weight on his forearms, looking down into your flushed face.

“You okay?” He checks, his thumb brushing a stray piece of hair off your forehead.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper, reaching up to run your hands over his broad shoulders. “I want you.”

Garrett groans, the sound completely animalistic. He shifts his hips forward, aligning the blunt head of his cock with your slick opening. He pushes forward, letting himself sink into your heat.

But immediately, he feels resistance. It’s tight. Impossibly tight. And as he pushes another fraction of an inch, your breath hitches sharply, your hands flying to his chest to grip his biceps.

“Ouch,” you gasp, your body tensing completely.

Garrett stops instantly.

Every alarm bell in his head goes off. He freezes, pulling back slightly, his eyes snapping to your face. You are biting your lip, your eyes squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.

He pulls out entirely.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice laced with concern. He looks down, and the sight makes his heart completely stop in his chest.

There is a single, vivid streak of crimson blood on his condom.

Garrett stares at it. The room suddenly starts spinning. The air is sucked entirely out of his lungs.

He looks back up at you. You have opened your eyes, and you are staring at the ceiling, your cheeks burning with a fierce, humiliated blush. You look incredibly small, pulling the edge of the comforter over your chest.

“Y/N,” Garrett repeats, his voice trembling now. “Look at me.”

You slowly turn your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Are you … is this your first time?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You pick at a thread on the comforter, your voice incredibly quiet when you finally speak.

“Yes.”

The word hits Garrett like a physical blow to the stomach. A brutal, agonizing hit that leaves him completely winded.

A virgin.

You are a virgin.

And he is about to take your virginity to win a fucking bet.

A wave of nausea washes over him so intensely he actually feels dizzy. The memory of Dean, Logan, and Tucker laughing on the quad violently assaults his brain. You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.

He is a monster. He is worse than his father. His father broke his mother’s body, but Garrett is about to shatter your heart. You, the girl who apologizes to lampposts. The girl who gets starry-eyed talking about space shuttles. The girl who looks at him like he’s actually a good person.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly, your voice cracking. “I should have told you. I just … I know you’re super experienced, and I didn’t want you to think I was a total loser or some kind of prude. I just … I’ve never had the time. Or met anyone I wanted to do this with. Until you.”

Your words twist the knife deeper.

“Hey,” Garrett says immediately, forcing the panic down, forcing the crushing guilt into a dark, locked box in the back of his mind. He has to take care of you right now. He can hate himself later. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “Do not apologize. Are you crazy? Y/N, you’re not a loser.”

“But you stopped,” you whisper, tears shining in your eyes. “I’m ruining it.”

“You are not ruining anything,” he says fiercely. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m just … I’m honored, baby. I just wish I had known so I could have been gentler. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It only hurt for a second,” you assure him, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “I promise. Please, Garrett. I want to. I want it to be you.”

God, he wants to throw up. He wants to pull away, put his clothes on, and run out of the room. But looking at your face, so open, so trusting, so incredibly beautiful — he knows that pulling away now would destroy your confidence. It would humiliate you.

He’s in it. He has to finish this. And he vows right then and there, he is going to make it the best experience you’ve ever had.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “Okay. But you have to tell me if it hurts too much. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Garrett settles back between your legs. He reaches down, sliding a hand between your folds, using the slickness of your earlier orgasm to massage you, stretching you gently with two fingers before he tries again. He leans down, capturing your lips, keeping your mouth busy and distracted as he aligns himself once more.

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You inhale sharply, and as you exhale, Garrett pushes forward.

He goes excruciatingly slow. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to drive deep, to bury himself to the hilt, but he fights it. He pushes through the tight, resistant barrier with agonizing patience. You whimper against his mouth, your nails biting into his shoulders, but you don’t tell him to stop.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he praises you, his voice ragged. “You’re doing so good for me. Just relax. Let me in.”

He pushes the rest of the way, finally seating himself completely inside you. You are so tight it takes his breath away, his cock throbbing from the intense pressure. He stays perfectly still, burying his face in your neck, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him.

“Garrett,” you gasp, your arms wrapping tightly around his back. “Wow.”

“You okay?” he pants, pressing a kiss to the pulse point jumping at your throat.

“Yeah. The pain is gone. It just feels … really full.”

“It feels perfect,” he corrects, pulling back slightly to look at your face. The tension has left your features, replaced by a heavy-lidded, glazed look of arousal.

Slowly, carefully, Garrett pulls back, almost to the tip, and drives forward again.

You let out a soft moan, your hips instinctively tilting up to meet him.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins to move, establishing a slow, steady, grounding rhythm. He makes love to you with a reverence he’s never shown anyone in his entire life. He watches your face, memorizing the way your brow furrows when he hits a certain spot, the way your lips part as he drags himself out and slides back in.

He makes sure every thrust counts. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, and begins to rub in circles, matching the pace of his hips.

“Oh!” You cry out, your eyes flying open. “Garrett-”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing you deeply. “Let it go, baby. Come for me again.”

The combination is too much for you. You don’t last long. Your internal muscles clamp down viciously around his cock, triggering a second, violent orgasm. You scream his name, your body arching like a bowstring.

The feeling of you coming around him snaps Garrett’s control entirely. He lets out a guttural groan, driving into you hard, once, twice, three times, before his own climax rips through him. It is blinding. It is the most intense, earth-shattering release he has ever experienced. He empties himself into the condom, his entire body trembling with the force of it.

He collapses on top of you, burying his face in the pillows next to your head, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

You wrap your arms around him, your hands tracing soothing patterns up and down his sweaty back.

“That was …” you whisper, sounding completely dazed. “That was incredible.”

Garrett closes his eyes, a profound sense of self-loathing pooling in his gut. “Yeah,” he manages to say.

After a few minutes, Garrett forces himself to move. He rolls off you, pulling the condom off and tossing it in the trash, before grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand. He gently cleans you up, his heart breaking all over again when he sees the faint smear of pink on the white tissue.

He climbs back into bed, pulling the thick comforter up over both of you.

You immediately curl into his side. You rest your head on his chest, right over his heart, and drape an arm across his stomach. You are warm, soft, and smelling like vanilla and sex.

“I really like you, Garrett,” you murmur, your voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m really glad you talked to me in the library.”

Garrett stares up at the ceiling. The shadows in the room seem darker now. Menacing.

“I’m glad too,” he lies, his voice barely a whisper.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you tight as your breathing slows and evens out, signaling that you’ve fallen asleep.

Garrett remains wide awake.

The digital clock on the nightstand flips from 1:00 AM to 1:01 AM.

He just won the bet. He secured his victory. His chest is safe from a wax.

And he has never felt like more of a loser in his entire life.

He is in too deep. This hasn’t been a game to him since the second week in the library. He cares about you. He cares about your stupid equations, and your obsession with space, and the way you apologize to inanimate objects.

He’s falling in love with you.

And when you find out how this started — when you find out that your virginity was the punchline to a joke in the campus quad — it is going to destroy you. And you will never forgive him.

Garrett pulls you a little tighter against his chest, staring into the dark. He knows he has to tell you. He has to confess before someone else does.

But as you let out a soft, contented sigh in your sleep, Garrett knows he’s a coward. Because right now, the thought of losing you hurts far more than the guilt.

Summary: Y/N Y/L/N was considered the best goalie in all of college hockey. However, she knew that if anyone, whether it be her teammates, the media, or the fans, were to find out that she was actually a woman behind the mask, her reputation would be screwed and her dreams of getting drafted into the NHL would go down the drain. So, she did would anyone would do if they were trying to be perceived as a man while actually being a woman: She went by her first initial and her last name, she rarely took off her mask, and she did not interact with her teammates off the ice. Y/N was a ghost, a phantom, who came to life only on the ice. The only person that knew of her true identity was Coach Jensen, who was willing to overlook her flaws (being a woman) because of her talent.

After transferring to Briar from Harvard, Y/N finds herself desperately trying to avoid her new teammates, who are keen on getting to know their goalie better, and keep her identity hidden from the world.

“I know!! Whenever I see him shirtless, I fan myself, I love him so much.” Your friend replied.

“The things I would do to him if I could.” You said. “I had a dream about him last night and GIRL, I never wanted to wake up.”

That’s when Garrett excused himself from his table to sit at yours.

“Hey baby, what are you guys talking about?” Garrett slid in the booth to sit right next to you.

“Nothing.” You and your friend answered. That makes Garrett suspicious of his girlfriend.

It wasn't the only time Garrett heard you talking about Dean. The final straw was when he heard you on the phone while he was getting out of the shower in his boxers and you were on his bed, wearing his jersey.

"I am telling you, if I had the chance to ride Dean, I would not stop until..." You did not get the chance to finish the sentence because Garrett shouted.

"Enough!" which startled you.

"Girl, I'll call you back." you hung up the phone. "Babe, what's wrong?"

"We need to talk." Garrett said, putting on a shirt. "Answer this question honestly, okay?"

"Yeah, of course, what's up?" You asked.

"Do you have a crush on Dean?" Garrett asked. You were confused.

"I'm sorry, what?" You asked.

"Do you want to fuck my friend, Dean Di Laurentis?" Garrett asked, completely tactless, he wanted a straight answer.

"I can't believe you right now! What gave you that idea?" You asked.

"Don't act so innocent, I heard you talking to your friend about how he makes you 'feral' whenever you see him." Garrett blurted out. You paused for a moment and began to laugh. "This isn't funny, Y/N."

"Oh, trust me, you are going laugh too." You said, you laughed a little while longer and sighed. "Oh, that was good, I need that. I was talking about Dean WINCHESTER." Now Garrett is the one who looked confused.

"Who the fuck is Dean Winchester?" Garrett asked. You clutched your pearls, extremely offended by that question.

"I am going to pretend that you did not say that. He is a character from that TV show, Supernatural." You said and Garrett paused.

"The show with Soldier Boy?" Garrett asked and you rolled your eyes.

"He was Dean Winchester first, thank you. Anyway, my friend started watching the show and we both agreed that Dean is the hotter Winchester." You stated.

"I have been jealous of a fictional character this whole week?" Garrett asked, feeling completely stupid.

"No one told you to eavesdrop babe." You reminded him. "Are you okay now?" You asked.

"I'm okay now, sorry for accusing you of liking my friend." Garrett apologized. He hugged you and your cheek was against his chest.

"Although I do admit, Dean is pretty attractive." You joked but Garrett pulled you away so he can see your face.

"But I don't like blondes, you are definitely more my type, Gare Bear." You said and Garrett smiled, giving you a quick peck on the lips.

"I better be, baby."

The End

You knew the real Garrett. You knew that beneath the arrogant, untouchable exterior there was a guy who harbored a vicious resentment for the expectations his father, Phil Graham, placed on his shoulders.

And you knew exactly how to bite the inside of your cheek and look the other way when a starry-eyed puck bunny did the walk of shame down his stairs.

Garrett had made his boundaries crystal clear long ago: he didn't do relationships. Hockey was his entire life, and casual, no-strings hookups were his only speed. You were the sole exception to his rule about letting girls stick around, but only because you were safely, immovably boxed into the friend category.

Tonight, however, the walls of that box felt like they were shrinking.

The hockey house was currently vibrating with the force of way too many drunk college students, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. You had retreated to the kitchen for a momentary breather, hoisting yourself onto the counter next to the sink.

"Here you go, darlin'." Tucker slid a freshly poured red plastic cup into your hand. He leaned against the counter beside you, watching the chaos of the living room with an amused smirk. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

"I love being shoved into drywall by sweaty frat boys," you replied dryly, taking a sip. "It's my favorite Saturday night activity."

"Hey, Y/N/N," Dean drawled as he wandered into the kitchen. His green eyes scanning the room before locking onto a blonde hovering near the fridge. Dean was an unapologetic slut, and he treated the house like his own personal playground. He shot you a lazy, devastating wink before zeroing in on his target. "Looking good. Try not to let G scare off every guy in a ten-foot radius tonight."

You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your stomach tightened. Dean wasn't wrong.

Speak of the devil.

Garrett pushed through the swinging kitchen door a second later, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the throng of bodies. He was nursing a single Bud Light, strictly adhering to his self-imposed, one-drink limit for the hockey season.

He crossed the room and planted himself right between your knees, boxing you in against the counter. He smelled like his familiar, woodsy aftershave, and the sheer heat radiating off his large frame made your pulse betray you.

"I still don't get why you're insisting on mingling downstairs," Garrett muttered, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "We could be upstairs watching season two right now."

"I wanted to be social," you sighed, trying to ignore how naturally his hand rested on the denim of your thigh. "And I actually wanted to talk to some people tonight."

"Talk to who? That pretentious guy from your psych seminar?" Garrett scoffed, his jaw ticking. "I’m telling you, Y/N, the guy is a walking disaster. I saw him in the quad yesterday and he looks like he showers in liquid arrogance."

"His name is Harry, and he asked me to come find him tonight," you snapped, exhaustion seeping into your bones. "And for the record, you said the exact same bullshit about the last three guys I tried to date."

"Because they were all walking red flags!" Garrett argued.

It was an exhausting, toxic cycle. He didn't want you, but the second you tried to scrape together a dating life of your own, his fiercely protective streak mutated into full-blown sabotage. He actively blocked every attempt you made at moving on, hovering like a giant, muscle-bound guard dog while offering you absolutely nothing but friendship in return.

"Stop fucking hovering, Garrett," you fired back. You hopped off the counter, forcing him to take a step back to avoid a collision. "I'm going to go find Harry. Alone."

You didn't wait for his response, pushing your way out of the kitchen and into the sweaty bodies to escape the heavy weight of his stare. You just wanted five minutes to breathe, five minutes to pretend your chest didn't ache every time he touched you.

But as you stepped into the living room, your night was about to collide with a very different kind of disaster.

You scanned the room, looking for Harry. You had met him in your advanced literature seminar, and he was exactly the kind of guy you should be focusing on—smart, ambitious, and completely disconnected from the hockey ecosystem. He was supposed to be the guy who finally helped you pry Garrett Graham out of your heart.

You finally spotted him near the makeshift beer pong table set up over the dining room table. He was holding a plastic cup, laughing with two guys you recognized from the honors program. 

You took a breath, pasting on a smile, and started to weave your way toward him. But as you closed the distance, the loud thump of the music dipped between songs, and Harry's voice carried over the ambient noise of the crowd.

"...yeah, I told her to come find me tonight," Harry was saying, taking a casual sip of his beer.

"Isn't she in your advanced lit seminar?" one of the other guys asked with a laugh. "I heard that class is brutal."

Harry scoffed, a cruel, dismissive sound that made you freeze in your tracks. "It is, and she is completely drowning in it. Honestly, it's painful to watch her try to keep up with the rest of us. I basically had to explain the entire reading list to her on Tuesday."

"So why'd you tell her to meet you?"

"Are you blind? Look at her," Harry chuckled, a slick, arrogant sound. "She's hot. And she's so desperate for help with her midterm, it’s basically a guaranteed hookup. All I have to do is pretend her thesis isn't completely pathetic, tutor her a little, and she'll be all over me. It's almost too easy."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow.

Your lungs seized. A hot, suffocating wave of humiliation crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. It was your darkest, most deeply buried imposter syndrome dragged out into the open and weaponized. You spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over your writing, terrified you weren't smart enough to be at Briar, and Harry had seen that vulnerability and decided to use it as leverage to get you into bed.

Tears prickled the back of your eyes, hot and sharp. A strangled breath escaped your throat, and before Harry or his friends could turn around and see you standing there, you spun on your heel and bolted.

You veered into the hallway leading to the front door, moving so fast you didn't even see the two silhouettes pressed against the wall until you collided hard with a solid back.

"Whoa, hey—" a familiar voice muttered.

You blinked the tears away just enough to realize you had crashed right into Dean, who was in the middle of hooking up with the blonde from the kitchen. Because of course he was. Dean had a notorious habit of hooking up everywhere but his bedroom. 

"I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking pathetically.

Dean pulled back from the girl, his light-green eyes widening as he registered the tears spilling over your lashes. "Y/N/N? Hey, what's wrong? Wait—" 

"I'm fine, sorry," you gasped out, pushing past him and shoving the heavy front door open.

The crisp October air hit you like a bucket of ice water, but it didn't numb the stinging humiliation. You stumbled down the porch steps and pulled your phone out of your pocket with shaking hands, swiping furiously at your screen to pull up the number for the campus taxi service. 

Before it even began to ring, the front door burst open behind you.

"Y/N!"

Garrett’s voice was sharp with panic. He marched down the porch steps, his heavy black boots thudding against the wood. He grabbed your elbow, spinning you around to face him.

"Dean said you ran out of here crying. What the hell—" Garrett froze, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat as he took in your wet cheeks and trembling bottom lip.

The annoyance that usually shadowed his features when you fought was instantly wiped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying protectiveness. His large hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from your skin.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did he touch you?"

You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut because looking at him only made the shame burn hotter.

"Nothing," you choked out, pulling out of his grip. You wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting a losing battle against your own tears. "I'm not telling you what happened just so you can give me the whole 'I told you so' speech. You were right about him, okay? Can we just leave it at that?"

Garrett stared at you for one long, suffocating second. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, putting two and two together. The silence that stretched between you was terrifying. His eyes darkened to the color of a storm, and the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously. 

He just turned on his heel and stalked back up the porch steps.

"Garrett!" Panic seized your chest. "Garrett, no!"

You scrambled up the steps, chasing him through the front door, but he was moving with the blinding, aggressive speed he usually saved for the ice.

"Garrett!" You yelled his name, pushing past confused partygoers, but he was an unstoppable force. "Garrett, stop!"

He found Harry exactly where you had left him, still leaning against the beer pong table.

Garrett grabbed the back of Harry's shirt, spun him around, and swung.

His fist connected with Harry's face with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. The guy didn't even have time to scream before Garrett hit him again, the sheer force of it lifting Harry off his feet and sending him crashing backward into the beer pong table. Red plastic cups and cheap beer went flying in every direction as the table buckled beneath them.

The crowd erupted into shrieks, scattering backward to form a wide circle.

Harry hit the floor, groaning, but Garrett wasn't finished. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling his fist back to deliver another devastating blow.

"Garrett, stop!" you screamed, finally breaking through the circle of onlookers.

You lunged at him, grabbing his thick bicep and trying to haul him backward. But he was two hundred pounds of pure, sculpted muscle fueled by blind rage. You couldn't even budge him. Your fingernails dug into his arm, but he didn't even flinch. 

"Graham, enough!"

Suddenly, Logan and Tucker burst through the crowd. Logan, a bruiser of a defenseman, wrapped his massive arms around Garrett's chest from behind, hauling him backward. Tucker grabbed Garrett’s other arm, digging his heels into the sticky floor to help drag their captain away from the bleeding guy on the floor. 

"Get the fuck off me!" Garrett roared, thrashing against his teammates, his chest heaving wildly.

"Cool it, man!" Logan shouted, straining to hold him back. 

You planted yourself right in Garrett's line of sight, placing both your hands flat against his chest. His heart was hammering violently against your palms.

"G. Look at me," you commanded, your voice shaking.

His wild, silver eyes finally locked onto yours. The lethal fury in his gaze flickered, the fight slowly draining out of his posture as he registered the sheer panic on your face. He stopped fighting Logan and Tucker, his heavy, ragged breathing filling the tense silence of the room. His knuckles were already turning a vicious shade of purple. 

"We are going upstairs," you said, your tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Now."

You didn't wait for him to agree. You grabbed his wrist and turned, dragging him away from the wreckage, up the narrow staircase, and straight into his master bedroom. 

You slammed the door shut, leaning your back against the heavy wood as if it could keep the rest of the world out. The chaotic bass of the party was instantly muted, leaving only the sound of Garrett’s ragged, heavy breathing.

He stood in the center of the room, staring blindly at his split knuckles. The skin was already swelling and bleeding, identical to the brutal bruises he brought home after playing dirty teams like St. Anthony's.

"Are you insane?" you choked out. Your voice trembled, the adrenaline crash finally hitting you and leaving you hollowed out. "You could get suspended for that! Coach Jensen will bench you, Garrett!"

"I don't give a fuck about Coach Jensen right now," he snarled, spinning around to face you. His gray eyes were stormy, flashing with a volatile, untamed fury. "He was using you, Y/N. He was standing there laughing with his buddies about manipulating you."

"And you think I don't know that?" Your voice broke. "You think I didn't hear him? God, G, you didn't have to throw a punch to prove how pathetic I am. I already knew!"

Garrett flinched as if you'd struck him. "What are you talking about? You aren't pathetic."

"I am!" you yelled, pushing off the door. The humiliation from downstairs was a living, breathing thing inside your chest. "I'm the idiot who thought a guy actually liked me for me. I'm the idiot who's failing her seminar, who trails after you like a lapdog, exactly like he said! And you charging in there to fight my battles like I'm incapable of defending myself only proved him right!"

"He's a piece of shit who felt threatened by you," Garrett argued, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "He knows you're brilliant."

"Stop it!" You shoved both hands against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Stop pitying me! I can handle the fact that you don't want me. I can handle sitting on the sidelines watching you bring home a different girl every weekend. But I cannot handle you treating me like some fragile charity case you have to protect!"

Garrett didn't move. He absorbed your shove, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.

"Pity?" he repeated, the word tearing out of him in a harsh, jagged exhale. "You think I pity you?"

"Garrett—"

"You think I sit up at night, listening to you talk about other guys, watching you dress up for dates with assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, out of pity?" He grabbed your wrists—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull your hands off his chest so he could step directly into your space.

His heat surrounded you, smelling of sweat, adrenaline, and his familiar woodsy aftershave.

"I don't defend you because I pity you, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate rasp. "I do it because I am completely, out of my fucking mind for you."

The air vanished from the room.

You stared up at him, your heart slamming violently against your ribs. "What?"

Garrett released your wrists, bringing his hands up to cup your face. His thumbs gently swept over your wet cheeks, his bruised knuckles resting warm and rough against your skin. The arrogance and swagger he wore like armor were completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.

"I have been in love with you for years," he confessed, the words pouring out of him like a dam breaking. "I told everyone I didn't want a girlfriend because the only girl I wanted was my best friend, and I was too terrified of ruining it. So I kept my mouth shut. I watched you look for someone else, and it tore me apart."

"Garrett," you breathed, a fresh tear slipping down your face.

"You are the smartest, most beautiful person I know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips with heavy, agonizing intent. "And if you want me to back off, I will. I'll walk away right now. But don't you ever, ever think I pity you."

Your brain was short-circuiting. The secret you had buried so deep, the ache you had carried for years, was suddenly reflected right back at you in his intense gray eyes.

"You're the biggest idiot on this entire campus," you whispered, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping your throat.

He froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Y/N—"

"I've been in love with you since high school," you interrupted, sliding your hands up his chest to tangle in his short dark hair.

Garrett’s breath hitched audibly. "Are you serious?"

"You really think I hung around all this time just for the free pizza and your terrible taste in TV?" you asked, a blinding smile breaking through your tears.

A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips, the dimples you loved so much finally making an appearance. "Well, damn," he breathed.

The hesitation vanished. Garrett’s hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his body. He crashed his mouth down on yours, and it was a messy, desperate collision of everything you had both held back for years.

He kissed you like he was starving. His lips were demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a hungry, possessive heat that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine. Your fingers gripped his hair, anchoring him to you as he backed you up against the door, his large frame pressing you into the wood.

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours.

"So," Garrett murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. "I guess this means I don't have to share you anymore."

The girl he grew up with. Of course, he knew you. 

He couldn’t even remember the number of times you two would go off and explore an arena wherever the Rangers were playing. Even when someone would catch the pair of you somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, no one could ever say anything against the pout that you would pull out when you were kids. It helped that you were the Rangers’ head coach’s granddaughter. 

Your families have been connected since before both of you were born. His father met yours when he first made the team at 18. Your father was 20 and determined to prove that he deserved to be on the team, not just because his father was the coach. Both felt like they had something to prove and became a fierce pair on the ice. 

Your mothers bonded quickly when they were first introduced. It wasn’t easy with husbands who were always in the limelight. 

They marveled when they found out they were pregnant around the same time. Garrett was born exactly one month before you. Which was something you never heard the end of during your childhood. He would always claim that it was his job to make sure you were safe.

They would always gush when you two were together as children. Garrett was always trailing behind or beside you like a protector, and he was always the first one to help you up when you stumbled over your feet. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than he knew himself. 

Garrett remembered all the family vacations that you guys shared. The way that his father would put on an act and pretend that they were this picture-perfect family, but you didn’t buy it. 

You’ve hated Phil Graham from the moment you overheard an argument between Garrett’s parents when you were 8 years old. You were staying over for a couple of days as your parents were away traveling. Garrett had begged you to ask your parents if you could just stay with his family instead of staying with your grandparents. 

It didn’t take much convincing for your parents to let you stay with the Graham family. Granted, they didn’t know what happened behind closed doors.  

A memory flashed in Garrett’s mind of the first Halloween without his mom and the first time his father laid hands on him.

“Gare, you don’t have to be brave with me.” You were inspecting his bloodied knuckles. The first aid kit sat next to you on the bed. “This is going to burn a bit.”

“Petal, just do it already.” he tried to squirm away, but you kept a firm grip of his hand in your lap.

Garrett redirected his focus from the pain to you. He watched as you took care of his hand, making sure it was clean before putting ointment over the split knuckles and wrapping it with such care. He looked at you like you were the only thing that brought light to his life. 

“Okay, all done,” you muttered quietly while you started putting all the stuff from the kit away. You walked over to his closet to put it back in the corner where you first stashed it when you saw bruises on his mother’s wrists years ago.  

“I hate him.” 

“I know you do.”

“He’s a monster. He’s cruel. He never treated my mom right, even before she got sick. He’s always been so mean,” Garrett sniffled. He looked down at his wrapped hand and clenched his other fist tightly. “I never want to be like him.”

His words caught your attention, and you sat back over to him. You took his hands in yours and brought them close to your heart. “You, Garrett, are nothing like your father. You are nothing but kind and caring. You always look out for me even when you don’t need to. You are so special, and I never want you to think otherwise.” You told him with fierce invigoration.

Even at 12 years old, Garrett knew then that he would never love someone as much as he loved you at that moment. 

“G? You all good there?” Logan snapped his fingers in front of Garrett’s face, hoping to pull him out of his daze.

Garrett shook his head slightly as if to clear the thoughts that scrambled through his mind about you. “Sorry, what’d you say?” His eyes flickered over to Logan, but he still seemed distracted. 

“I was telling you about that girl. I heard from a couple of the guys that it hasn’t even been confirmed that she’s transferred officially.” Logan explained to him.

Garrett let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. That news made him feel better that it was just rumors. His chest felt tight at the thought that you wouldn’t share such big information with him. Especially considering he last talked to you a week ago, and you didn’t mention anything about the possibility of transferring to Briar U.

“Hey, G? Do you know her? With your dad being a former Ranger,” Tucker speculated, making his way over to the kitchen to grab a beer. “Maybe a connection?”

Dean joined the rest of the group. “If you do, can you put in a good word for me?” 

“Not a chance,” Garrett snorted. “I’m leaving this conversation.” He started to walk away from the boys and headed for the stairs. 

“G? You didn’t answer the question!” Garrett heard Tucker yell out from the kitchen. Ignoring him, Garrett made quick work of taking out his phone and pulling up your contact.

His thumb hovered above the call button until he got to his room and closed the door behind him.

“Hey, bub! What’s up?” you answered. Just from hearing your voice, Garrett’s body relaxed. He felt the tension that he held in his shoulders melting away while listening to you. “I actually have some news for you!” 

Garrett shook his head. He flopped back against his bed, softly laughing to himself, “Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Love, we just talked last week. Did something happen?” The concern in your voice was obvious. “You know you can call me anytime, right? No matter what.”

“I know, Petal.” A warm smile crept onto Garrett’s face. “Is it a crime to just want to hear your voice?”

“You’re such a sap.” Your laugh came through the phone, and Garrett almost forgot the reason why he called you. 

“You said you had something to share with me?” Garrett turned the conversation back to you.

“You know how I’ve been telling you I want a change of pace? I feel stuck here, and I love my family, but I need some space to breathe without someone asking me for Rangers tickets or if I’ve ever wanted to hook up with any of them,” you rambled, beating around the bush of the actual news. “I just want to feel like I’m on my own for once. Wow, I sound entitled. I am so sorry for that–”

“Don’t apologize. I’m always here to listen to you.” Garrett cut you off, knowing that if he didn’t, you would continue apologizing for something you never had to be sorry for. “And I get it. Trust me, I do.”

“I miss you, Garrett.” You admitted it so softly that he almost missed it. 

“I miss you, Petal.”

“You’ll be sick of me when I transfer to Briar U.” You snuck the surprise in. “I’m serious, you’re never going to get a moment alone again.”

The moment he comprehended what you said, he couldn’t stop his smile from widening. “Petal, don’t play with my heart like that if you’re not serious.”

“Garrett Graham, did you hear what I just said? I am serious.” You mockingly defended your words. “Love, I mean this. I already submitted the paperwork. I’m waiting on my credits to transfer over, so I can get my new schedule.”

“When will you be here?” The urgency in Garrett’s voice and the question got a giggle out of you. 

“Maybe a week or two. I’m still trying to solidify my official housing situation. They offered me a suite on campus, but I’m considering looking for a place off campus,” you explained the small conundrum. “Gramps said he would pitch in if I find a place because he says that he knows the ‘kind of boys that could live on the same floor’ as me. Which is verbatim to what he said, by the way,” you laughed to yourself, thinking back to the conversation with your grandfather.

“I one hundred percent agree with Gramps. Don’t even worry about finding a place. Just stay with me, Petal,” Garrett offered without a single thought or hesitation. “I’d know you’re safe. Gramps would feel better knowing that you’ve got four giant hockey players to protect you. Your dad might not be the biggest fan of it cause he hasn’t met the other guys, but he’ll trust me with you.” Garrett was reasoning with you.

“Love, I couldn’t intrude on you or the rest of your housemates. This is a big thing, and I’m a big girl. I can figure this out…” You trailed off. You had to admit to yourself that what Garrett offered sounded nice. From your search, most places close to campus were already filled since it was midway through a semester. You saw a few that caught your eye, but the drive was 25 minutes away from campus.

“Petal, this isn’t up for discussion.”

“Yes, it is. Especially considering I’m almost positive that when you were moving in, you told me that there were only four rooms.”

“I’ve got the master bedroom, Petal. It’s plenty of room for you and me. There’s an ensuite bathroom. Honestly, it’d just be how it was when we were little and used to go on vacation,” Garrett countered you. “Baby, please just stay with me.”

The softness of his voice almost made you cave at the spot. “You have to ask your housemates.”

“Done. They won’t have a problem with it.”

“You ask them now, Garrett. Go downstairs and throw the idea out there for them. Keep me on call, so I can hear their reactions,” you instructed him.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Garrett shot out of bed and headed for the door. “Boys! I got a question for you!” Garrett yelled out to them, hoping they could hear him over the TV blasting the sounds from their video game.

“Bub, that was straight in my ear,” you pointed out, reminding him you were still right next to the speaker.

“Oh shit, sorry, Petal,” Garrett muttered as he hurried down the stairs. 

Dean was the only one to catch what Garrett had said. He pointed it out to Logan. “Petal?” 

Logan looked up from the screen. He twisted his head to glance at Garrett. “What’s up, G?” 

“Who are you talking to?” Dean quipped at the same time as Logan.

The exchange took Tucker out of the game and left him watching the people around him. He muted the TV, leaving the house quiet. 

Garrett’s posture gave away his nervousness about finally bringing you up to them. He never purposely tried to avoid any topics that could relate to you, but that also meant he chose to never bring it up. He got enough questioning about his ‘legendary’ dad and what it must have been like to grow up in that environment. That’s all anyone ever cared about anyway. 

“The granddaughter you were asking about?” Garrett answered, hoping his tone was enough to signal to them to be cool about it. 

“What do you mean ‘the granddaughter,’ G?” Logan questioned. His eyes widened by the moment. 

“How do you guys feel about getting another roommate?” Garrett blurted out. He never thought it would be nerve-wracking to mention you to the guys. He felt like he had to share a part of you that he only ever wanted to keep to himself.

“We only have four bedrooms,” Dean pointed out the obvious. 

Tucker gave him an up slap against the back of his head, “He knows that, dingus.”

Garrett ran a hand through his hair as he scanned the guys for their reactions. “What’d they say, Bub?” You weren’t even on speakerphone, but it was loud enough in the silent house that the others could hear you clearly. 

“You’ve known who I was talking about this whole time? You just pretended to be stupid or something?” Logan's thoughts gathered quickly to make the connections. “Let me sound like some idiot going on about it.”

“Yeah. She’s transferring from Columbia.” Garrett swept over Logan’s realization. 

“G, I don’t know any girl that would want four guys as their roommates,” Tucker claimed, because it seemed laughable that a girl would ever want to live with guys who eat, breathe, sleep hockey. 

“She’ll be fine. I’m not asking you to give up any of your rooms. Mine will be fine. I don’t want her to be in the dorms. You know how the guys over there are. I’d feel better knowing she’d be close,” Garrett explained with a rare softness in him that no one ever really heard other than you.

“She’d be more than close,” Dean muttered under his breath. Logan nudged him in the side with his elbow. 

“Are you sure she even wants to move in?” Logan asked him honestly. 

“Gare, put me on speaker, please?” You requested politely. Garrett abided and shoved the phone more in the guys’ direction. “Can they hear me?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” All three of the guys affirmed for her. 

“Unbelievable.” Garrett guffawed at the three in front of him. 

“Garrett’s just being overdramatic about this. I don’t want to force myself into your guys’ space–”

“Petal.” Garrett cut you off with a tone that didn’t leave room for much argument.

“Love, you can’t just ask them something like that and expect them to be completely okay with it.”

“Petal, I will call Gramps. Please don’t make this more complicated.”

“Garrett Graham! Don’t you dare!” You yelped on the phone. 

Garrett’s mind was only focused on the sound of your voice, as if the rest of the world melted away from him. Logan, Tucker, and Dean all raised eyebrows at each other because of the pair of you. They had never heard Garrett be like that with a girl. Hell, they never saw him interact with many girls unless it was for a night, and they were always quick to leave. 

“Petal, all you have to do is say yes.” Garrett implored. 

“Would you guys be okay with it? If not, I’ll work something else out, don’t worry about me.” You asked them, uncertain about Garrett’s plea. 

“If you’re important to Garrett, you’re important to us. You’re welcome here anytime,” Tucker answered for the three. 

Dean raised a finger in the air to signal he was about to chime in. “Get ready for some serious game nights,” he joked.

Logan added, “What’s your drink of choice?”

“A cosmo,” you answered simply, with humor lacing your voice. 

“Bullshit, it’s always a strawberry mojito,” Garrett called out to counter.

“Besides the point,” you brushed off.

“Honey, we have to go attend the fundraiser.” Your dad’s call from the hallway broke you away from the conversation. He knocked against your door softly.

“Come in,” you told him.

 “You talking to someone, Sweetie?” He said from the door. 

“Just Gare, Dad,” you announced to him as he started to enter your room. 

“Hey, son! I saw a clip from your last game, and you’re looking real good out there. With this one transferring over, I’m going to have to attend some games in person finally,” your dad happily spoke to Garrett. Who had made his way to the kitchen and placed his phone on the counter while he searched for a drink. 

The other three scrambled from the couch to the counter to continue to listen to the phone call. All of them actively started to slowly get more and more geeked out at the mere presence of your dad’s voice. 

“Hey, Pop! Thanks, it’s been quite a season out there, but our next home game is in two weeks. Will you be in town?” 

“Yeah, I’ll get the lot to come out since it’ll be Petal’s first home game because she originally chose a school with no hockey!” Your dad bellowed out in a laugh. “We have to cheer for you while we can.”

“Gramps, still mad at me for Boston?” Garrett queried.

“Like Gramps could say mad at you, Bub,” you snorted. 

Logan, Dean, and Tucker were in utter disbelief at what they were witnessing. They had never seen Garrett at peace and content, talking to people on the phone. He was never like this when he was on the phone with his dad. 

They started to question the relationship that Garrett had with you and, presumably, the rest of your family. It was evident that he was close with your family, but it seemed deeper than that. A casualness that only came around when you were talking to family, but they assumed he was somehow also romantically linked to you. Maybe it was both, but the scene in front of them was creating bounds of confusion. 

“He’ll get over it once he sees you on ice,” your dad assured him. “Anyways, Garrett. Petal and I have to seriously head out now before the Missus has both of our heads.”

“It was good talking to you, Pop.”

“Bye, bub. I’ll let you know when I get back later. I love you!” 

“I love you too, Petal.” Garrett grinned to himself, and the boys officially thought they had lost the Garrett Graham that they knew. The call ended, and Garrett turned back to the boys. “You shitheads are actually okay with this, right?” 

And just like that, Garrett Graham was back the way they knew him to be. “G, what the hell was that?” Logan was baffled.

“The former Rangers’ head coach is going to attend our next game,” Dean said in a daze.

“You gotta tell us what’s going on, man,” Tucker said, exasperated by no explanation. 

It was clear that Garrett didn’t even know where to start. His mouth opened and closed exactly three times before he even let anything out. “What do you guys want to know?” He thought it was a great question to gauge where the guys’ heads were at. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been with her this whole time, and you’re still with bunnies,” Logan chastised him. “That’s not cool, man.”

“No. No, we’re not dating,” Garrett responded, putting his hands up to somehow show his innocence. “We grew up together.”

“No way there’s nothing there, G,” Tucker protested. 

“So you wouldn’t mind?” Dean gave Garrett a look that explained what he had meant.

“Dean, you’re not getting with her. Don’t even think about trying anything,” Garrett warned. 

“Oh, you’re in love with her.” Logan snapped his fingers at Garrett.

“Dude, I thought we already knew that,” Tucker said to Logan.

“Wait, how is it going to work with her moving in here? This is not exactly a five-star hotel.” Dean gestured to the slight mess around them. While it was cluttered, the house wasn’t too bad at its current state. It looked lived in. “I mean, if you’re not dating her, but she’s going to share your room with you. I’m just trying to understand this, man. Because that means no more bunnies for you like ever.”

“There’s not going to be another bunny,” Garrett said as if it were the most simple thing.

“He’s a changed man, Dean,” Tucker whooped as he made his way over to Garrett and gave him a good slap on the shoulder. “G, this girl means a lot to you, and if you want her to live here. We’re seriously cool about it.”

“Thanks, Tuck.”

After much discussion, your family thought it was best if you had a week to settle in. Since you weren’t moving into your own place, you didn’t need to bring much other than clothes and necessities. You and Garrett had talked about what he had and what you still needed to buy, but agreed that you could just go shopping together rather than getting anything beforehand. Everything you needed to bring was able to fit in your G-Wagon. 

While you didn’t officially start until next Monday, you were finally at Briar to pick up your schedule and really take in the new campus without the rush of trying to figure out where your classes were. 

It was Friday, and students were still scattered around campus for those who still had classes. You were walking around aimlessly, trying to find a cafe that Garrett recommended that you might like. 

Meanwhile, the guys were finishing grabbing lunch on campus after their practice. They headed out of the dining hall together. Garrett was looking down at his phone as he checked your location, knowing you would be at Briar already. 

Garrett cocked his head to the side because, according to the phone, you were in his vicinity. “Holy shit, look at her. She’s like an angel,” Dean guffawed as he stopped the guys in their tracks. 

“She’s beautiful,” Logan commented.

“Out of your league, dude,” Tucker added on.

Garrett tilted his head back up to see what Dean was going on about. There you were, about 20 feet away. He had half a mind to tell Dean off, but he agreed with him. 

You hadn’t noticed the group staring at you. They watched as you pulled your phone out as if you were making a call. You held the phone to your ear while still looking around, but not fully catching the four boys.

Garrett’s phone rang in his hand, the other three’s heads snapped to look at his phone. He accepted the call. “Hey, Petal.”

“Bub, I think I’m lost,” you told him.

“You look so cute, though. Like a lost little duck,” he continued to admire you from afar. 

He watched the realization dawn on your face after his words. You scanned your surroundings and finally saw them. Your face lit up at the sight of Garrett. He did just the same when he saw you start to head in his direction. You hung up the call and slid your phone back into your purse. Garrett slid his to his pocket to free up his hands. 

The three guys stayed back as Garrett walked to meet you. They watched as your grin spread across your face. It was so bright that it could make anyone melt if they knew it was directed at them. 

The sight of you starting to jog towards Garrett in pure joy was something to behold. You met each other halfway and practically crashed into one another. His arms wrapped around your waist automatically. Your arms locked around his neck. Neither of you was particularly interested in letting go. 

“You’re actually here,” Garrett mumbled into your hair. His grip tightened even as he pulled back to look at your face. His eyes crinkled at the corners from the way he was smiling in genuine delight. “I’m never letting you go anywhere without me again,” he chuckled as he picked you off your feet and spun you around.

Your laugh was blissful. Students flowed around you both while they pointed out Garrett and the ‘mystery girl’ he was with. But in the moment between you and Garrett, all of them were forgotten, like the rest of the world. 

“Gare, let me down!” you yelped, laughing. Garrett missed that laugh. More than he’d realized.

Garrett set you back down, but you stayed in his arms. You reached up to fix a piece of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Without any hesitation. Without any thought. Like you had done it a thousand times before. Garrett didn’t even react. He was fully occupied by admiring you. 

Back to the Dean, Logan, and Tucker. The three guys nearly choked when they saw that. “I thought he said they aren’t dating?” Dean pointed to you two. “She fixed his hair.”

“I was not expecting them to run into each other’s arms,” Logan quipped.

“What is happening?” Dean was utterly confused by the scene in front of him. 

“I don’t know.” Logan shook his head. 

“I’ve never seen him smile that much.”

“Neither have I, Dean.”

“They have to be dating,” Dean declared.

“If they’re not now, I hate to see them when they are,” Tucker cackled, clapping his hands together. “C’mon, let’s introduce ourselves to our new roommate.”

You tore your eyes away from Garrett’s and glanced over to where the guys were. “Your friends?”

Garrett turned back and saw them walking toward you two. He sighed, “Unfortunately.” He watched as Dean cheesed and happily waved to you. “Oh, my God.” Dean was mortifyingly enthusiastic.

You broke an arm away to wave back. “Are they on something?”

“Worse.”

“Perfect.”

You dropped your arms down and attempted to pull away from Garrett to get ready to greet them. Which Garrett’s response was laughable. Instead, he moved to stand behind you and keep his arms around you. The guys caught how Garrett’s stare stayed on the side of your face. The kind of smile plastered on his face was something his friends had never seen before. It was warm. He looked hopelessly gone.

“Let me guess, the one leading the pack is Tucker, Dean is obviously the blond, which leaves Logan, who has that brooding brunette look to him.” You humored him. 

“The second they get over here and meet you. They’re never going to leave us alone,” Garrett said, exasperated. You laughed and moved one hand to lightly grip his forearm while you waited for the three to make their way over. 

“Can’t believe he waited a week before she transferred to tell us that he knows her,” You heard Dean tell the guys.

“Hey, you guys! Garrett, you remember we exist, right?” Logan greeted, joking. 

Dean was the first one to offer you a hand. You moved your hand from Garrett’s arm and shook Dean’s waiting hand. “Hi, Angel.”

“Angel?” you whispered to Garrett in question as you pulled away from the handshake. 

Garrett just scoffed, but luckily Dean was there to explain, “You look like an Angel, unless I can call you Petal?” 

“You’re pushing it,” Garrett warned. Dean smirked and raised his hands to motion to back off. 

“Okay, but Angel, if things don’t work out with him, let me know. I’ll only be a few doors away.” Dean winked at you playfully, signalling he was really only saying it to mess with Garrett.

Garrett looked about a second away from committing a felony. You felt his arms tighten around you and pull you to press against him. Logan noticed and burst out laughing. You nearly choked. “You’re a fun one, Dean.”

“Call me Six Flags,” Dean nodded at you.

“I hate you,” Garrett told him.

“No, you don’t, Graham.” Dean smiled.

“Don’t mind him,” Tucker pushed Dean out of the way. “I’m Tucker, well, John, but Logan is also John,” Tucker introduced himself. He opened his arms slightly, and you tapped on Garrett’s arms to let you go. You giggled and accepted the hug. “We cleaned the house for you, Ma’am,” he whispered as you guys parted. 

“Oh, how very kind of you all,” you told him. 

Logan watched with a grin on his face that reflected genuine. Like he’d decided within the past few minutes that you belonged with them. “We’ve heard nothing but your name for the past week, and honestly, I’m just happy you’re here.”

Your expression softened. “That’s really sweet. And seriously, thanks for being so cool about this. I really appreciate you guys.”

“Any time, Angel,” Logan replied. Dean snorted at the use of the name.

“Not you too, Logan.” Garrett rubbed at his temples. He reached an arm out to you, and you naturally wrapped your arms around him. “Do you have everything with you already?” 

“Yeah, my car is packed to the brim right now,” you answered. “Are you guys done for the day?”

“We cleared the schedule, so we can help the Missus move in,” Dean claimed. 

“Perfect! Would any of you mind if you drove my car to the house?” You reached into your purse to grab your keys and dangled them in front of the guys. Dean nodded and opened the palm of his hand. “Thank you, kind sir,” you teased, dropping the keys into his waiting hand. “I parked it in the lot near admissions! It won’t be hard to miss.”

Dean finger-saluted you. “I’ll see you all at home?”

“Yeah, we’ll meet you back there.” Tucker motioned to himself and Logan before breaking away from the group with Dean.

“See you in a bit,” Garrett responded, waving goodbye to the three.

When Garrett pulled up to the house, it was bigger than you expected, but at the same time, it made complete sense for the four hockey players. 

Well.

Four college hockey players, and apparently you know. 

Even after Garrett had parked the car, you knew better than to try to just get out yourself. You waited patiently while Garrett rushed over to your side to open the passenger door and offer a hand to you.

With your hand laced with his, you guys made your way to the porch. The front door swung open. Dean stepped outside, twirling your car keys around one finger. “Your car is officially here.”

“My hero,” you pretended to gush. “Thanks, Dean.”

“No problem, Angel.”

Dean tossed the keys in your direction, but Garrett intercepted and caught them. He kept hold of them and pointed them to pop open the trunk. The movement was so familiar that neither of you really reacted. Unfortunately, Dean did, and so did Logan and Tucker, who were right behind him. 

Immediately. They exchanged a look. You pretended not to notice. Garrett definitely noticed. 

“Alright,” Garrett announced. “Let’s move this circus inside.”

You all turned to look at your car and the full trunk. Silence. You cleared your thoughts. “What?”

Logan pointed to the mountain of boxes. “You know you’re sharing a space with G, right?”

“We’ll make it work.” You shrugged. 

Tucker went to pick up one of the boxes, and he immediately regretted it. “What is in this?”

“Just books.”

“All of them?”

You nodded proudly, “I like reading.”

“Nobody likes reading that much,” Dean retorted.

You pulled your hand away from Garrett to snatch the box away from Tucker. “Give me my children.”

Garrett laughed, and the sound made you smile before you could stop yourself. “Come on,” he said, taking the box from your arms before you could protest. 

“Hey!” 

“No, Petal.”

“I can carry it,” you defended. 

“I know.” He said, heading into the house.

Instead of arguing, you sighed, picked up another box, and followed him inside. Dean, Logan, and Tucker were standing still, which, in passing, you told them, “I thought you guys were going to help?”  

“Yes, Ma’am.” The three all got a box of their own to carry in. 

The inside of the house was exactly what you expected. A little chaotic, but you could tell that they made an effort to tidy up the house for your arrival. It was comfortable. The kitchen looked surprisingly clean. 

“I’m a mean cook, Angel. Just you wait,” Tucker boasted before going up the stairs to drop off the box in Garrett’s room. Well, now your shared room. 

Any nerves that you had about transferring to Briar and moving in with the guys disappeared. This didn’t feel like walking into a house of strangers. It felt like walking into a place you’ve somehow already been a hundred times.

Maybe because Garrett was here, or that his friends welcomed you without hesitation. Everyone kept making room for you without even realizing they were doing it. 

By the time the second trip down to the car was made, you were already helping Dean and Logan make fun of Garrett’s habit of neatly folding laundry. 

By the third trip, Tucker is asking you what your favorite meal is, so he can try to make it. Then Logan explained the house’s completely unnecessary ranking system for takeout restaurants, and somehow you’re laughing through all of it. 

Dean placed the final box onto the floor. “Important question.”

“Which is?” you asked back while looking through a box full of shoes in dust bags. 

“You’re completely okay with just moving into his room,” Dean gestured around Garrett’s master bedroom.

“He offered,” you shrugged, “And it’s not like we haven’t shared rooms before. Growing up on summer vacations, our parents always figured that we would sneak into each other’s rooms anyway, so they just started putting us together by the time we were seven.”

“That clarification should’ve come when we first called last week,” Logan said. 

“I hate living here.” Garrett rubbed a hand over his face.

“No, you don’t, G,” Tucker mumbled. 

By midnight, only a few boxes were left to unpack, and you guys gathered in the living room for some late-night pizza. The kitchen light was off, the room was illuminated by the TV, and six pizza boxes had taken over the coffee table. 

Dean was on his fifth slice and in full interrogation mode. “Okay,” he said, pointing at you and Garrett. “We have questions,” he said, pointing to Logan, Tucker, and himself.

“Yup, we all do,” Logan added, leaning back against the couch.

Tucker nodded. “Especially because he’s acted weird for an entire week.”

“I haven’t acted weird,” Garrett tried to pass off. All three of the roommates stared at him.

You laughed into your drink. Garrett looked betrayed. 

Dean pointed dramatically, “First question: how long have you two known each other?”

You and Garrett answered at the same time, “Since birth.”

No response. 

“Literally?” Logan blinked. “He neglected to mention that he had a childhood best friend.”

“Literally,” you repeated. “Our moms were best friends before we were born.”

“How?” Dean gaped. 

“Buddy, I think you all know who our dads are.” You gently parented him. 

“And your grandfather?” Logan asked.

“Former head Rangers coach, as you guys know. Only stepped down after my dad retired from hockey,” you told him while reaching for another slice. Before you had to get up from your place next to Garrett, Tucker plopped another slice on your place. “Thanks, Tuck.”

“Who’s older?” Dean went.

You rolled your eyes at the question, knowing what was coming. 

“Me,” Garrett claimed proudly.

“By one month,” you scoffed. “You guys would never believe how many times he pulled that out in an argument.”

“I’m older,” Garrett dismissed.

“By thirty-one days.” You deadpanned. 

“Still older.”

“You brought it up constantly.”

“Because it’s true.”

Logan looked delighted. “This explains so much.”

“What does it explain?” Garrett questioned.

“Why you two act like a married couple.” Logan’s words had you choking on your drink. Garrett nearly did the same, but he was quick to rub your back in soothing motions. The action really didn’t help your case. Dean howled in laughter after catching it. Logan and Tucker snickered to themselves. 

After calming down, Dean moved on to his next question. “How have we never heard of you before?”

The room went a little quieter. Garrett mumbled, “You guys know I don’t really talk about home.”

No one pushed. They all knew that much.

The boys knew Garrett didn’t like interacting with his dad and that his mom had passed away when he was younger. What they didn’t know was that you had been there through it all. 

You nudged his knee with yours, and he glanced at you briefly. Just for a moment, but his shoulders loosened a little. 

“There was never a reason to bring me up. I was away in New York, and god knows that Columbia kept me busy enough to have any downtime,” you explained. “And you guys were always away when I would visit during the summer.”

“Wait, a damn minute.” Dean paused mid-bite. 

“What’d you just say?” Logan was taken aback.

“What do you mean by that?” Tucker probed. 

Garrett shook his head and poked you in the side. “They didn’t know that, Petal.”

“Well, now they do.” You finished the last bit of your slice and put your plate on the coffee table. You leaned back against the couch and tucked your feet under you. Garrett lifted his arm, and you scooted closer to his side.

His arm came behind your waist, and his hand landed on your hip. He tugged you to be snug against his side. 

“Now, a serious question,” Dean remarked, even though he felt like he was interrupting something. 

“Dangerous start.” Your laugh was airy, with tiredness starting to dawn on you.

“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”

“Straight for the kill,” Logan snorted. 

“Oh god,” Tucker mumbled into his drink.

“So help me, god.” You heard Garrett mutter under his breath. You turned your head to look at Garrett and found him already facing you. “We’re not answering that,” Garrett scoffed.

“There was a first time!” Dean gasped. 

“Everyone has a first time,” Garrett attempted to brush him off, but he replied too quickly to seem casual.

“That is not helping your case, G.” Logan chuckled.

Dean sat back, feeling victorious. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” you asked.

“That whatever this is–” Dean gestured between you and Garrett, “–has been happening for years.”

Garrett groaned. 

Tucker nodded thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m just glad you finally showed up. He’s been unbearable this week.”

“I have not.”

You laughed again, and before you could think about stopping yourself, you leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. 

Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was, and Garrett didn’t even hesitate before leaning back.

Dean, Logan, and Tucker exchanged identical looks like before. None of them said a word. They didn’t need to. The answer to every question was sitting right there on the couch for them to see. 

The next morning, you woke up to Dean banging against the bedroom door. The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. You turned slightly and felt your cheek brushing against Garrett’s bare skin. The bed was a sight of tangled limbs and Garrett’s head tucked into the crook of your neck. 

The persistent knocking caused him to shift in his sleep, an arm instinctively tightening around you. 

“Gare, I cannot breathe.” You attempted to pull yourself away from his grasp.

“Baby, it’s too early,” Garrett murmured in your ear, not aware of the knocking yet.

“Guys, wake up, we want to go to breakfast!” Dean yelled from the other side of the door. 

“Dean, just come in,” you permitted him. 

The door creaked softly, and Dean entered the room with a hand covering his eyes. “Angel, are you guys decent?”

“You wish I wasn’t.” You chucked a pillow at him, which he annoyingly caught.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Garrett grumbled, realizing Dean was in the room. 

“The guys and I want to get breakfast at Malone’s, and Angel hasn’t been yet, so it’s perfect.” Dean begun. “We’re leaving in 30 minutes.”

“That sounds great. We’ll be ready,” you told him. 

“Okay, okay, now get out,” Garrett shooed Dean away. 

“Angel, you see what we’ve had to deal with?”

“Try dealing with him for your entire life,” you countered.

“You’re a strong woman.”

“The best. Now, seriously, man, out.” Garrett pointed an arm to the door. 

“Fine, but you guys better be downstairs soon!” Dean said as he shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

“Finally,” Garrett mumbled, tucking his head back into your neck.

“Bub, we have to get up.” You ran a hand through his hair. You felt him smile against your skin. “Come on, let me up,” your hand continuing to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Baby, I haven’t woken up with you in my arms for months. You’re breaking my heart here.” Garrett expressed, trying to be serious, but the whisper of a smile played at the edges of his lips. 

“You are being dramatic.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Fortunate for me.” He pressed a kiss against your forehead and finally loosened his grasp around you. 

You rose from the bed and stretched. You looked out the window. “This is nice.”

“Yeah,” Garrett replied. You turned back to face him. 

You found him already staring at you. 

The drive to Malone’s was chatterful. Your car was chosen, but the designated driver was Garrett. You were seated in the passenger seat, holding Garrett’s hand in your lap. The backseat arrangement was laughable. Dean, Tucker, and Logan, in that order, were squeezed into your back seats, which you always felt like were spacious when driving with your friends. But with three hockey players in place, they were like a tin of sardines. 

When Garrett finally parked, Logan was the first out of the car and almost tripped over his own legs, with Tucker trying to push him to get out faster. 

Logan beat Garrett to opening your door. “Angel,” he said, a smirk pinching at his cheeks while he offered his hand to you. 

“You’re doing this on purpose.” You stifled a laugh as you peeked at Garrett, who was five steps short of your door. 

“Let me have this one?” Logan whispered. You took his hand and got out of the car. Rather than letting go of your hand, he wrapped your arms together and guided you to the entrance of Malone’s. “You are going to love this place, Angel.”

“Petal.”

You heard him say from behind you, turning back to look at him. “Yes, Gare?” 

Garrett Graham would never admit to pouting, but lo and behold, a sliver of a pout was edging his lips. “You’re just leaving me behind?” he gaped. Instead of responding, you let Logan lead you guys in. 

“Snubbed by your own girl, that’s got to be tough.” Dean clapped a hand on Garrett’s shoulder. 

“G, stop moping and let’s go. I’m hungry, man,” Tucker told him, heading in after you and Logan. 

Inside, you and Logan were waiting by a booth. Logan slid into one side, and you to the other. Tucker sat next to Logan. Dean dragged over a spare chair, spun it around backwards, and sat at the end of the booth. Garrett stopped at the edge of the booth. “Oh, now you want to be next to me?”

Ignoring his dramatics, you looked up from the menu. “What do you guys usually get?”

Garrett sighed pitifully. He slid next to you and snaked his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. You automatically put the menu in front of both of you. “You’ll like the berry waffles.”

“Sounds yummy.” You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“You’d think they didn’t wake up next to each other,” Dean teased. “Garrett, get a grip, dude.”

Even with the teasing, Logan, Tucker, and Dean enjoyed seeing Garrett like this. A kind of softness that he never really displayed to people besides you. The tenderness as he whispered to you as if no one else existed. The way the menu was shared, and Garrett was pointing out all the things he thought you would like to try at some point. 

A waitress came by with coffee. Without asking, Garrett reached over and slid a mug in front of him before adding two sugar packets. Then a splash of cream. He stirred it once before pushing it toward you. “There.”

“Thanks, baby.” You took a sip. “Perfect.” You pressed a kiss against his jaw. 

“You didn’t even watch him make it,” Logan commented.

“I don’t have to?” Your eyebrows pulled together, showing your slight confusion. 

“You just trusted whatever he put in it?”

“He’s made my coffee since I first started drinking coffee.”

Logan blinked. “They’ve killed me.”

“God, I forgot that you guys have been married for years,” Dean joked.

Tucker ignored the rest of the group and got to ordering. The rest of you followed suit. 

Around the diner, people had definitely started noticing. Mostly because four starting hockey players were difficult to ignore, especially when one of those players is the captain, Garrett Graham. What really stuck out was you, the unfamiliar girl who leaned into his side as if you belonged there.

Whispers bounced between tables. 

“Who is she?”

“Is that the new transfer girl people have been talking about?”

“How does she have Graham bringing her with the guys?”

“I thought he said he doesn’t do girlfriends.”

Two girls near the counter glanced over one too many times. One leaned toward the other. “I’ve literally never seen him with a girl before.”

“Maybe she’s his sister.”

You happened to laugh at something Garrett said, but the smile that was plastered across his face said it all. 

One of the girls frowned. “Definitely not his sister.”

Dean noticed before anyone else. Without turning around, he spoke just loudly enough for it to reach anyone sitting at the counter. “Man.” The others looked at him. “It’s amazing how people forget that minding their own business is free.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Tucker said bluntly. The whispering behind him immediately quieted. 

Logan casually leaned back in the booth. “It’s almost like we have our own lives.”

There was a softness that came over your features. It radiated such appreciative affection for such new, devoted friends. The guys defended you as if you were their own, without a second thought or hesitation. 

Dean caught your eye and winked at you. “We’ve got your back, Angel.”

“Always,” Logan added.

“You’ve got us for life, Angel,” Tucker finished.

“You guys are going to make me cry.” You teared up a bit, and your face flushed with heat at the gesture. Garrett rubbed at your side soothingly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Angel, we’re practically family already,” Logan reasoned, sending you a sweet smile.

“I am going to be the best uncle ever,” Tucker claimed, nodding his head. 

“But I get to be the Godfather,” Dean asserted in full seriousness, but the act dropped quickly with a grin spreading across his face. 

“We’ll play rock, paper, scissors for it.” Logan contended, waving a hand at Dean.

Garrett snorted, shifting the attention to him. “Unlikely,” he scoffed jokingly under his breath, but it wasn’t quiet enough for the guys not to catch it, and especially not for you. 

You pressed a hand against the one he had on your side. Your thumb rubbed circles against his knuckles. 

“Listen, buddy, we never said you had to be the dad,” Logan tutted at Garrett. 

You felt Garrett stiff beside you. “That’s not even funny, man.”

“Oh, this is gold.” Tucker snickered at Garrett’s obvious displeasure at the mere idea of you creating a life with someone else. 

“I’m fine.” You all caught on to Garrett’s voice and how defensive he sounded. 

Dean wasn’t ready to end Garrett’s suffering just yet. “You want blond babies, Angel?” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “They’d be beautiful.”

Your whole body shook with laughter at Dean’s insinuation. You didn’t see Garrett’s face, but the guys did. The way his brow wrinkled into a deep frown.  His right eye twitched while he was glaring down at Dean. “Godfather, typically means you’d have to be alive for the role.” 

Dean paled slightly. Instead of replying, he took a long sip from his water, gulping awkwardly. 

Tucker had put his hand to muzzle his laugh that was threatening to spill out. 

Logan was suddenly very interested in a ketchup bottle. “These ingredients are so funny.”

The waitress came up to the table with breakfast, unaware of the scene she was walking into. “Hope you all enjoy,” she said, setting plates in front of each of you. She refilled your waters before finally walking away from the booth. 

Garrett’s frown dropped just like that. Before you could reach for the syrup, Garrett poured it perfectly on your waffles. You grabbed a piece of bacon off his plate. You took a bite of about half of it before you offered it up to Garrett’s mouth. He ate the rest without questioning.

Neither of you looked exactly at each other, but the way you moved with ease and avoided bumping into one another said it all. 

Neither of you broke the conversation either. Garrett asked if you liked the waffles. You nodded sweetly, taking another bite. He hummed, satisfied in response. It happened so naturally that it was obvious that neither of you even processed how you guys were. 

Across the table, Logan stared. 

Then at Tucker.

Then at Dean.

“I think we’ve been upgraded from roommates,” Logan muttered to the two.

“We’re just watching these two domesticate each other in real time.” Tucker looked a bit in awe at how evidently you both were in tune with one another. 

Dean nodded solemnly, “I think we’re witnessing a thirty-year marriage before the first date.” He took another bite of the pancakes. “They’re hopeless.”

You and Garrett looked over. “What?” you both asked at the same time.

The three roommates burst into laughter. You and Garrett looked at each other, and despite having no idea what was so funny. You both started laughing, too.

Della, from behind the counter, watched the way the five of you fit together. She had never seen the boys the way they are right at this moment. She immediately decided that you were a missing piece in a very chaotic puzzle of hockey players. You belonged at that table. 

Breakfast lingered long after the plates had been cleared. 

The conversation drifted from hockey to classes, then somehow to the time that Dean accidentally set the kitchen toaster on fire. “It was defective,” Dean insisted. 

“It exploded because you put a Pop-Tart in sideways,” Tucker replied. 

“That’s a design flaw.”

“More like user error.”

You laughed at the pair, shaking your head. You tapped against Garrett’s thigh. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bathroom?” Garrett slid out of the booth to let you out.

“Mhm.” He helped you out like a gentleman and kissed your hand before you walked away from the table. 

You did head toward the hallway for exactly seven steps. Then you quietly veered toward the register, looking over your shoulder, and the guys were busy talking about the next home game coming up in a week. 

The waitress looked up with a smile. “Everything okay, honey?”

“Perfect, actually.” You pulled out your card that you had sneaked into your pocket before you left earlier. “I’d like to pay for our table.”

She glanced toward the booth. “The hockey boys?”

“Yeah.” You smiled.

“They’re usually fighting over who pays.”

“I figured.” 

“You sure? Honey, I’m positive that none of those boys would want you to pay.”

You looked over your shoulder again. The four of them were full of laughter. Logan was dramatically reenacting whatever play he was retelling. Tucker looked like he regretted encouraging him. Dean was adding in parts that Logan was leaving out. And Garrett. He was watching the conversation with that quiet little smile he’d worn almost all morning. 

It tugged at something in your chest. “They’ve been really good to me.”

The waitress followed your gaze. “You’ve known them for a long time?” She wondered. 

“Just the one I was sitting next to.”

She rang up the bill. You tipped her generously when signing off the receipt. When she handed your copy, you tucked it into your pocket along with your card before anyone could notice. 

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sweetie.”

When you returned, Dean looked up. “That was fast.”

“I think we’re ready to finish up here,” Tucker said. 

“I physically cannot move.” Dean leaned back and rubbed his stomach. 

“You had seven pancakes,” Logan reminded him. 

“I regret nothing.”

Garrett politely signalled for the waitress’s attention. She placed the check holder at the edge of the table. “Huh,” Garrett muttered when he reached for it. 

“What?” Logan asked. 

“It’s empty.” 

Dean frowned. “What do you mean it’s empty?”

“The bill.” 

“You guys already paid?” Tucker questioned. 

Garrett looked at the others. “I didn’t.”

“I was waiting for him,” Dean said, pointing to Garrett. 

“So was I,” Tucker admitted. 

The waitress walked by carrying another tray to pick up the empty plates off the table. “You boys are all set.”

Four heads turned. You busied yourself with applying some lip balm. “What?” 

Logan shook his head. 

“It was taken care of already.” The booth fell completely silent. 

Four pairs of eyes turned toward you. 

“Petal,” Garrett said. 

“No.” You stopped. 

“You paid?” He scoffed. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely paid,” Logan retorted. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Angel,” Dean said. 

“I didn’t do anything,” you shrugged. 

“Bullshit,” Garrett muttered. 

“Breakfast seemed like a pretty cheap way to say thank you for letting me into your lives so easily.”

The table was quiet for another moment. Then Dean stood up. “Oh.”

“What?” You glanced at him. Tucker and Logan slid out of the booth to stand as well. Garrett did the same. Your eyes flickered to each of them. They all shared a look and nodded. In a blink, you were bombarded by the four. They hugged, keeping you in the middle. “Guys, I can’t breathe.”

“Too late,” Logan mumbled.

“Petal, we don’t need that.”

You were holding up two different colored fluffy throw blankets. “Do you like the dark blue better or the gray?” ignoring Garrett’s statement. 

“You’re not going to use it, and it’ll end up on the floor.”

“I can use it in the living room.” You brushed him off. 

“Okay, fine, just get both. One for the living room and the other for the bed.” Garrett gave in.

You hummed to yourself triumphantly. “You see, that wasn’t so hard.” You brushed a faint kiss against the left side of his jawline before you put the blankets in the cart.

A husband who was in the same aisle with his wife had watched the short interaction between you and Garrett. He had a fond expression written across his face. “Son, happy wife, happy life.” He simply said before following his wife out of the aisle. 

“Are you planning a proposal I don’t know about yet?” You teased Garrett, grinning at him. Your faces were inches apart. 

Garrett brought a hand to your face with his thumb gently stroking your cheek. His face carried a relaxed smile. His gaze was locked into your eyes. “Not yet. But eventually.”

You wished his words would surprise you, but in reality, it was more of a confirmation than anything else. “I think we’re skipping a few steps.” You placed a hand on his chest, and you could feel the beating of his heart. 

“Like there would be anyone for me other than you,” Garrett murmured. 

You could tell he was holding himself back. The way he brought himself closer to you and tilted his face to yours. His pupils dilated, and you could feel his heartbeat start to quicken. “You know, for a second there, I thought you were finally going to do it.” 

“If I kissed you, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

“Who said you had to?” 

His lips brushed against yours. It felt like he was trying to test the waters. Your hand slid from his chest to his jaw. The hand on your cheek pulled you in even closer, if that was possible. His lips smiled against yours. 

The gap finally closed. The way his lips parted against your own so gently. The kiss was chaste since you both were standing in a store. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He said, pulling away to look back into your dazed eyes. 

You pecked his lips again. “We never stood a chance.” 

“Against what?”

“Us.”

“It’s you and me forever, Petal.”

The next week breezed past you before you knew it. The transition to classes was easier than you were expecting. Another thing you thought was going to be difficult was you and Garrett, but really, other than stolen kisses in hidden hallways or late nights in the kitchen. The pair of you hardly had to change anything. 

Sure, Garrett was even more affectionate than usual, but it wasn’t overly done where the guys caught on to you two. It kind of felt fun keeping it between you and Garrett. Not that either of you meant to keep a secret. It just hadn’t come up, and anyone who had been around lately either assumed you were already dating or, like the guys, just got used to the fact that you and Garrett were suspiciously close.

Plenty of people on campus just thought that the new transfer student finally locked down the infamous Garrett Graham. Not many knew or cared to find out that you guys knew each other prior. No one found that you had moved in either, not that it was any of their business.

As much as you tried not to let it get to you, the puck bunnies were hard to ignore. Especially with the Briar Hawks having a home game soon, everyone was buzzing around you. From the guys’ endless practices and workout sessions to students’ nonstop chatter about the game and after-parties. 

Garrett was quick to assure you that the minute he found out that you were coming to Briar. He hadn’t even thought about another girl since. Not that mattered anyway. It wasn’t like you were a saint in New York. You had your fair share of dates that Garrett, over the years, pretended didn’t bother him when you would call him excitedly to prepare for one.

You could hold your own, but that didn’t stop the irk you would get overhearing the bunnies talk about “whatever” you and Garrett had would never last long before he got bored. 

You didn’t doubt your new relationship with Garrett. Even your mothers were rooting for you two to end up together, the second they found out about each other’s pregnancies. Garrett was yours just as much as you were his. It’s been like that since the two of you could walk. 

“Baby, I’ll see you and the family later at the game, I got to run to meet with coach. I love you.” was the last thing you heard from Garrett at seven in the morning before he hurriedly pressed a kiss against your forehead before heading out the room. You weren’t even fully coherent enough to reply. Just hummed happily before dozing back off. 

You decided that around nine it was time to get up for the day. You had the house empty to yourself. The first time since you moved in. Even with everyone’s hectic schedules, there was usually at least one or two other people home. Not that you minded the company, it let you know the guys better and their habits, which some were admittedly messier than others. 

Your feet padded down against the staircase. You found yourself looking for something in the fridge to make for lunch. With the game being later into the night, you had plenty of time to get ready for it. Right now, you chose to make lunch for the guys. You had bought a huge slab of salmon the other day and decided that it was the perfect thing to pair with some rice and steamed vegetables for the guys. Just like your dad’s game day lunch.

Music blasted in the house while you cooked. You set out individual meal prep containers that you hadn’t had the chance to use since you bought them. You portioned out a slice of salmon, rice mixed with quinoa, along with steamed broccoli and cauliflower to each container. It was close to noon, and you knew by the time you got to the arena, it would be perfect timing for lunch. 

You hadn’t told anyone that you were planning to stop by to drop off the food. The players were still on the ice when you entered the arena. You stopped to sit down a few rows behind the players’ bench while you waited for them to finish their drills. No one had noticed you yet, except for Coach Jensen.

His brows drew together as he tried to figure out if he recognized you. At first, he assumed you were a bunny trying to sneak into watching practice, but his eyes landed on what seemed to be a thermal food bag. 

“Definitely a girlfriend.” He thought to himself.

He saw how you watched the boys with trained eyes. It was as if he could see you mentally noting what some of them could work on. That piqued his interest. “Okay. Let’s head to lunch!” He called out to the players on the ice. “I thought I said no girlfriends during practice.” He threw in right after, causing you to snap your head in his direction and see him already looking back at you.

“I’m just dropping off lunch!” You sheepishly called out. You made your way down, and Garrett was quick on the ice to make it over to you. “Hey, bub.” You smiled, watching him take off his helmet. 

“That’s the missus, coach!” Logan hollered from across the ice. 

“Angel!” Dean’s voice boomed with the sound of his skates coming to a stop near you and Garrett. 

Tucker was the only one out of the four to catch what you told Coach Jensen. “I heard lunch?”

“I hope that’s for us too and not just, G!” Logan called out, making his way over.

“Missus?” Coach Jensen questioned to himself more than anyone in particular. 

“Is that the transfer from New York?”

“I want lunch, too.”

“She’s the one G was with when we saw him at Malone’s the other day.”

“I didn’t know bunnies made lunches.”

That was the chatter that was amongst some of the other players. 

Garrett tuned them out and honed his attention to just focus on you. “You didn’t have to bring lunch for me, Petal.”

“Great! Because I didn’t make it just for you.” Your voice was loud enough for Logan to hear, resulting in him whooping out a cheer. You brought the bag to your front and shook it ever so slightly at the four. “If your coach is okay with me bringing food to feed some of his players…” You trailed off, glancing back at Coach Jensen, who simply was amused by this whole interaction. Never in his life had he seen his star player/captain turn so soft in a matter of seconds, or give any girl the time of day on a game day. 

“Whatcha got to feed these hooligans?” He walked over. You opened the bag for him to take a peek in. He could see the stack of meals you prepared for the guys. His eyes spotted how you made sure to take into account protein and grains along with the vegetables. “Not too bad.”

“Approved?” you said hopefully. 

“Just make sure they get back to me after lunch is over.” He winked at you in approval before making his way to the locker room. 

“Give us a bit, Petal. We’re going to take off the gear, and we’ll come back out. Make yourself comfy on the bench.” Garrett pressed a kiss against your cheek before skating off the ice.

The other three saluted you as they passed by, following Garrett to the locker room. It didn’t take them long to find their way back to you. By the time they returned. They noticed the four containers neatly laid out with a fork sitting on top of each lid, with a napkin placed underneath it. 

Dean whistled out, “Angel, you’re my favorite.” He started to pass around a container, so each one of them had one. 

Tucker had been the first to open it and see what you made. “Smells delicious, Angel. Is that rice mixed with quinoa? Oh, you’re good.” He complimented, blowing you a kiss.

“Our savior,” Logan greeted you with a side hug and a kiss against the top of your head. Before grabbing a container of his own and taking a seat. “Oh, TIGS.”

“Dude, what does that even mean?” Dean questioned him. “This is good shit?”

“No. This is god sent.” 

“Thanks, baby,” Garrett murmured to you in appreciation. He had found his place at your side. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yeah, it’s dad’s game day lunch.” You two were sat pressed next to one another. Your eyes scanned over to the other guys. A satisfied smile wreathed your lips.

Dean closed his eyes, letting out a blissful sigh as he swallowed. “G, you’re evil for not introducing us to Angel sooner.” 

Tucker paused to chew, pointing his fork at the salmon. “This is delectable. Thank you, Angel.”

Logan mumbled, his mouth still half-full. “Angel, where were you the past three years on game days? This is so good.”

Garrett just laughed at the three’s antics. “And this is why you didn’t meet them until now.”

“We heard that,” Dean called out. 

“How are you guys feeling about tonight?” you asked them, shifting the conversation. 

“We got to make sure we win your first Briar hockey game,” Logan affirmed.

“Not her first Briar game,” Garrett corrected before taking another bite of the food. The remark made the other three pause mid-bite/chew. 

“She’s been to one before?” Logan raised a brow at him

“Angel, we could’ve known each other much sooner!” Dean yelped dramatically. 

“Not the first hockey game, but my first official home game,” you explained. 

“When did you see one?” Tucker asked you.

“I’ve been to a few,” you admitted. “My first one was Garrett’s first game playing because how could I ever miss that? Then I’ve been to a couple away games you guys had when it was close to New York. Most recently before the transfer, I went to Garrett’s first game as captain.”

“Hold on a minute,” Dean said. “You’ve been to all these games, and we never knew?”

“Never needed to bring it up,” Garrett shrugged.

“Wait, is that you got so weird at some of the away games? I always thought you were nervous or some shit,” Logan said in an epiphany. He snapped at Garrett’s direction, “I knew it was weird when you didn’t come out with us after.”

“Like that Clovers game! I just figured you were meeting up with a bunny–” Dean was cut off.

“No, I took Petal to dinner after the game.”

“Oh, that was the nice Italian place!” You recalled it in your memory. 

“We don’t get taken to dinners after games,” Logan scoffed playfully. 

“We’ll take you to dinner tonight, Angel,” Dean offered with a grin.

“Even better, I’ll cook you dinner, Angel.” Tucker winked. 

“Sorry, boys. Not tonight. Gare’s got the family coming in to see this game. I’m sure Gramps will want dinner together tonight.”

“Your family is coming tonight? Like actually? I thought that was just like a joke your dad was making.” Logan gaped. “And your grandfather wants dinner?”

“Not with you shitheads,” Garrett snickered. 

You smacked his arm lightly. “Be nice. They can come if they want to.”

“Family dinner with hockey royalty,” Dean said, a bit starstruck.

“G, how are you not shitting in your pants?” Tucker said, baffled.

“Her dad is okay with her living with us, right?” Logan brought up.

“More importantly, he knows that you guys are sharing a bed?” Dean added.

Garrett put down the now empty container. “Guys.”

“Yes, my dad is perfectly fine with my living situation. He knows that we’re together, and he trusts Garrett. Well, I think the entire family has had a bet going on since we were conceived.”

“Ma, definitely had one with Mom. You remember when we went to Vancouver for vacation?”

“That was what? When we were ten?”

“Yeah, Ma slid over twenty bucks to Mom during dinner when I was cutting your steak–”

“YOU GUYS ARE TOGETHER?” Dean yelled out the second it clicked in his head.

“Honestly, quicker than I expected,” Tucker claimed.

“Let’s not kid ourselves. They were always together.” Logan retorted.

You tore your eyes from Garrett’s and looked back at the guys. You felt heat flush your face, realizing what you casually said. “Yeah, we’re together.” You couldn’t help the smile that threatened to lift the edges of your mouth. 

“Since when?” Tucker questioned.

“The day we brought back the blue blanket from the couch.”

“Oh, I love that blanket,” Logan noted. 

“I know, it’s so soft!” You happily clapped your hands together. 

“It’s really warm, too,” Logan added. 

“You didn’t tell us sooner?” Dean wondered.

Garrett kept his eyes on you. How you animatedly expressed your love of the blanket. The way your eyes lit up when you talked. “Honestly, just slipped my mind. I mean, it’s just so natural being with her.”

“You talking about little old me?” You playfully fluttered your eyelashes at him. “I love being with you, too, love.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, pulling away with a gentle smile. 

By the time warm-ups began, the arena was already loud. Student sections were filling with painted faces and homemade signs. Lots of 44 were seen around the arena. The pep band was halfway through the fight song.

Garrett tapped his stick against the boards before skating another lap, absently scanning the stands. He always looked. Even when there wasn’t anyone to find. 

But tonight was different. Halfway up behind the home bench sat you, your parents, and grandparents. Your dad had a custom Garrett 44 hat, with your mom sporting 44 on her cheek. You spotted him almost immediately and stood, waving both hands over your head. 

Garrett couldn’t help but smile. You were wearing his jersey. His actual jersey. Not one you’d buy from a gift shop. One he’d given you the second you started talking about wanting to plan your outfit. 

You gestured to your parents excitedly. Garrett came to a stop, and he scanned the seats next to you. His pause was noticed by Logan. He lifted his stick toward the stands. 

“What a night,” Logan looked over in its direction.

Dean nearly skated into Logan. “Man, what are you looking at?” Then he saw them too.

Tucker answered before anyone else. “That’s the family.” His eyes looked over two seats next to you, and rest assured, your grandfather sat there with the quiet confidence of someone who’d once stood behind an NHL bench for nearly twenty seasons. 

Dean examined your grandfather. He looked older now compared to clips from his coaching days. The former head coach of the New York Rangers. A living legend. Not to mention your father, who sat next to you. Dean looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. “They came for him.”

Your grandfather looked down toward the ice. He spotted Garrett and raised one hand. Garrett’s smile widened even more. He lifted his glove and waved back. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Logan stared. 

You laughed from the stands and leaned over to say something to your dad. He smiled, then cupped his hand around his mouth. “ATTABOY, SON!” The words echoed faintly across the ice. Garrett let out a laugh, then tapped his stick twice against the glass in front of them.

The announcer interrupted, “Ladies and gentlemen.” Warm-ups were over.

The game was fast and physical. Two teams were fighting to lead the conference. By the end of the first period, it was tied one to one. 

Logan threw a huge hit that brought the crowd to its feet. Dean blocked a shot that probably should’ve gone in. Garrett had two chances and saved both. Every time he returned to the bench, his eyes drifted toward your section.

To the same five people who always cheered him on and like how they always would.

Late in the third period, it was still a tie game with only three minutes left. The arena buzzed with nervous energy. Coach Jensen leaned over the boards. “One more shift.”

Garrett nodded, and the puck dropped. Tucker won it clean, and it was back to Dean, then across Logan, who’d carried through center before slipping it wide. Garrett caught it in a stride. There was one defender. Garrett cut inside and the defender bit. Open lane. For the smallest fraction of a second, everything went quiet. He had snapped the puck. 

Top corner. Bar down. Ping. The sound rang through the arena. The red light exploded with the building erupting. Goal.

Students leapt to their feet, and the bench emptied over the boards. Logan tackled Garrett first. Dean nearly knocked both of them over. Tucker arrived a heartbeat later. The arena shook with applause. You were already screaming with both hands over your mouth and tears filling your eyes. 

Your dad was on his feet, clapping so hard that his palms had turned visibly red. Your grandfather stood beside him, grinning with unmistakable pride. The television camera caught them easily. “Hockey royalty celebrating that goal,” one commentator laughed. “Looks like they approve.”

The final horn sounded moments later. Briar Hawks won.

When Garrett stepped off the ice, an arena attendant waved him over. “They’re waiting.” He didn’t need to ask who. The family entrance hallway smelled faintly of popcorn and fresh ice.

The moment that Garret rounded the corner, “There he is!” you ran to him. He caught you before you even reached full speed, lifting you clean off the floor as you wrapped yourself around him. “I almost lost my voice!”

He laughed into your hair. “I heard.”

You pulled back just enough to kiss him. Like it belonged there with such ease. When you stepped aside, your dad opened his arms. “Come over here, son.” Garrett didn’t hesitate and hugged him tightly. 

“Good game, Pop.”

“You kidding?” Your dad squeezed his shoulder. “That release would’ve beaten me.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Garrett attempted to be modest. 

“I know,” your dad brushed Garrett’s hair back from his face. “But I mean it.”

Next came your mom. She cupped his face in both hands before pulling him into a hug. “You look exhausted.”

“I feel exhausted,” Garrett admitted.

“You eating enough?” Your mom tapped his cheek.

“Ma.”

“I asked a question.” She persisted.

“Yes, Ma.” Your grandfather stood, waiting with his hand tucked into his coat pocket. Garrett stopped in front of him. “Hey, Gramps.”

The older man looked over him for a long second and nodded, “I’m proud of you.” 

Garrett swallowed hard, “Thanks.”

“You earned that one.” The former coach clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Now stop standing around me and go stand next to Petal.” You immediately slid back to Garrett’s side. Your grandfather pointed between you two, “Took you long enough.”

Your mom laughed. “I was beginning to think I should’ve agreed to a betrothal that your mom and I talked about once.”

Your dad shrugged, “I would have given them another year.”

Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “It was obvious?” Every member of the family stared at him. He sighed, “Never mind?”

“Hey!” Another familiar voice echoed down the hallway. Dean, Logan, and Tucker rounded the corner, still carrying pieces of their gear. They stopped the second they saw your family. Every single one of the three stood a little straighter. 

Dean whispered, “Oh my God.”

Logan elbowed him, “Be normal.”

“I’m trying,” Dean told him.

Tucker quietly failed to hide his awe.

You laughed, “You guys! Come over here!” You motioned them over. “This is Dean, Logan, and Tucker,” you introduced them to your family. The three hockey players suddenly looked like nervous freshmen again. 

Your father smiled first and shook each of their hands, “Good game, boys.”

Dean looked as though he might frame the handshake. “Sir, I watched your highlights growing up.” 

Your father laughed. “Now I feel old.”

“You are old,” Your grandfather commented. 

“I walked right into that one,” Your dad admitted. 

The former head Rangers coach shook hands with each of them too. “I like watching your line.” The three roommates collectively forgot how words worked. 

“Thank you, sir,” Logan managed. 

“That means a lot,” Tucker remarked.

Your grandfather smiled, “You boys play the game the right way.”

Dean quietly leaned toward Garrett and you, “I’m never washing this hand.”

Garrett snorted, and you laughed, leaning into his side, “I figured.”

Your mom looked around the group. “So, who’s hungry?” Every hand went up, and she laughed, “Perfect, go get changed and let’s head out.”

The players immediately obeyed. Garrett kissed the side of your head. “I’ll be back out.”

As the guys started walking together, Dean drifted beside Garrett. “So…”

“What?” Garrett glanced over at him. 

“They really are your family.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He looked back to the group waiting for them. At the people that had supported him through everything. Then looked back at the guys, the friends who had become brothers. Then back to you, watching as you shooed him to hurry along.

You’ve been best friends with Garrett for years, he’s one of the first people you met when you were a freshman at Briar U. You clicked, connected, had a lot of the same classes and circles of friends. It’s always been something easy—like wearing your favorite sweater, or falling asleep. Something expected and automatic. Garrett is someone who’s been warm, dependable, loyal and there. He’s the person you turn to when you need advice or a shoulder to cry on, there’s no one better to dance with, to jump around and sing too loud, to join a drinking game with because you know you’re going to win with him by your side. You’d choose him time and time again; a whispered promise, a hand in the dark. 

Every single time. 

And yet—

“Not my business?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “It became my business when we sat in there with that dumbfuck,” He points to the large windows of Malone’s, “and he didn’t know when your birthday was.” 

You swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself. You try to convince yourself that it’s cold, that there’s a breeze scraping by and getting through the thin layer of the puffy sweater you have on, but you know better. Unease skitters through your bloodstream like spiders. You hate that Garrett is bringing this up again. 

And you hate that he’s right. 

Tonight was supposed to be a chill night, hanging out with some of Garrett’s teammates who are your friends too, their girlfriends, your other friends and the guy you’ve been seeing for a month, Mark. Mark, who Garrett can’t stand and has been very clear on this fact ever since he met him. Which you just…you don’t understand. Yeah, Mark has his moments, but he’s…he’s a decent guy? 

One of the topics that had been brought up at dinner was your birthday. You had a huge party last year and Dean was wondering if it was business as usual for the weekend. Mark had asked if it was this upcoming weekend and Garrett had looked like he was ready to throw a napkin dispenser at his head. 

“Okay so—what, you’re the only person who hasn’t forgotten anything?” 

Garrett sighs impatiently from his nose, “Don’t,” He says after a moment, “C’mon, sunshine, Mark didn’t forget, he never knew when your birthday was. I bet you he still doesn’t know.” 

Sunshine. A nickname you’re so used to hearing coming from Garrett’s mouth. Something he’s called you for years now, ever since he teased you about always having a sunny disposition—it, for whatever reason, is making the bridge of your nose sting. 

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, taking a step forward. His voice is strained; a frustrated hand winding through his curls, “Why are you wasting your time with this guy?” 

That same heat you felt before prickles underneath your skin. You know that Garrett is asking from a place of concern, even though his stance is unyielding and his voice is sharp. He cares about you and he’s frustrated because of it. But you hate the feeling of existing underneath a microscope, like you’re the only person in the history of ever to be in a relationship with someone where there was a hint of imbalance. As if everyone Garrett’s ever been with, which aren’t many if we’re being honest, were somehow perfect. 

“Okay,” You shake your head, a wet laugh falling from your lips. You can’t look at him, a thin vibration of an emotion you can’t name causing a slight tremble in your voice, “Just because Mark isn’t some sort of Briar U hockey legend doesn’t mean I’m wasting my time.” 

The argument lacks evidence and purpose and you know it. Garrett knows it. You know that Garrett knows it. You can feel him walk closer to you even though you’re not looking at him. Your bodies are like magnets, you can sense him even when far away. 

He reaches out and touches the pink fluffiness of your sweater, playing with the fabric between his fingers. You close your eyes when his fingers brush along your chin, knowing he wants you to look at him. You steel yourself, biting down so hard you swear you hear your molars crack. 

But your eyes find his hazel ones. A port in the storm, even now. 

“You know I don’t give a shit if he plays hockey,” Garrett replies quietly, voice and gaze softer than before. “I give a shit about you.” 

A breath skitters out of your lungs, your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage. And despite the fact that you know this, that it’s no different than things he’s said to you before, it feels too real, too sharp against your body. His words are like a knife sliding into all of your soft parts. 

“Well don’t,” You snap, pulling back from him. You wrap your sweater further around your body, turning on your heel, “I can take care of myself.” You walk away, keeping your gaze forward and your feet moving so that you don’t do something stupid—like allowing Garrett to hug you, like changing your mind. 

—

There’s radio silence from Garrett for the next two days. Which is…which is fine. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you asked for? When you put your phone down for the third time, it lands with a noisy clatter. You’re annoyed with yourself that you can’t just be the bigger person and reach out to him. Soft shame licks against your nerve endings —I can take care of myself. 

Fuck. 

“Where’s your head at?” Mark asks, turning your attention towards him. 

You’re at a bar, supposed to be on a date, but you’re definitely not the best company right now. And he can sense it. You swallow and turn your body to face him on the stool, a tight smile spreading across your face. 

“Sorry I’m here. Just some stuff on my mind.” 

“For your birthday?” He has another onion ring, wiping his mouth with a napkin. For some reason the act of him eating food, his attention wholeheartedly on the appetizer instead of you digs under your skin. You clear your throat, tapping your fingers against the bar. 

“Yeah, sort of.” 

He smiles, his hand coming down on your thigh. You try not to flinch. “I was thinking babe, forget some sort of big thing. You know? We could have a romantic getaway. Just the two of us.” 

You blink at him, your mouth opening but no words spilling out. Then, “I can’t do that to my friends.” 

He has another onion ring, raising his eyebrows, “I mean, it’s your birthday. It’s your decision—you don’t have to throw a ridiculous party just for them.” 

A pain pings in your chest at the word ridiculous. The thing is, it’s not like your friends just want another excuse to party (though you’re not going to pretend that some of them definitely enjoy the prospect), at the end of the day, they want to celebrate you. 

Emotion clogs the back of your throat and you struggle to speak for a moment, licking your lips. Your thoughts wander back to last year, the party you had, the cake Garrett went out of his way to make sure he got for you from that bakery a town over. 

You can’t imagine having your birthday without him. 

The audacity of Mark who— “Mhm,” You hum, pausing, then— “And when’s my birthday?” 

Mark crumples the napkin in his hand, “What do you mean?” You stare at him. Oh my god. “It’s this weekend.” 

No, it’s not. It’s Friday. As in tomorrow. You’re just planning the bulk of the celebration for the weekend. 

Something akin to disappointment swirls in your chest, though you’re not sure why. Why would Mark remember your birthday when you just brought it up at Malone’s? The thought that all of this caused a stupid fight between you and Garrett swirls like acid behind your chest, dipping into your stomach, making you nauseous. 

You shake your head, pulling back from the bar, “I have to go.” You slide off the stool. 

Mark frowns, “Wait, what?” 

You draw in a breath, trying to keep yourself from shaking, “I’m breaking up with you. I should have done it sooner.” 

Before you can slip away from the bar, Mark’s hand comes down on your forearm, yanking you back into place. You wince, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You open your mouth to say something but he talks over you, gaze suddenly blazing—apparently he did not see this coming, “Don’t be a fucking brat.” 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” You snap. 

“Let her go.” The bartender’s voice sounds, causing Mark to immediately drop your arm. He continues to ask if you need a ride called but you don’t stick around long enough to reply. 

Mark can pick up the tab; it’ll keep him inside a little longer as you begin walking down the street, just wanting to put distance in-between you and your ex. You debate calling a ride to head back to your place but…distantly, you know there’s only one place you want to be. Only one person you want to see. 

Tugging out your phone, you tap on Garrett’s message thread, 

y/n: are you home? 

—

It’s late by the time you’re walking up the steps of the off-campus house that Garrett and a few other of his teammates live in, but he’s already opening the door. In a pair of black sweatpants and t-shirt to match, he doesn’t ask questions as you walk over the threshold. The fact that he doesn’t say a word, that he just guides you into the kitchen with a gentle hand on your back, has to be chipping away at his well-practiced control. 

Garrett sits you at the island counter, moving towards the fridge. There’s a pint of ice cream in his hands a second later and two spoons, setting them down in front of you. His movements are calm and gentle, the only thing giving away the storm brewing inside is the occasional flexing of the muscle in his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils. 

But still he doesn’t ask. He just pulls a stool up beside you. And waits. 

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him up at a ridiculous hour when he was probably sleeping, giving you ice cream and caring about you after the last thing you said to him. Tears sting the back of your eyelids and with trembling fingers, you reach for the ice cream container. 

“Just have this on hand, do you?” You ask, voice cracking. 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, peeling it open when your hands keep fumbling. “I think we both know emergency ice cream is a must.” He picks up a spoon, scraping it over the chocolate to spoonful a bite into his mouth, “Pretty sure it was in the bylaws of the friendship contract we signed.” 

Your lips twitch, “I must have missed that page.” 

He scoffs, “It was on the same page that mentioned you being unable to sleep without an extra pillow against your back and that you consider chocolate ice cream to be the only acceptable dessert…otherwise you’d rather have mozz sticks from Malone’s. You didn’t miss it.” 

A sudden swell of emotion crashes into you like a physical wave, your hand coming up to cover your face. Fuck. Fuck. Garrett knows you well, he knows you so well and—and the fact that you’d been so angry at him for calling out something you should have been brave enough to say to Mark yourself…

You hate that your anger was so misplaced. You lashed out at Garrett not because he knew you, but because he knew you better than someone you were dating. 

How fucking embarrasing. 

“Hey no,” Garrett says gently, putting the spoon down, “Don’t do that.” His stool skids along the floor as he stands, moving to shift right beside you. When he pulls your hand away from your face, a shuddered sob slips out of your mouth. 

“Come here.” He whispers, tugging you against his chest. Because of the height difference, your head tucks itself underneath his collarbone, his firm arms wrapping around your back. He keeps you close, an open palm up and down your spine while the other tucks itself against your hair. 

You can feel his nose and lips press into your temple, his breath hot as he lets out a long sigh from his nose. Your fingers dig into his t-shirt, grounding yourself in his presence, the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett reaching into the branches of your lungs. 

This is not the first time you’ve cried so openly in front of Garrett and you know it won’t be the last, either, but some part of you hates knowing that this never would have happened in the first place if you just would have listened to what your friend was trying to tell you. 

Garrett only pulls back when he senses you’re ready, tipping his chin down to try and catch your gaze. 

You shake your head, his thumb dragging across your cheek to catch a tear track, “I’m sorry.” 

His eyebrows draw together and he reaches for a napkin on the counter to hand you, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

A small laugh escapes, the back of your neck heating along with your cheeks because really? “I kinda do.” 

His voice is firm, fingers on your chin again so your gaze meets his, “You really don’t.” 

Garrett pulls your stool closer to his own with his foot before he sits down again, handing you the extra spoon on the counter. His body is angled to face yours, his knee bumping into your leg. He does a playful cheers motion by tapping his spoon into the one you have, making a small smile pull into your face. 

“You gonna tell me what happened? Cause using my imagination isn’t helping.” 

You use the napkin on your face, tucking it into one of your pockets before spooning some chocolate ice cream into your mouth. Part of you really doesn’t want to tell him. You know that in all aspects of things that could have happened, it could have been worse. But…that same sort of sensation of shame wraps around you like barbed wire as you recall the interaction between you and Mark. Garrett is not the type of person to say I told you so; at least not about this. But you can still feel that ugly sentiment pressing against your throat at having to tell him what happened. 

“You don’t have to,” Garrett adds when you remain silent, “If it’s—” 

“No,” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m just…” You let out a long sigh, curling your hair around your ear, “I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. I should have listened to you.” 

“And if this were any other situation, I would ask you to repeat that sentence.” 

You roll your eyes, encouraging a soft laugh to leave his chest. The sound warms you from the inside out. 

“But,” He continues, “That’s not what this is.” He bumps you with his knee, drawing your attention to his face. When your gaze meets his, he offers you a small smile, “You can talk to me, sunshine. You know that.” 

You do know that. So you tell him about being at the bar. About Mark wanting the birthday celebration to just be you and him, how he was insistent on leaving your friends out. And then about how it got worse—about how, even after all of this, he still didn’t know what day your birthday was, and how when you tried to break up with him—

“He was just being a dick, almost wouldn’t let me leave the bar.” Your fingers rub absently at your wrist. 

Garrett clocks the movement, slowly setting his spoon down near the carton, “Do we think he’s still there? At the bar?” 

Your hand comes down on Garrett’s arm before he can stand up, “It doesn’t matter if he is, don’t even think about it.” 

He purses his lips, standing as if his intention was always to put his spoon in the sink, “No idea what you’re talking about.” 

You have one more scoop of ice cream before putting the lid on it, carrying it over to the freezer to put away, “Mark isn’t worth it.” 

Garrett catches your hand, gently smoothing his fingers over the red marks on your forearm. His nostrils flare again as he draws in a breath but his eyes are calm and warm. “No,” He agrees, “He’s not.” 

The air feels filled with static electricity connecting both of your bodies and for a second you…your gaze finds Garrett’s mouth. There’s this moment where you think about how Garrett never liked Mark, about that argument outside of Malone’s, how maybe it had nothing to do with your ex not remembering your birthday and everything to do with something else. Something that’s clearly simmering for you both directly under the surface, that’s been there the whole time and you didn’t see it until now. 

Your stomach flips. It’d be so easy to close the distance, to lean and kiss him.

“Sunshine,” Garrett says gently, his hand falling onto your shoulder to stop you from—

“Oh my god,” You take a step back, your hand covering your mouth, “I’m sorry, I don’t know…” 

“No,” Garrett says quickly, reaching for you before you can do something drastic like…rush out of the house. Heat gathers along the back of your neck and flutters your pulse as Garrett hooks his hand behind your elbow. “We’re very much on the same page,” He promises, “I just don’t want to kiss you while you’re upset over another guy.” 

It’s not the worst let-down you’ve ever heard and besides…Garrett’s right. Tonight might have unlocked something in you but it wouldn’t be fair to take time to decompress, to push everything into these wee hours of the morning.

Garrett leans down and plants a kiss to your cheekbone, “C’mon, I’ll get you settled upstairs.” 

He offers you a hand that you take; one of the easiest things you’ve ever done. 

—

You sleep in Garrett’s bed, which isn’t completely out of the ordinary. What is different, however, is how you’re woken up. 

Sunlight streams in through the curtains and there’s quiet shuffling before a weight sinks in beside your knee. It takes you a moment to fully wake up, to realize what’s going on. You drag a hand over your face, squinting before Garrett slowly comes into focus. 

He’s dressed comfortably, a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp like he recently showered. Drowsiness lingers before you realize he’s holding a chocolate cupcake in his hand, a skinny green candle sticking out of it. 

He smiles, “Morning sunshine.” 

Shifting in bed, you lean back against a small stack of pillows. “What’s this?” You raise your eyebrows. 

“This?” He asks, pursing his lips, “Birthday cupcake.” 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and you touch the tip of the unlit candle, “Tucker?” 

Garrett’s mouth opens in mock offense before he laughs, the sound making your stomach flutter, “Okay, contrary to having a chef in the house, I can make things without burning the kitchen down.” 

A breath catches in your throat, your eyes falling to the chocolate cupcake with white icing and tiny pink sprinkles, “You got up and made these?” There’s a sensation building in your chest like a rolling wave, utterly touched that Garrett would do something like this. Especially when you showed up last night out of the blue, freshly broken up with fucking Mark. 

Garrett remembers things easily—things that matter to you. Things that remind you that you’re not difficult to love. 

“Well…” He trails off, “If you don’t want it…” He pretends he’s going to get up. 

You quickly gather his shirt in your hands, pulling him close. His smile is wide again, eyes warm, “I want it.” You insist, then, “Guess what my wish is.” 

Wearing a silky black slip dress and a jean jacket, paired with your favorite high-top Converse, you head through the open front door of where your brother stays with some of his hockey teammates. You smile when you spot Dean and Logan playing an intense game of air hockey, moving towards the kitchen to see if you can find your brother or anyone else you might recognize. The place is packed, bodies shuffling through various states of being drunk. There’s too loud laughter and conversation and the utter, familiar chaos pulls the corners of your lips up in amusement. 

Shifting past a couple that won’t stop making out against the fridge, you peruse the open bottles of liquor, grabbing a random red cup to look in. Seems clean…ish. Before you can pour something inside of it, a hand comes from your right and yanks it right out of your hand. 

“I wouldn’t, ribbit.” 

You roll your eyes towards the ceiling at the familiar nickname that’s been yours for the past three years. Turning, you lean your body against the counter, face to face with Garrett Graham.

Hockey legend. Your brother’s best friend. Your utter pain in the ass—and completely off limits (and probably out of your league). 

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” 

Garrett purses his lips, pretending to think about it, “You ever going to stop rescuing frogs roadside?” 

Your cheeks flush, “That was one time.” 

He smiles, something warm and affectionate that reaches directly between your ribs and threatens to tug them apart. You’ve known Garrett as long as you’ve had the nickname, as long as your brother’s been going to school here. They’re both on the same hockey team and became close friends. Garrett has been to family dinners, he’s been to holidays, he’s gotten you birthday and Christmas gifts, he’s comforted you over ex boyfriends who didn’t deserve your attention, he’s walked you to your car on late nights at Malone’s, he’s bought you coffee with that sixth sense that knows when you need a pick-me-up, he’s shared inside jokes and driven you home when you were too drunk to get there yourself. Hence the frog nickname. 

One ride a few years ago, one frog in the middle of the road rescued, one nickname tied loosely to your entire being forever. 

You can pretend you hate it. But you don’t. 

You glance down at the closed can of alcoholic seltzer as it’s placed into your hand, “I saved you a grape one.” 

You really hate that, however. How thoughtful Garrett is, how kind and silly and funny he can be. It’s truly unfair. That you’re friends with someone your brother considers his bestie and that he…he can’t be anything else to you. You’re pretty sure your brother wouldn’t care but Garrett doesn’t see you like that. Why would he? 

It’s a bad day to have eyes. You trail them over his form, trying not to be obvious. He’s wearing something that shouldn't be so groundbreaking, and yet the black jeans paired with a simple black tee somehow makes your entire body throb. Heat skitters right through your veins like liquid honey, gaze snagging on the gold chain he’s always got on resting on his sternum and tight curls brushing against his forehead. 

Your fingers itch to tuck them out of the way. You instead pop the seltzer can open; much safer. “Thanks. Have you seen my brother?” 

Garrett inclines his head down the hallway, “Think he’s outside losing in a game of flip-cup.” 

“Amateur.” 

His chest rumbles with a laugh and he reaches to tug the end of your jean jacket, pulling you closer. You convince yourself it’s so that you can hear him over the loud music, “You want to be on my team then? We’ll crush him.” 

“Oh so you want an easy win, captain?” You tease, “That doesn’t sound like you.” 

Garrett scoffs, leaning his head down, eliminating the height difference that he has over you. You draw a breath into your lungs, ignoring how the cologne mixed with familiar laundry detergent slips straight up your nose, 

“Just one time won’t hurt, will it ribbit?” 

Despite your better judgement, you find yourself smiling.

—

As suspected, you absolutely dominate flip-cup. There’s three rounds and a lot of laughter and when you get to the finish line (again, utterly victorious), you tip the contents of the red cup (which you’ve filled with the grape seltzer that Garrett gave you) past your lips. There’s obnoxious cheering and arms over your shoulders and you’re giggling at your brother gaping at you from his third cup (two behind). 

“You didn’t tell me that’s what you were going to college for,” He tosses out but he’s laughing. “Professor of Flip-cup.” 

“Shut up,” You laugh at the play-on words for the teaching degree you’re going after, shaking your head as you set the cup down. 

You feel a gaze tied to you, like the pull on some sort of invisible string, glancing up to the other end of the table where Garrett is watching with a fond smile. He crinkles his nose, making a soft laugh flutter out of your chest before your attention has to go back to your brother—who is stumbling towards you and placing both of his hands on your shoulders. 

“I’d say you cheated but I feel like that goes against sibling comradery." 

You shake your head, “You’re the only person I know who can use ‘comradery’ in a sentence while fucked up.” It’s practically been straight liquor in the other cups he was playing with, “How bout some water?” 

He shakes his head, taking a step back and nearly drawing you over with him, “Don’t kill my buzz.” 

Another laugh spills out, “What about enjoying your buzz horizontally?” You look over your shoulder to call for Garrett but he’s already there, a warm weight behind you, reaching for your brother’s one arm. 

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room, champ.” 

You skirt under Garrett’s grasp, letting him step forward to support your brother’s weight by guiding his arm around his shoulders. Tucker, nearby, steps in on the other side to help. You smile gratefully at them, following them inside as your brother rambles about the unfairness of his younger sister beating him in flip-cup. 

“Has to be against the rules somehow.” He grumbles. 

“She’s like a year younger than you, dude.” Garrett defends your honor with a laugh before you can step in. He tosses you a wink and then helps your brother maneuver the steps towards the upstairs bedrooms. 

A soft hum leaves your chest, wanting to follow them but then realizing it’d probably be best if you got your brother some aspirin. There really is nothing worse than a hangover. You wander towards the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and the bottle of pills before heading upstairs. When you get to the doorway of your brother’s room, you can hear him talking to Garrett, which is somehow him thanking his bed for not spinning like the entire room is. 

But then you catch the tailend of another comment— “Keep an eye on her. Please? She’s—” 

Garrett is quiet a moment before you can picture him nodding, “Yeah, you know I will.” 

You swallow over something familiar that curls up from your stomach, something that gets caught in your throat and tastes too much like acid. You try to blame it on the amount of alcoholic seltzers you’ve had but you know it’s not that. The thing is, comments like that between your brother and Garrett shouldn’t bother you. Your brother has always been protective of you; you’re incredibly close, you look out for one another. You’ve got matching feather tattoos on your arms because ‘birds of a feather flock together’. 

It’s not what he says, exactly. It’s moreso…it’s Garrett’s reply. 

Garrett, who’s always been your friend too in a lot of ways. Him keeping an eye on you shouldn’t dig under your skin either. There’s nothing wrong with that, with Garrett having your back. But it’s…it’s because your brother asks, because you’re the ‘little sister’ in this situation, because Garrett is unwillingly making you sound like some sort of responsibility he has to take on—

It feels like bugs crawling under your skin. It feels like disappointment and guilt. It feels like feelings never reciprocated sagging like a heavy load. 

Turning to head back downstairs, you disappear into the havoc of the downstairs party before Garrett and Tucker come out of the bedroom. 

—

Despite the sourness sitting in the bottom of your belly, you spend the night with other friends. There are plenty of girls that also go to Briar U that you’ve interacted with over the years, a solid three faces that you wish you saw a lot more often than you did. Going to a different school usually doesn’t bother you, even though you feel like you have a lot more connections here than your own college. It’s not too far from Briar U, but the small distance is probably a blessing in disguise …otherwise it’d probably be way more obvious that you have a crush on someone you can never have. 

You’re not saying you don’t believe you’re a catch for anyone who might want you, it’s not that at all. You consider yourself someone who’s pretty and smart and capable of standing up for themselves. You don’t take shit from anyone, you laugh freely, you enjoy what you enjoy without apologizing for it. But…

Sometimes it feels like Garrett is so far out of your league, someone who fills up an entire room without trying, who smiles easily and flirts and makes jokes that shouldn’t be funny but somehow are. He’s gorgeous—dark bedroom eyes, tall with broad shoulders, someone filled out athletically thanks to years of training his body, and curly hair that is somehow never styled yet always attractively a mess. Unfair really. Because it’s not just his looks, which somehow makes it worse. He’s a gentleman; he’s thoughtful and actually listens to you when you talk; he remembers things, things you’d never think were important but are. He’s kind and soft and incredibly loyal. 

And…

And he’ll probably never see you as someone other than your brother’s younger sister. 

Your smile is pulled into a full grin when your friend, Mya, tugs your arm above your head to spin you on the dance floor. A laugh leaves your chest, the bass of the music pulsing and living under your skin. You close your eyes to it, moving along with the beat, taking a shot from your other friend Stella when she hands them out. 

You tip it back, a cough following, shaking your head as you set the small cup down. The liquor sits like a weight in your belly and you know you should balance it out with water, not wanting to be completely trashed at this party. The last thing you want to do is have to spend the night by sleeping on the couch (questionable) or on the floor in your brother’s room (uncomfortable). 

You pull yourself away from your friends, slipping into the kitchen. You’ve lost your jean jacket a while ago, just the slip dress clinging to the curves of your body. You hum, running a hand along the side of your neck, reaching for a clean cup in the cabinet to grab yourself some cold water from the fridge. 

A body comes up behind you, too close, almost pressing into your spine. You turn a little, frowning at the unfamiliar guy that’s standing near you like he knows you. You blink, sipping on your water, leaning your back into the counter, 

“Sorry, did you need in the fridge?” You ask. 

He shakes his head, his gaze slipping down your body. He’s handsome in that sort of cookie-cutter way—short brunette hair, glazed blue eyes, full lips. He’s drunk or high, or a combination of the two, grinning lazily at you in a suggestiveness that makes your stomach clench. 

Clearing your throat, you’re intent on moving but he sidesteps you, his body blocking your own. He’s much taller than you, towering in a way that’s supposed to make you feel small. And you hate that it does. “I saw you dancing. Those moves are something else.” 

Your eyebrows draw together, not bothering thanking this guy for a terrible pick-up line, “Yeah,” You clear your throat, “Well, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“Wait, I was thinking you could teach me some moves—” His hand comes down onto the counter, boxing you in. 

“No,” You cut him off.  A full sentence. You don’t owe him an explanation. 

Which he clearly doesn’t like; his entire demeanor changes. His eyebrows draw together, his hand wrapping around your wrist, “Don’t be fucking rude.” 

You open your mouth to say something else, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp but Garrett comes up behind him, seemingly out of nowhere. He clamps a hand down on his shoulder, yanking him backwards. He’s at least a head taller than this guy, manhandling him like a ragdoll. 

“Are you deaf?” His voice is as cold and unforgiving as ice, “Because she was pretty clear with the word ‘no’.” 

You draw in a breath, your heartbeat in your ears because despite holding your ground, you hate that you were beginning to feel panicked. Even though the party is packed, even though you know people here, no one enjoys the feeling of being ignored, of being backed into a corner. Claustrophobia unwinds from your ribs as Garrett creates that distance again between you and this asshole. He steps closer as silent support, yet doesn’t invade your space. 

The guy stumbles back, annoyed and scoffing in your direction, “Maybe tell your girlfriend not to wear a dress that’s an open invitation next time.” 

You can tell the exact moment that Garrett sees red. His nostrils flare, his shoulders straighten, the muscle in his jaw flexes and even though you’re reaching for him, even though you’re saying his name, Garrett turns in a quick snap. His fist goes flying, connecting with this dick’s nose. You wince, hearing the crunch of bone, the guy folding like a cheap shirt. He crumples into the island counter, whining about his face and you reach out to gently wrap your arm around Garrett’s forearm to keep him in place. 

“Fucking bitch.” The jerk spits, though you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or Garrett. You hold onto him just in case, not wanting things to get worse. 

Garrett’s chest is heaving, barely controlled anger once again fizzling directly underneath the surface, “Get the fuck out of my house.” 

Nearby, Dean and Logan hear the commotion and what Garrett says. They reach for the idiot who’s moaning about his nose and hustle him towards the front door. Swallowing over an emotion in your throat, you tug on the bottom of Garrett’s shirt. 

“Garrett.” 

But he won’t stop watching the guy getting kicked out of his house, like he needs to see it in order for it to be true. You reach up on your toes, touching his jawline. His gaze instantly comes back to you, softening when he realizes how shaken up you are. Putting on a tough front is one thing but…you can’t hide the after effects of adrenaline crackling underneath your skin. 

Your fingers tremble as you trail them along his cheek, eyeing his knuckles, “You’re bleeding.” 

He flexes his fingers, shrugging his one shoulder. He doesn’t talk for a moment and you wonder if that’s because he’s still too angry. You’ve seen him like this a handful of times on the ice, the way a shadow passes over his eyes, the way it lives on his face, like it’s somehow sucking the life out of him. You know about the relationship with his dad, the broken pieces that his parents have left behind, the way Garrett thinks that no one will be able to handle those shards with their bare hands. 

You guide his chin between your fingers, forcing him to look at you, “Come with me.” 

“I’m fine.” He manages to say. 

“Did I make it sound like it was a choice?” 

A flutter of a smile pulls the corners of Garrett’s mouth, the tension in his shoulders dissipating as he nods and follows you towards the bathroom. You step to the side so that he enters first and once you’re inside, you close the door behind you. 

Motioning him to lean against the sink, you draw in a breath that centers your nerves, trying to ignore how massive Garrett feels tucked into this space with you. His tall and lean body rests against the sink, flexing his fingers again as he looks at his bloody knuckles. You tap his leg so he shifts and you’re able to look under the sink for washcloths—perfect. 

“You’re okay?” He asks. 

A small smile at your success lives on your features as you wet the washcloth in warm water. You can feel Garrett’s gaze on your face, tracing over your form. It’s intimate in a way you wish it wasn’t. You clear your throat, moving to stand in front of him, gently picking up his large hand in yours to look at his knuckles. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You assure him, the shaking from before mostly disappearing. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

A scoff leaves his throat, “Don’t, ribbit.” 

“I’m serious. I can take care of myself.” 

And you don’t think Garrett is somehow questioning that? Maybe it’s not about that at all. His eyebrows draw together and he winces as you begin cleaning his knuckles, “I’m not gonna let any asshole talk to you like that. I’m just not.” 

Distantly, you know that’s not what set Garrett off in the first place; that this guy put his hands on you and wouldn’t take ‘no’ as an answer. Could you have handled it? Probably. Was it good that Garrett stepped in? 

You nod softly, letting out a slow breath, “Would hate for you to do something stupid like break your fingers on an asshole’s face, lose your prince of hockey reputation.” 

A laugh slips out of his mouth, seeming to wrap around your entire body with warmth, “Oh so you think I’m a prince.” 

Your cheeks flush and you really hope that the blush isn’t visible in this dim-lit bathroom which, once again, feels far too small. You can feel the heat of Garrett’s body along your own like an intimate caress. 

“I think you’re an idiot,” You mumble, chewing your lower lip. You’re satisfied that his knuckles don’t look too bad, setting the washcloth aside.

“Am I gonna make it, doc?” 

A small smile twitches at your mouth, “Might have to amputate the whole arm, just to be safe.” 

He raises his eyebrows, a laugh stumbling out, “Probably best you’re not going to college to be a doctor.” 

You hum, your chest feeling warm. Your gaze snags onto his for a long moment and you can’t stop yourself from lifting your hand and touching some of the curls near his forehead, “You don’t have to throw your fist at anyone just because my brother said to keep an eye on me.” 

Garrett’s eyebrows arch, “You think that’s why I did that?” 

You shrug your one shoulder, unaware of what other reason there could be. Your gaze averts down to your wrist, red marks on your skin from that dick grabbing you. You run your fingers over the touch, clearing your throat in the silence. 

Garrett shifts, reaching out and touching your chin. He clasps it between his fingers, tipping it up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His thumb draws a shape along your jaw, his mouth parting as he looks at you, really looks at you. 

“You think the reason I do anything is because you’re my friend’s younger sister?” 

For once, you find yourself sort of blinking at him, words caught somewhere hiding behind your teeth and under your tongue. You think about moments you’ve had with Garrett, things over the years that have felt insignificant but…maybe they’re not. The way he’s constantly giving you his jacket when you forget your own, or picking food up from Malone's when he knows you’ve got a big test to study for, the way he’s tucked you into into his chest when you’re biting your lip hard, trying not to cry, the way he’s danced with you to ridiculous songs, or has always had your favorite snack on hand at his place, how he’s taken you to horror movies your friends won’t see with you, how he’s held your hand, a lazy intertwining of fingers, for no point other than to just have that contact between the two of you. 

–all these things you thought Garrett might be doing because you’re his friend’s sister, because you and him are friends too–

And yet, he seems to be telling you that…

Garrett smiles a little; can see the moment where the spark of a thought catches fire, his thumb tracing over your lower lip. 

“Just one time I wish your thoughts weren’t so loud in your head,” He teases, both of his hands cupping your face. 

Well he’s finally got his wish. There are zero thoughts spinning around in your brain, just a warm static, like the grayish snow that falls over the TV when a channel is lost. A roaring of flames. A washing machine spinning sounds between your ears, a wave crashing over a shore. Absolutely nothing other than the heartbeat on your tongue, the warmth of Garrett’s hands covering your skin, and the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt to pull him close. 

The way you kiss him. 

There’s the tiniest moment of hesitation before Garrett is standing to his full height from where he was leaning against the sink, his arms wrapping around your waist. Your body molds to his, your fingers threading through his hair. There’s a full bodied shudder when Garrett’s tongue slips into your mouth, when he rolls it against his own, when he lifts you up and turns to place you onto the sink. 

The entire thing creaks under your weight and soft squeak leaves your throat as you think it might come crashing down underneath you. A laugh slips out, joining with Garrett’s, his hands on your hips to keep you in place. 

“Bad idea.” You mumble. 

Garrett steps between your legs, his nose brushing yours in a bunny kiss, “The sink or the kiss?” 

You chew on your lower lip, shrugging your one shoulder, “I dunno, I’ve probably had better kisses than that one.” 

He scoffs out a laugh, running a hand through his curls, pursing his lips, “Damn alright,” His gaze falls back to yours as he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “Guess I’ll just have to try harder.” 

“I guess you will.” You smile, the words barely out of your mouth before he’s kissing you again. 

—

You try to convince yourself that kissing Garrett will just be the one time. This one night. 

He’s given you a t-shirt to wear to sleep in, he’s given you his bed, insisting he’ll sleep on the floor (he won’t—you pull him to the other side where he sprawls out on top of the covers). You stare at the ceiling and count the glow in the dark stars that are stuck to paint, a small smile pulling at your mouth. Your lips are buzzing with the sensation of his kiss, skin warm with where his hands were lingering. 

His hand rests along your hip, trailing to rest on your stomach until you turn and tuck yourself back against him. He molds himself along your body, his chin resting on your shoulder, planting kisses on your neck that tickle but the last thing you want him to do is stop. 

And it’s then you know that it’ll never be just this one time. 

—

The morning comes slow and the house is quiet. You head downstairs while Garrett is still sleeping, intent on making coffee. Tucker has already made a pot and is wandering around the living room and kitchen collecting trash from the party. It’s not as bad as you’ve seen it before but still, you wince. There’s nothing worse than waking up to a mess left behind by a bunch of strangers. 

You grab a trashbag in solidarity after adding cream and sugar to your mug. While you take a few sips from your coffee cup, Tucker offers you a small smile when you go to pick up forgotten red cups and empty bottles. You fill up one trash bag, moving to take it outside. Garrett intercepts, coming down from upstairs. He’s in a pair of gray sweatpants, no shirt, and half asleep. He rubs his one eye before reaching for the trash bag, 

“Don’t worry about it, ribbit.” His voice is gruff from sleep, stoking heat in your lower belly. 

 Pushing that aside, you insist, “I want to help,” and look over your shoulder at what’s left. They could easily crank out a clean house in like…two hours, if they all pitched in. 

He smiles, stepping down all the way to where you’re standing. His fingers brush through your hair, pushing it over your shoulder, “I got you, go see if Tucker is into making pancakes this morning.” 

You purse your lips, Garrett’s gaze snagging on your mouth. He leans down and presses a soft kiss there; seems like something he’s unable to stop himself from doing. He pulls away, going to take the trash to the back to toss it out—

And your brother stands there on the steps, raising his eyebrows at the soft interaction he’s caught. 

Your heart hammers in your chest, your mouth opening and ready to…explain somehow. Not to apologize, because you’re not sorry for this fading line in the sand completely disappearing. He shakes his head, raising his hand to stop you,

“I thought it would have been sooner.” 

You blink at him because what? That’s…really the last thing you expected him to say. “Are you fucking kidding me?” You let out a laugh, your hand settling on your chest, resting over your fluttering heart. 

Your brother shrugs, glancing down the hallway to where Garrett is coming back inside, “Just seems like something’s been going on for a while, I was just trying to see who made the first move.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, “Me, I guess. Or…I dunno. It was a joint effort.” 

He makes a face, “Damn. I owe Dean fifty bucks.” 

Your mouth falls open even though a scoff of a laugh tumbles forth. Garrett slides up beside you, hooking his arm around your shoulders, taking a long look at your brother, “You look like shit.” 

“Fuck you, Graham.” There’s warmth as he speaks, an amused eyeroll following as he passes you both to head into the kitchen, “Tuck, please tell there will be pancakes.” 

You can hear Tucker chuckle and you turn underneath Garrett’s arm to face him. He looks down at you with a small smile, leaning until his nose brushes yours. You can’t stop yourself from threading some of your fingers through the curls near his forehead, pushing them back even though you know they’re not going to stay. 

“Apparently there was a bet going on,” You say wryly. 

“Unsurprising.” He comments, glancing into the kitchen as your brother helps Tucker with breakfast, “Though disappointing I couldn’t put money towards it.” 

You smack his chest, a laugh bubbling out of his lungs as his fingers hook around your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, keeping you close. A slow breath leaves your chest, your arm loosely wrapped around his waist, thumb tracing up and down his spine along his lower back. It’s like you both were waiting for this moment, a wave of everything that was unspoken settling against your skin. Something that somehow has always been there yet tucked behind uncertainties and doubt. 

“I guess we’re kinda bad at this.” You joke, watching Garrett resting your shared hands against his chest. Your stomach flutters when you feel the beat of his heart underneath your fingertips.  He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I dunno, I think I’d rather be bad at this together than good at it with anyone else.” 

A smile threatens to split your face in half at his ridiculous promise, shaking your head, “That is—”