bitters-n-sweets

Jack wasn’t sure when he first noticed that his house had gone from macho-bachelor pad that obviously hadn’t seen a woman’s touch in years to a place that had something pink tucked in all its corners.

Ever since you’d moved in, pink was suddenly all that Jack saw. 

Your pink towels were always fluffy and warm next to his hanging-by-a-thread navy ones on the bathroom rack. Your pink slippers sat dutifully next to his crutches while the two of you were working the night shift; you up in pedes, him down in the third layer of hell. Your pink hair ties scattered in various places: his bedside table, his side of the sink, one in the shower, a few in his vehicle, and he swears he stepped on one in his garage. 

However, no matter how many pink hair ties he saw in his dreams, nothing could have prepared him for your actual addiction: lip gloss. 

As a man, Jack thought that you’d maybe have two or three. One to go in your makeup bag and one to go in your purse and one to leave in your locker at work. 

Oh, boy, was he wrong—dead wrong. 

If he thought you had too many hair ties and too many earrings and too many claw clips that he always had to remind you to take out of your hair before a drive, their number (combined) held no candle to how many lip glosses you had. 

It felt like every trip to the store ended a new lip gloss added to the cart. And that didn’t even compare to the ones you bought online. Jack’s head went dizzy with the, what he felt to be innumerable, list of brands that you swore was better than the last. 

Rhode, Kylie Cosmetics, Summer Fridays, Glossier, Refy, Dior (Jack did like that one because he knew you used his card for that), Clinique, NYX, Eadem: the list went on longer than a receipt from CVS. 

Jack didn’t know how you could keep up with all of them. One minute you were yacking his ear off about the newest sparkly nude shade while the next you were raving about a deep berry shade that would match your dress for the next medical gala. And then in two days, a new box would show up with your name on it, and he could only bet that the four cardboard walls held a brand-new lip gloss. When he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen you finish one push tube before ordering a new one. 

But that really never mattered; he didn’t care what you bought with your money as long as he got to take care of everything else you needed. 

One time when he asked why you bought so many, you had simply told him that buying a new lip gloss felt like a reward. Whether you got one after a good night with lots of cases with happy results or after a bad shift where the world just felt impossible, you could always find a smidge of joy in buying something pretty to put on your lips. 

Jack understood a little too well. While he didn’t spend his free time scouring the shelves for a new plumping formula that held the smallest of shimmers, he found that same smidge of joy in spending time with you and slowly learning that down time didn’t mean he had to fill it with adrenaline-rushing activities. 

Now, even if the only downside to your lippie addiction was that your bank account went down by almost $25 each purchase, there were a lot of upsides to it as well. One of Jack’s favorites being that you’d get to test each of them out . . . on him. 

Jack became the heart eye emoji every time you swiped the same gloopy-looking lip gloss across your lips. His hazel eyes tracked the back-and-forth motion, and most times he’d run his tongue across his own lips in preparation for what came next. Your lips, now glossy and catching the light in whatever shade you’d gotten, would stretch into a smile as you looked at him expectedly. He never failed to look away, face sometimes leaning in inch by inch before you even finished applying the gloss. 

“Calm down, boy,” you’d said, nose scrunching at his eagerness. “You’ll get your kiss in a minute.” 

“I’m being calm,” he replied cooly like he wasn’t a breath away from your face, eyes taking in each freckle and smile line on your face. If he inhaled deep enough and if your gloss came scented or flavored, he’d be able to smell it on your lips. “You’re just so pretty.” 

“You’re such a flirt.” 

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his cheeks before pulling him into a kiss. Jack never minded the feeling of the gloss transferring over to his lips. He remembers how his late-wife’s favorite wine-red matte lipstick would always leave a few prints behind and even on his teeth depending on how long he stayed connected to his lips. But now it seemed as though glosses were more popular than lip stick, and Jack would die happily with his lips between your smooth ones. 

His lips would move languidly across yours like he was savoring the feeling. His hands would also rise and hold your face so you couldn’t escape the onslaught of his kisses. And the few times that the gloss was indeed flavored, he’d make sure to finish with a swipe of his tongue to the point a string of saliva would connect your lips together before your giggles started sounding off at the sight of his lips covered in sparkles or stained dark pink. 

A boy would hate the fact, but Jack was a man, and he wore the color with pride. 

_______________________

“Brother, you got a little something, riigghhttt there,” Robby drew out while poking Jack in the cheek before handing it over his friend. “Second thought, I think it’s doing something to bring out the rosiness of your cheeks.” 

Jack smacked his hand away. “Knock it off. I thought you’d be out of here by now?” 

Robby shook his head and chuckled. “You should know by now that I haven’t left on time in years.” He leaned against the nurses’ station. “Is that a new color? Pretty sure we saw this shade two weeks ago.” 

“Can’t ever have enough shades,” Jack repeated from the multiple times you had told him the same. “But yeah, it’s a new one. There was a summer drop, and you know how she gets.” 

And he did after witnessing the near meltdown of the 2025 Rhode summer launch that you thought you had missed out on before Jack casually mentioned he’d been able to get every single product while Robby sat in the chair chuckling the entire time. 

“Did you say summer drop?” Victoria’s voice suddenly sounded, pitch a bit too loud for someone coming down after twelve straight hours of traumas after traumas. 

The corner of Jack’s lips twitched into a smirk. “My partner’s very into those. Between the two of us, we spent a minimum of $400 just to get that damned towel.” 

And it wasn’t even pink Jack thought. But a summer drop was a summer drop. 

Victoria’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you talking about the Rhode drop?” 

“Yeah. Next week’s the popup in New England, and thankfully it happens on my day off.  I don’t want to think what would happen if we failed to get a hoodie.” 

“Damn, Dr. Abbot,” she said, jaw dropping slightly. “I didn’t expect you to be someone so into makeup.” 

Jack looked up from the tablet in his hands with furrowed brows. “Huh?” 

Because to Jack, anything you were into swiftly became everything he was into. By himself, he didn’t have a lot of interests outside of the ER and some yoga he did in the mornings. You’d brought a fresh air to his life with your hot Pilates on the weekends and your farmers markets and movie watching and book reading that included matching Kindles. So for Victoria to be confused as to why he knew exactly when the next Rhode pop-up would be, his chest flared with a feeling of invalidation. 

Victoria must have picked up on his inner turmoil by the face he was making because she quickly backtracked. “Oh, uh, that wasn’t meant to be a negative thing, Dr. Abbot. I just mean that a lot of guys really aren’t into something like that. So it’s kind of refreshing to see.” 

“I see.” Jack turned back to the tablet. “It’s a good thing I’m not being piled in with the rest of the male population.” 

“So,” Victoria began again, now looking like she wanted to delve into Jack’s personal life. “I’m guessing your girlfriend likes lip gloss?” 

Robby answered for her with a large smile. “You have no idea.” 

“Who has no idea?” Trinity asked on her way out. However, she paused and smirked at the sight of the glossy kiss-shaped splotch on Jack’s cheek that he hadn’t wiped off. “Ooooo, Dr. Abbot, you got something—” 

“Thank you, Santos,” Jack gruffly said. “I’m very well aware that I have something on my cheek. And I’d prefer that everyone stopped pointing it out. If I wanted it gone, I would have wiped it off when I noticed it before I got out of my car.” 

Jack paused. He’d said too much, and he knew that Victoria and Trinity caught on it.

“Wait,” Trinity said, “does your girlfriend come to work with you? Does she work in the Pitt?” 

Victoria looked around with wide eyes like she’d be able to find something hidden in plain sight. “Is she here?”  

“I wonder if she knows Dr. Barbie. She also likes lip gloss.” 

Robby looked over at Jack knowingly. 

The two girls, despite their excitedness, had made a few errors. 

Jack had said partner, and they clung to the idea that he had a girlfriend. But if the absolute rock of a diamond he put on your finger followed by that thin band had anything to say about it, you were far from being woman who deserved the juvenile title of girlfriend. Plus, much to contrary belief and your affinity for all thinks pink, you were only five years his junior. He absolutely loved the way you now wore your hair with gray licking at your roots. 

Second mistake was automatically thinking you worked in the Pitt. Even if you’d worked in an ER well before meeting Jack, you’d shuffled departments around until you ended up specializing in pediatrics to help your reign in your small bouts of baby fever after deciding that children weren’t something you ultimately wanted in life. 

Yet, that didn’t mean you weren’t unknown in the Pitt. To his knowledge, the younger kids had started calling you Dr. Barbie because of the number of pink scrubs you wore into work. 

See, just another bit of pink that Jack welcomed into your shared home. 

They knew you were married, often opting to let your ring flash as you walked through. So the idea of Jack having a girlfriend while you had a full husband meant that they didn’t make the connection. 

Well, that was until the elevator dinged and you stepped out, pinks scrubs, hair falling in those beautiful curls you got with an over-night curler, and, most importantly, lips shining with your first gloss of the day. 

“Dr. Barbie is so pretty,” Victoria mentioned almost dreamily. “Her time management must be insane if she manages to look so good all the time.” 

Trinity hummed in agreement. “If she wasn’t married, I’d be in line in a heartbeat.” 

Despite their comments, Jack smiled as he watched your eyes scan the room until they landed on him, and a bright smile plastered onto your face once you started making your way over to the nurses’ station. 

“Jack!” you called. “Just the man I was looking for.” You stopped right in front of him, mouth open to continue whatever you were saying, but you stopped, cocked your head, and narrowed your eyes. You clicked your tongue and stepped forward as you licked a finger. “Honey, you should have told me I left that on your cheek.”

It was as if all else faded into the background, and Jack quickly dodged your finger. “Hey!”

“Jack, just stay still for one second.” 

He caught your outstretched hand. “Knock it off.” 

“I can’t let you go the entire night walking around with Macadamia Butter lip gloss on your face.” You managed to get your hand free and gently wipe the kiss mark off. “There.” You watched Jack’s face fall. “Don’t pout.” 

He sneered playfully. “I’m not pouting.” 

He was definitely pouting. 

You warmly smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll just come down later and refresh it, yeah?” 

Jack hummed lowly before he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips in the middle of the emergency department not caring who saw. He ran a quick tongue across his lips after he pulled back. “Is that the hot cocoa one?” 

Your smiled turned into a bashful one. “I’ve turned you into a lip gloss connoisseur.” 

“It’s not like you have over twenty in the house plus the extra five in the truck along with the seven you keep in your locker—” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you giggled right as your pager went off. “Looks like I’m being called away. I’ll see you later?” 

He nodded and smirked down at you. “I’ll see you later for my reapplication.” 

You turned away and yelled over your shoulder. “Fig sauce is going to look great on you!” 

Once you were out of sight on the elevator, Jack turned around to see the shocked faces of Victoria and Trinity. His chest puffed out just a bit, knowing he had shown them at what a good husband he was. 

“Fig sauce,” Robby chuckled. “Man, you’re so whipped. I’ll see you in twelve for my reapplication, Dr. Abbot,” he teased while walking away. 

Jack couldn’t help but laugh softly until he remembered that Robby wasn’t the only member of his audience. He eyed the two women carefully. 

“I’ll get you each three glosses from whatever brand in return for your silence.” 

Oh, yeah, Jack Abbot was indeed a lip gloss connoisseur. 

But he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

There were the obvious things—the comments about your appearance, the assumption that you didn't know the sports as well as your male counterparts, the fans who thought your job was to stand on the sideline and look pretty. But it was the subtle stuff that got under your skin more. It was the way some coaches wouldn't make eye contact during interviews. It was the locker room access you had to fight for. It was the producer who suggested you smile more during game analysis. It was the constant need to prove you belonged in the booth.

It had not been an easy road. You graduated from college and paid your dues in the minor leagues first. Small-market radio stations where you'd do play-by-play for high school football games on Friday nights, then drive two hours to cover a college basketball game Saturday. You worked the overnight shift at a regional sports network, editing highlight reels at 2 AM and writing copy that nobody would read. You freelanced for websites that didn't pay, just to build a portfolio. You covered local teams for newspapers that were hemorrhaging money, knowing that one good story might get noticed.

Then came the regional gigs—cable sports networks in mid-sized markets where you finally got on camera. You would anchor the 10 PM sportscast, conduct sideline interviews at minor league baseball games, and file reports from high school state tournaments. You would pitch story ideas constantly and were networking at every press event.

And then, finally, you got the call last year. ESPN wanted you as a sideline reporter.

You cried in your car in the parking lot.

A few weeks later, you were still settling into your new Manhattan apartment when your boss handed you a major assignment: cover a critical post-game hockey segment with Garrett Graham. Hockey wasn't a beat you covered often. You spent so much time beforehand digging through tape, studying his nuances, and preparing harder than you'd ever prepared for anything. Partly because you were still trying to establish credibility at ESPN, and because you wanted to show you could handle any assignment thrown your way.

Garrett had a brutal game against Tampa Bay. Sloppy passes, missed assignments, looked like he was playing in slow motion. The kind of game that makes a forward want to disappear into the locker room and avoid the cameras entirely.

The arena air hung thick with the bite of ice shavings and the sour bite of spilled sports drinks on concrete. You elbowed past the pack of reporters, mic in hand, and zeroed in on Garrett just as he tugged off his helmet. Damp strands of dark curls clung to his forehead, and the sharp tang of his sweat mixed with the faint metallic scent of his gear. His brown eyes flicked up, narrowing as he clocked you pushing closer.

"That wasn't the Garrett Graham we usually see out there tonight," you said, voice even despite the way your heart thudded against your ribs. "You missed what—four, five passes in the first two periods alone? Weak coverage on their second-line wingers, zero offensive drive when you had possession. What happened out there?"

Garrett's eyebrows shot up. He blinked once, slow, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh that didn't reach his eyes. His shoulders stayed rigid under the soaked jersey, but something in his posture shifted—like you had just body-checked him.

"Jesus," he muttered, dragging a gloved hand over his mouth. The leather smelled like old sweat and tape. "Damn, straight for the jugular, huh? You actually sound like you watched the entire game."

You caught the way his nostrils flared on the exhale, the low rumble of his chuckle vibrating through the space between you. The crowd noise pressed in, but his focus stayed pinned on your face.

"I did watch. You looked checked out after the second period. Was it the physical play wearing you down, or something else pulling your focus?"

He shifted his weight, skates scraping the floor. "Wearing me down? Nah. I thrive on that. Tonight was just... off. Legs felt heavy, reads were slow."

"Yeah, you were a half-second behind on every play."

He arched an eyebrow at you.

"And heavy legs after a few shifts?" Your fingers tightened around the mic as you stepped closer. "That's your excuse for not dominating the boards like you usually do? You were letting Tampa push you around. What's the real reason you couldn't find your game?" Garrett's smirk widened, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, not wandering down your body like the way other players had done in the past.

"I guess… I got in my own head after that first bad turnover," his gloved fingers started tapping his stick. "Kept trying to force plays instead of playing simple."

The ice shavings crunched under shifting feet around you, the cold air biting your cheeks while you pressed on. "Forcing plays because you were rattled? That doesn't sound like the captain who leads this team. How do you shake that when there's still time on the clock?"

He dragged a hand over his jaw, the leather creaking, and a genuine warmth crept into his expression. "Shake it? You don't always. Sometimes you eat the mistake and keep skating."

You held his gaze, noting the way his posture softened just a fraction. "Whatever's weighing on you, it showed."

Garrett's mouth curved into a small, sincere smile, the cocky edge fading as he met your intensity head-on.

"That was—" you lowered the mic, voice sharpening, "—one of the worst performances of your entire career. You might want to fix that before it drags the team down with you."

Garrett's eyes lit with something appreciative and smiled with all of his teeth. He turned directly toward the camera, and said:

"You heard her. I gotta get my shit together."

The clip went viral. See…Garrett was notoriously private. Guys around the Bruins organization knew it. The media knew it too. He didn't love the press—never had. Short answers were his specialty. A grunt here, a grunt there. But after a loss? Forget about it. He gave you nothing. Just stare at his skates and wait for you to get the hint that the interview was over.

So naturally… social media exploded.

Your boss called you into his office the next morning, and you braced for something—a complaint from the Bruins' coach, maybe, or a lecture about "maintaining relationships." Instead, he grinned so wide you could see his molars. The takes of your interview multiplied overnight. Sports podcasts ran the footage in slow motion, analyzing every micro-expression. Morning shows replayed it on repeat. Your mentions went from a few hundred per week to thousands per day.

The consensus crystallized fast: you were a reporter with a backbone. Most of your peers tiptoed around Garrett Graham, terrified of getting iced out. You didn't let his reputation dictate your questions. You treated him like a professional who owed the fans accountability—not a fragile ego who needed coddling just because of who his father was. The other thing they couldn't stop talking about:

He smiled in the interview.

He even agreed with you on camera.

You'd gotten a version of Garrett Graham that no one else ever had.

You had managed to score tickets from a coworker to an exclusive club—a treat for Kayla, your best friend who you had known since you were kids. She was visiting from Chicago. The night was already off to a great start: dinner at Carbone and grabbing cocktails at Lovers of Today. You two were now sitting in your VIP booth, your laughter filling the air as she shared her most recent 'sex gone wrong' story with some one-night stand. Candles had been involved, and they almost set his apartment on fire. As you doubled over, tears streaming down your face, and sipped on your Piña colada, a familiar melody began to filter through the speakers, causing you to pause mid-sentence.

Your eyes widened in excitement as you wiped away your tears. "No way, is that what I think it is?"

"Yes!" she screamed, as she recognized the opening notes of your favorite song—Dancing On My Own.

Somebody said you got a new friend Does she love you better than I can? And there's a big black sky over my town I know where you're at, I bet she's around

Without missing a beat, Kayla grinned and reached for your hand, pulling you up from your seat. As the song continued to play, a rush of memories flooded back to you, and you were instantly transformed back to being younger, having carefree fun, and not paying any bills.

I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh And I'm giving it my all I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh I keep dancing on my own, ah

You confidently swayed your hips to the catchy beat, and put on your karaoke voice, intertwining with Robyn. Your body moved fluidly as you ran your fingers through your hair, your eyes closed as you belted out every note.

I just wanna dance all night And I'm all messed up, I'm so out of line, yeah Stilettos and broken bottles I'm spinning around in circles

Kayla's movements become bolder and more seductive, drawing the attention of onlookers due to her uninhibited display. Some chuckled amusedly, while some others cheered her on, and she playfully winked at the audience, inviting them to join in on the fun.

And I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh And I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh And I'm giving it my all But I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh I keep dancing on my own And oh, nah

You twirled and spun as you let yourself be consumed by the music. You and Kayla threw your hands up in the air, grinning from ear to ear as you danced with abandon as you got closer to the end of the song.

So far away, but still so near The lights come on, the music dies But you don't see me standing here

Your audience erupted into applause, cheering and clapping once you both sang the final notes of the song.

You bowed dramatically, both giggling at all the whistles, and then started walking back to your table. "Damn girl, you looked good out there shaking that ass," Kayla said while adjusting her top to make sure her tits didn't spill out and accidentally flash the entire club.

You snorted as you started to take your seat. Kayla's eyes suddenly went wide, her drink nearly slipping from her grip as she froze mid-adjustment of her top.

"Holy shit," she hissed, voice low but frantic. "Look—over there. That's Dean Di Laurentis. John Logan. John Tucker, too. And—fuck—Garrett Graham. They're right there."

Her gaze locked on the VIP booth diagonally away from you (probably 100 feet away), where suddenly four Bruins players lounged in leather seats, a parade of bottle girls swarming their table. Crystal decanters clinked, ice rattled, and the sharp tang of expensive liquor mixed with perfume and cologne hung thick in the air. Music pulsed through the floor, vibrating up through your white sneakers.

The girls leaned in close, laughing too loud, fingers brushing biceps and shoulders as they poured. Logan grinned wide, accepting the attention with an easy tilt of his head. Tucker smirked, letting one girl trace the line of his jaw. Di Laurentis leaned back with that cocky half-smile, eyes roaming every curve the servers offered. But Garrett stayed still, posture straight, jaw set. He ordered with clipped precision, fingers drumming once against the table before he accepted his glass without a single flirtatious glance.

Kayla's breathing hitched. "Please. You have to introduce me. Especially to him." She nodded toward Di Laurentis, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed tight together under the table.

You shook your head. "I don't know them."

She grabbed your wrist. "You know Garrett. Oh my god, introduce me."

"I interviewed him almost a year ago." A laugh escaped you. "That's it."

"Yeah, and he was giving you fuck-me eyes the entire time."

You hesitated, watching the way Di Laurentis's broad shoulders shifted as he accepted another pour, his laugh carrying across the space. Kayla's fingers dug in harder. You sighed, realizing you couldn't say no to that face.

When the bottle service girl approached your table, you leaned close and whispered something quick into her ear. She nodded, tray balanced, and crossed to the players' booth. A moment later she pointed directly at the two of you.

Garrett's head snapped around so fast his dark hair shifted. His gaze found yours across the distance. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth. You lifted your hand in a shy wave, fingers trembling just slightly. The club's bass thumped against your ribs. His stare held, steady and heated, and for the first time, you really looked at him: the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretched over solid muscle, the quiet power in the way he sat completely still while chaos swirled around him.

Damn. He was hot.

The four hockey players crossed the space between booths with that easy swagger. Logan and Tucker slid in first, flashing grins already ordering another round before the conversation even got started. Dean claimed the seat beside Kayla, already leaning close, his hand brushing her thigh as she laughed too loud at something he said. Garrett lowered himself next to you, his massive frame making the seat creak. He kept a respectful distance at first, one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other resting on his knee.

"So, how do you two know each other?" Logan asked.

Kayla smiled. "We grew up playing tennis together. We were on the USTA Junior Team."

"I didn't realize you were a college athlete," Dean said, eyebrows raising in surprise while he looked at you.

You shook your head, a little shy. "I wasn't. I tore my ACL my senior year…"

The table fell into sympathetic silence, everyone giving you that "that sucks" look. You shrugged, trying to brush it off. But then you caught Garrett's eyes, and something about his gaze made you pause. While the others looked at you with the familiar weight of pity (that practiced sympathy reserved for fallen athletes). Garrett was looking at you differently. He was looking at you with complete respect. Like you were still standing, still strong, and still someone. Like your story didn't end when your ACL tore—it just changed direction.

"She was definitely the way better player, though," Kayla added.

"Not true," you rolled your eyes. "Kayla actually got a full-ride and played at Florida."

Dean, intrigued, started talking to her about tennis, asking about her college matches and favorite players.

Meanwhile, Tucker and Logan quickly excused themselves to head to the bar when they recognized someone. "Be right back," Tucker said, waving as they made their way through the crowd.

You sipped your Piña Colada, the rum and coconut coating your tongue while the bass from the club thumped through the floor. The air smelled like expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and warm skin.

"Long time no see," Garrett said in the kind of tone that vibrated straight down your spine.

"Uh… yeah," you answered, teeth catching your lower lip.

His mouth curved, slow and knowing. "I figured I'd run into you eventually. You seem to be everywhere these days, covering something."

"Occupational hazard."

"Well… you make it look easy."

You arched a brow. "Thank you, but trust me, it's fucking insanity behind the scenes."

Garrett chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly soft for a man his size. "Fair enough."

The banter flowed easily, his eyes never leaving your face. Then his gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, tracing the way the blue spaghetti-strap mini dress hugged every curve. "I like your dress."

"I bet you do," you teased, tilting your head.

"I liked watching you dance," he added, and the eye contact turned molten. Heat crawled up your neck.

"You saw that?" you shifted, suddenly self-conscious. "God, I'm such a terrible dancer."

Garrett's expression softened, the MVP edge melting into something gentler. "You looked happy. That's all I saw." Before you could answer, a gorgeous woman appeared at the edge of the booth. Massive tits strained against her tiny top, and she flashed Garrett a dazzling smile.

"Oh my god, you're Garrett Graham. I'm your biggest fan. Can I get a picture?"

"I appreciate that, but I'm actually here with friends," Garrett said. He didn't gesture at anyone or make a show of it. "I'm trying to keep a low profile tonight."

You could tell the second the words left his mouth that he meant it. His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, the way they did in post‑game scrums when too many cameras angled his way. It wasn't annoyance…more like resignation. Like this was the part of his life he tolerated, and didn't enjoy.

"Oh my god, I won't tag you or anything. It's just for me," she said quickly, her smile turning almost pleading.

You watched the desperation flicker across her face—the way her fingers fidgeted with her phone, how her eyes had gone a little too bright. She wasn't trying to be malicious. She was just a fan...or maybe a puck bunny.

You stood, smoothing your dress. "I was just heading to the restroom anyway."

Garrett's jaw tightened, clearly unhappy you were leaving, but he offered the girl a brief, polite smile and leaned in for the quick photo (no flash) and then signed a napkin for her. You slipped away through the crowd, the music pulsing against your skin.

Inside the private bathroom, cool marble met your palms as you washed your hands. The door suddenly rattled with hard, impatient knocks.

"Hold on," you called.

The banging continued.

"What the fuck," you muttered, drying your hands and yanking the door open.

Garrett stood there, eyes dark. He pushed inside, kicked the door shut, locked it, and backed you against the wall in one fluid motion. His huge hands caught both of yours and pinned them above your head. Then his mouth crashed down on yours. His tongue pushed past your lips, stroking deep, tasting every corner of your mouth while he groaned low in his throat. You tasted whiskey and mint on him, felt the hard press of his body pinning you in place.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. "Baby," he whispered, voice rough with need. "Missed you so fucking much."

His free hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before cupping your ass and squeezing. He nipped at your bottom lip, then soothed it with another slow, tongue-heavy kiss that left you dizzy.

Your phone had lit up two days after the interview went viral.

A DM on Instagram from garrettg.44: Looks like you're a hit, Ace.

SheSpeaksSports: Didn't realize hockey players checked their own press.

garrettg.44: Only when the sports commentator makes me look good. You free for a drink when I'm in New York next week?

Your stomach did something stupid. You ignored it.

SheSpeaksSports: I don't date athletes.

It wasn't just a rule; it was self-preservation. You had seen a few colleagues over the years blur the lines between objectivity and attraction, had seen the fallout when a relationship imploded. Your credibility was everything.

garrettg.44: Good thing I'm not asking you out. This is a 'thanks for getting my ass in gear' drink. I would never ask a woman out like this. What kind of men have you been dating? A real gentleman always asks in person. Trust me—you'll know when I'm asking you out on a date.

SheSpeaksSports: Still don't date athletes.

Athletes meant groupies, road trips, and a lifestyle built on constant external validation. You had covered enough locker rooms to know how that went. The temptation wasn't even the problem—it was that they didn't see it as temptation. It was just... there. Available. Hockey players specifically. Weren't they notoriously the worst? Actually, no—that was unfair. All athletes were notoriously the worst. The sport didn't matter. The infrastructure was the same: travel, adoration, and zero consequences for bad behavior as long as they could still score.

garrettg.44: Then I'll just have to change your mind in person.

You stared at that message for a long time. The confidence in it. The certainty. It was like he had already decided how this would go.

Back in the bathroom, Garrett's thumb stroked your wrist where he still held you pinned.

Clearly, you had broken your 'no-dating-athletes' rule.

"Ace, this dress is killing me," he murmured against your mouth, kissing you again, slower this time. You loved the way his body curved protectively around yours. His fingers traced the hem of your dress, teasing higher, and he smiled against your lips.

Garrett's mouth curved into that slow, crooked smirk as he leaned back against the locked bathroom door. "Are you stalking me?" you teased, voice light even though your pulse still hammered from the kiss.

"You wish," he smirked. "Dean wanted to come here. This is a happy coincidence."

The secrecy still felt surreal sometimes. Keeping Garrett at arm's length in public, pretending nothing was there when you wanted to touch and kiss him. The team was currently taking some time off after the Cup Win. Garrett deserved this break. Garrett had been staying with you since the celebration, which had been perfect. The Cup win had been everything a few weeks ago—watching him hoist it, knowing what he had poured into this season.

The way he fucked you that night was like nothing you had ever experienced.

But now Kayla was visiting this weekend, and so Garrett booked a hotel to keep up appearances and pretend he was here for some endorsement meeting. He was hanging out with the boys this weekend. You almost told Kayla once months ago (almost let it slip), but she shut that down fast. Kayla had seen the risk immediately and understood how it could complicate things for you as a sports commentator when you told her you had fallen for an athlete.

Don't say anything

So, you and Garrett kept your relationship private. There were only two other people who absolutely needed to know: the Bruins coach and your boss. You both were upfront with them once things got serious, and they had been surprisingly understanding and agreed that you should keep things discreet for now.

The rule was simple: You couldn't cover any Bruins games. Which wasn't the end of the world because hockey wasn't your usual segment. But it sucked that you couldn't formally support your man on the air.

You pushed Garrett's chest until he dropped onto the closed toilet seat. The porcelain creaked under his weight. You climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thick thighs, the hem of your blue dress riding high. Garrett groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight between your legs.

A thin strap slipped off your shoulder. His eyes darkened. "Fuck, baby," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Look at you." His hand cupped the bare skin, thumb stroking slow circles. "So fucking beautiful."

Your head tipped back, a wrecked moan shuddering through you under his attentive care. You rocked forward, grinding down against his cock straining inside his pants.

"God, Garrett. You're so... fucking big."

He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking up.

"Christ," he rasped, and mouthed at your breast through your dress. "Dirty fucking girl,"

You shuddered, a low, needy whine escaping your throat. "Only for you."

His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. Those big brown eyes locked onto yours, soft and open and completely unguarded. "Ace," he breathed. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whispered back.

You kissed down the column of his throat, tongue flicking over his pulse point. He tasted like salt and expensive aftershave. His head tipped back, and a broken groan slipped free. But then his body suddenly went still beneath you.

"What's wrong?" you asked, pulling back.

Garrett's jaw flexed. "Ace, you deserve better than me fucking you in here.

"It's not like it's the first time we've have sex in a public bathroom," you teased.

"I think it's time… It's time we announce our relationship."

The words hit like ice water. You slid off his lap so fast the room tilted. Cool marble met your palms as you braced against the mirror. Your reflection stared back—kinda wild hair, kiss-swollen lips, wide eyes. Behind you, Garrett's massive frame filled the space, shoulders tense, brows drawn together in worry.

"Garrett, we've talked about this," you mumbled.

He stepped forward so your back pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. You could feel every hard plane of muscle through his shirt, the steady thump of his heart against your spine. His reflection met yours in the mirror—eyes soft, mouth set in a determined line.

"We've been doing this for nearly a year," he murmured. "I'm tired of hiding and pretending I don't have a girlfriend."

Your stomach twisted. "When people find out, I'm going to be ridiculed."

"You're not," he said, rolling his eyes but keeping his tone gentle. He spun you so you faced him, leaning back against the counter and pulling you between his spread thighs. His hands rested warm and steady on your hips. "You got to ESPN before we ever met."

"But you know how it is for a woman in this industry. One rumor, and suddenly I'm the girl who slept her way to interviews instead of earning them. I've fought for every single segment, every on-air opportunity. I've had to be twice as prepared as my male colleagues just to get half the respect."

Garrett's eyebrows furrowed. "I know I'll never get it. Not really, since men don't go through this bullshit. But I hate watching you shrink yourself for other people's opinions."

"It's not just about shrinking," I said, my voice trembling slightly with frustration. "Do you understand what's going to happen? My colleagues—the ones I've worked alongside, who've finally started seeing me as a serious commentator—they're going to look at me differently. They're already skeptical of women in sports media. Now I'm dating a player? Suddenly every good interview I've gotten, every story I've broken, it all becomes suspect. He helped her. He knew someone. She's only on air because—"

"Because you're talented as hell," he interrupted firmly.

"That won't matter," I said, pulling away slightly. "Not to everyone. And the worst part? Some of them will be nice about it. They'll smile and congratulate us, but in meetings, they'll wonder if I can be objective. They'll second-guess my analysis. They might even pull me off covering certain teams or players. This just wouldn't be a good look."

"Do you not—" Garrett's shoulders hunched slightly, suddenly self-conscious. His big hands flexed on your hips, "—want to be public because it's specifically me?"

"Of course not," you said quickly, reaching up to cup his jaw. Stubble rasped against your palms. "God, no. I love you. But…I've worked so hard to be taken seriously. "We've been in this beautiful private bubble. When it goes public, everyone's opinions is going to get inside our relationship. I know it has to happen eventually, but I'm terrified." You hesitated, hating how vulnerable this made you feel. "Not because it's you—never. I'm terrified of what it means for us. And I hate that I even have to think about that."

He watched the way your lower lip trembled and leaned in, pressing soft kisses across your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose.

"What if people don't react the way you think?"

You almost laughed. "Garrett, come on. You know how this works. You've dealt with people calling you a nepo baby because of your father. You’re objectively one of the best hockey players in the league right now, better than your father ever was. But people still say it."

"Yeah… they do. And here's what I finally figured out after years of letting it get under my skin. It's just noise. Who fucking cares? Anyone who matters will see what I see—a brilliant, driven woman who earned her place through hard work. The rest? Fuck 'em."

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to

"I don't want to take separate flights when we go on vacation. I don't want date nights limited to our apartments. I don't want to pretend we just 'ran into each other' at restaurants my team booked out in advance." Garrett pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't want to leave events in staggered cars or walk into hotels through service entrances. I don't want to hide behind tinted windows, PR-approved alibis, or carefully timed exits. I want to hold your hand in daylight," He watched the corners of your mouth twitch. "I want to sit next to you at an event instead of three seats away. I want to post a picture without cropping you out. I want to kiss you without worrying about who's watching," He swallowed thickly. "I want the whole fucking world to know you're mine."

Your fingers curled into his shirt. "Trust me, I want that too."

"Ace," he said, voice dropping even lower, "the ESPY awards are next month. I want you on my arm that night."

Your breath caught. "That's such a public event."

"Yes," he said simply, still kissing every inch of your face he could reach. "Promise me you'll think about it?"

A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. "I guess it would be nice if people knew, so girls would stop pawing at you."

Garrett huffed a laugh. "That's not gonna stop."

You slapped his arm, the sound sharp in the small room. "I promise I'll think about it."

He grinned, pulling you closer until your bodies aligned perfectly, the heat of him seeping into your skin. His fingers traced slow circles on your lower back while his gaze stayed locked on yours—steady, patient, and so full of love it made your chest ache. The muffled bass from the club vibrated through the walls, but in here it was just the two of you.

And that felt perfect.

SECRET RELATIONHIP!!! (one of my fav tropes lol)

Maybe a part 2?