Girl-on-the-ruin

Ever since Hannah started dating Garrett, you’d found most of your time merged with your friends and his. Malones had upgraded another area and added a few pool tables, which you had never set foot in till tonight. You’ve been exchanging heated glances with one particular hockey player, southern charmer John Tucker.

Athletes weren’t your usual type, your last late night hookup or a string of spontaneous sex was with an older guy. Easier to fuck someone you don’t bump into on campus. That and your figure skating coach/mother would go crazy if you were even breathing in a hockey players presence. You can’t help it though, John Tucker’s danced around your short replies and coaxed actual conversations out of you each time you’ve seen him.

“Just, like lean over,” Allie says, she’s perched on the edge of the pool table, gaze flitting to the guys near the bar and you’re terrible hold on a cue stick. Always the lookout, she’s a hundred percent sure Tucker’s interested in you and you’re hoping so too. She’s backed it up with intel, but won’t tell you who the trusted source is.

“Least you’re terrible enough to draw him in naturally,” Hannah grumbles, her hand covering her mouth as she tries to muffle her laugh. Her trembling shoulders give her away though. The band playing in the next room aren’t enough to calm your nerves or the doubts swimming in your head.

Garrett’s the first one to approach, his arm draped over Hannah shoulders as he steals her away. His head lowered as he whispers something in her ear. The guys set up another game of pool on the other side of the room, the nearest free one available and you exhale a long breath, thankful they aren’t teasing you. Allie’s palm pats your back as she disappears into the crowd, something about checking out the band or Photo Booth. You don’t get a glimpse of whoever she’s making a beeline for.

“Wow, this is a rare sight.”

You turn to face Tucker, nearly knocking him in the thigh with the stick. “What me in Malones or me sucking at pool?” You can’t help, but mirror his smile it’s infectious. Everything about him melts away the ice around you, the walls you built falling like water and for the first time it doesn’t scare you. You want him closer.

“Both,” Tucker says. He pushes the stray spring of curls out his face, bicep flexing as he raises his arm. His white T-shirt taunt across his defined chest, silver chain dipping between his pecs.

“Celebrating,” you say, nodding along with him till you realise the guys don’t follow figure skating. “I made it to sectionals, got a new sponsorship. Kinda a big deal.” Well you and your skating partner, Alek had made it. Another reason your mother doesn’t want you having a public relationship, she prefers to let others think you’re dating Alek.

Tucker wraps his arms around you, “congrats, that’s a big fucking deal,” he gives you a reassuring squeeze, the weight of his embrace leaving as quick as it came. You sway on the spot, the knot in your stomach twisting as you second guess your move. No, you don’t close the distant between you and him. Maybe he just sees you as friend.

He’s never hugged you before, the closest you’ve come to touch are your thighs brushing against each others on the sofa or that one time you bumped into him in the corridor leading to the rink. He was all geared up in his hockey kit and nearly knocked you clean on your ass. He caught you though, before you could fall. Maybe that’s when you first fell for him. His kindness. The soft lilt of his voice asking if you’re okay. You were too embarrassed to stick around and he never mentioned it since.

You’re staring, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His dark eyes trailing up and down your form. Oh he’s going to be trouble. He scratches his neck, the column of his throat stealing your attention. You saw a girl on his lap kissing his neck the first time you met him. That was months ago though and you haven’t seen him with anyone else.

“Want some pointers?” He nudges his head towards the table, his hand reaching around you to grab the chalk on the side. You stumble back to the edge, watching him pry the cue stick from your grasp with little effort and he preps the cue stick, blue staining the white tip. He blows the extra leftover residue off and your eyes dart to his lips.

You face the table, unable to meet his gaze, “uh, sure,” you say, there’s nothing else forming in your brain other than the thought of his lips on yours.

Tucker hovers behind you, sliding the cue stick on the table and he instructs you on how to hold it correctly. You place your right hand on the black handle, but his hand covers yours and guides it lower, “here,” is all he says, as if he too has to summon his own courage to speak out loud.

His hand lifts from yours on the handle and he leans forwards, “you wanna, put your left hand like this, balance the stick between your thumb and here,” Tucker says, his back pressing into yours and his weight makes you lean over the pool table. His left hand cups your elbow and the other returns to the handle and he draws the cue stick back and forth, practice.

“Okay, now try this one,” he says, pointing to the white ball, which you have to lean further over the table to get a better shot.

“Like this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder and he doesn’t move an inch. His lips a hair width from yours, he nods, nose bumping yours. You focus returns to the plush green velvet surface of the table in front you, acutely aware of his body moulded to yours.

“Follow the line of the cue stick, set up your shot,” his deep raspy voice rumbles in your ear, hot breath fanning the side of your face. “You wanna hit the ball in the centre, take your time.” His hands settle on your hips and he adjusts your body, guiding you closer to the edge of the pool table.

You jolt at his sudden touch fumbling your shot. The cue stick slips, white ball bouncing over the green surface and onto the floor. Tucker’s laugh shakes his chest and you feel it tremble through you too.

Tucker steps back. “Thought you figure skaters were graceful?” He says, cocking his head to the side to meet your gaze. That damned smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, curls tumbling over his forehead. One hand trails to the small of your back, a small splinter of hope that he’s interested in you.

“Only on ice.” You spin around to face him and his hand follows the movement, the warmth of his palm stinging the bare skin beneath your blouse.

“What else do figure skaters do off the ice then?” He lifts you up, setting you on the side of the pool table and steps between your legs. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look up at him.

You grasp the front hem of T-shirt, “we kiss handsome boys.” It’s now or never.

Tucker’s lips press to yours, teeth clinking as you meet him halfway. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt and you tug him closer, deepening the kiss. Hot and heavy, he leans back for a breath. His forehead resting against yours, you place your hand on his chest and feel the fast beat of his heart beneath your palm.

The tight pull of your muscles does well to distract you from the pain tingling through your left hip. You’d fallen three times during practice this morning, your mother’s gaze burning the back of your head as she watched over you in the broadcasters booth. The closest place she’s allowed to you in the sports centre. You’re lucky she’s doesn’t know how to navigate the control panel and shout through the speakers at your pathetic attempt of jumps. She’s banned for a reason, but even your coach Alina can’t stop the ice queen showing up. They think you’re cold, they haven’t met your mother. Not like you know her. In public, in practice her words are softened and come across as strict. In private, the ice queen’s tongue is sharper than a blade and it cuts deep.

You know why she’s appeared after weeks of silence. She’s seen the gossip page, left you numerous messages and voicemails about her opinions on the source and you. There’s only so much dodging you can do, ignoring her just manifests her quicker. You might have managed to sneak through a side exit, but you can’t escape your mother who waits outside of your dorm room later on. Her head turns to you as soon as you round the corner, there’s no way out now. The corridor narrows, walls pressing in as you walk towards her. You’re convinced the temperature drops and the lights dim the closer you get. She’s good at snuffing out the light. Her gaze weighs heavy on you, dark eyes raking up and down your form, settling on your hip. You straighten up, chin lifting as you try not to seem like you’re falling apart. The visible raised patch of a bandage showing beneath your leggings. Weak.

Her silence stretches out time and space. The clink of your key rings and the lock clicking open has you holding your breath. Waiting for your mother to raise her voice as soon as she steps over the threshold of your safe space. Not so comforting right now though. She dumps her handbag on the coffee table, thud of leather falling to the hard surface. You’re waiting, back pressed against the closed door, keys clutched in your hand, metal biting into your palm. The strap of your sports duffle bag digs into your shoulder, but you’re too focussed on minimising your mother’s anger. It’s best to let her speak first, instead of digging yourself a deeper hole.

“How could you be so fucking reckless,” she snaps, flinging a stack of papers in your direction. They hit your chest and scatter on the floor around your scuffed sneakers. “I taught you better than, this.” She jabs a pointed nail to the ground in your eye-line and you flinch at the sudden movement.

Your tongue heavy, mouth dry as you stare at the photos and comments your mother’s printed out. Slut underlined with red ink. Your vision blurs, eyes stinging and you can’t stop staring at the ink bleeding below that word.

“I knew this would be a mistake. You should be training with me like I planned.” You hear her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, her shadow pacing up and down.

“No,” you shake your head, meeting your mother’s narrowed gaze. “I’m seeing this through, it’s just gossip. People trying to tear me down. I can handle it,” you say, crouching down and collecting the papers. If you could deal with the ice queen, this was nothing.

She scoffs. “What whoring around with some meathead hockey player?” She raises an arched brow, flicking the handle of her bag over the zipper. “His father’s not much better, don’t want to get involved with them Grahams.” Her lip curls at the mention of them.

You want to think her last statements a way to smooth over her brandishing you a whore, but she’s never been one to soften her judgement of you. Too weak, too lazy. Whatever she thought of you, she said it. You need thicker skin when dealing with judges and spectators.

“End it now or I will,” she says and you don’t doubt that she will follow up the warning. “That coach in Russia’s still chasing me, don’t make me answer their call.”

The same academy your mother trained, a shiver crawls up your spine at the thought of being shipped off to Russia and your mother breathing down your neck. Her eyes wander to the scar in your hairline, you don’t know how, but she manages to make your injury feel like a weakness too. A foolish mistake that could have been fixed if you were more dedicated to your craft. You’d drowned her out during your time in the hospital, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and wondering if it’d cave in on you and knock you out again. Anything to stop her picking you apart.

There’s still moments you don’t remember from the fall. You’ve seen the photos, lived through the consistent burn of pain clinging to the scar. The tightness of your flesh stapled together till a scab formed over the gash. Headaches come and go, a side effect of a traumatic head injury. Your mother cannot be erased though, least she can’t hurt you anymore than usual. You’re used to it, whether you deserve it or not.

“That hit to the head should have knocked some sense into you to make better choices,” she says, walking to the kitchenette and peering into the half empty fridge. “Maybe a check up will help.”

“I don’t need a checkup, I need to focus on practice,” you say, closing the fridge before she can reprimand you on the contents inside, which were not yours, but your roommates. Your mother would probs end up making you go through some rehabilitation centre and think that time there would lead you back to her.

“I have a double ballet class, so you need to leave,” you lie. You’ve got a couple of hours to kill before the hockey game and you’re hoping for a soak in the bath before you squeeze in some studying.

She stops in front of you, hand grasping your chin and tilting your head up to meet her gaze. “I’m only trying to do what’s best for you, you understand right?” Her thumb presses harder to your jaw.

You curl your fists by your side, key digging into your palm again. The papers falling to the ground, the photo of Garrett carrying you through the corridor is all you can see as you avoid your mother’s glare. You nod unable to summon to a simple yes.

“That’s my girl,” she says, hands slipping from your face and she pats your cheek. “Work on that form, getting sloppy with those jumps.”

The door slams in your face, your bag dropping off your shoulder and hanging from your elbow. You stumble to the side, placing your duffle in your designated spot by the entrance. You toe off your sneakers, sliding them onto your labeled shelf.

…

Two hours later and the skating rink is more akin to a wrestling ring, there’s no escaping the earsplitting speakers of the broadcasting booth. The commentator you’re only source of help in trying to understand the game and the sport. Half you can’t hear though, the buzz in your ears muffling the noise around you. You’ve never done well in crowded spaces or loud ones for that matter. It’s not the same as figure skating, no silence awaiting the music setting the scene or your routine. You love the last few seconds after the songs cut off, nothing but your heavy breaths and rise of your chest grounding you in the moment. For a moment you’re aware of your whole body, arms softening their hard edges as you let them fall down. Just you and the ice. Which is snapped away with a round of applause and the scratch of your blades cutting through the ice. The judges scores are watched from the screen in whatever waiting area you’re guided to. You might share the same rink, but it’s nothing like hockey.

Another player slams against the barrier, boos erupting through the stands. You’re balanced on the edge of the plastic chair, the person behind you hitting their hand on the back of your seat in protest. Garrett’s escorted to the benches, his helmet still on, but he looks over his shoulder and you’re convinced he’s searching the crowds for you.

You didn’t meet him before the game or wish him good luck, which he asked you to do. No, you waited till the hoards of supporters were in their seats before you even entered the sports centre. The nearest space at the back of the stands and a concrete column that restricts your view. You see Garrett, crystal clear through the scratched plexiglass. How can you not? Everyone’s looking at him pacing the small space, his hockey stick thrown to the ground as he finally takes a seat.

A losing game, the hockey match. Hopefully not your forced relationship with the captain of the team. Garrett’s gonna be pissed and you’re not sure you want to be around him whilst he’s moody. You’ve heard of the team’s losing traditions, party hard and drink to forget it for the night. Let loose, sleep with the first girl that gravitates towards them.

You smell the stale hotdog stand before it wheels around the back of the elevated stands. The greasy food you’ve caved into once or twice, the first semester you were no longer under your mother’s controlling hand. You’d done many firsts, maybe a few lasts too. Garrett would need to be a first and a last. No hanging around, clean cut from him as soon as your reputations were good.

Long after the final buzzer and the crowds dispersed, you’re still in your seat. Fingers curled over the plastic seat, your canvas bag slumped against the back of your legs and you watch the resurfacing machine go back and forth. You wave back as the rinks caretaker notices you in the stands, the flashing orange lights oddly calming after the roar of disappointed supporters shook your core. So much noise, you can hear the echoes of bodies crashing with the wall and you trace the scar in your hairline. You wonder how Garrett can even survive the high contact sport when you can barely pick yourself up after a fall. You wonder if he’s tearing apart the dressing room or drinking his frustrations away. He’s probably back at the house with the boys, doing what they do best. Partying.

You still can’t believe you’re doing this. So you reach under your seat and pull out your bag, remove the worn skates as you rise from the stands and walk towards the players bench. You linger as if Garrett’s still sitting there with you as you shove your black leg warmers on, some sort of lucky charm you wear for practice. You lace up your boots, slipping the guards off your blade and setting them with your bag on the bench.

The silence amplifies the pump of blood in your ears and the trembling breath you exhale as you step onto the ice. No one to watch you, no one to judge and you skate. You tap the button on the side of your earphones and let the music flow through you. No routine, no expectations.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The tension slides away as Garrett re-enters the stands, his shoulders dropping and jaw relaxing at the sight of you landing some sort of jump. He’s never seen you this focussed, it’s not forced or rigid like you’re shared practices. Like you’re performing for yourself and no one else. He remains on the edges, leaning against the opening of the aisles of seats his hands shoved in his pocket. The duffle bag slung over his shoulder weighs heavy on him, but he doesn’t want to move let alone breath. As if his sudden movement will spook you. You’re breath taking. The fluttering fabric of your skirt merges with your fluid movements. You’re the complete opposite of him, full of grace and light. Garrett’s sure he’s full poison, a darkness he doesn’t want to latch on to others. That itching beneath his skin he can’t quite scratch away, it remains and he tries not to acknowledge it.

You’ve got that same cropped athletic black jacket, the stand up collar zipped all the way up and curling against the column of your throat. And then he realises it’s eight, your usual practice time. He waits around, half hidden in the low light entrance, you’re either moving too fast or too entranced to notice his presence. He wonders what you think of his game or if you even turned up. His phone vibrates in his pocket and peeks at the chain of texts pinging through the group chat. Mostly the guys telling him not to fuck you in their stalls in the dressing room and hurry up to party once you finish, because that’s more important. Garrett tries not to think of you like that, it’s not in the contract and he’d never force nor expect that of you. That and he’s never once heard of you being in a relationship. You seem to be more interested in skating than finding a partner.

It’s nearing nine when he approaches you on the ice. Garrett calls out your name, his steps slow and measured on the slippery surface, but you don’t react. You’re halfway across the rink, gaze flitting to your boots before you’re close to him again and bending your knees to jump. He knows that stance, he’s watched you do this one move four times this past hour.

“Hey!” Garrett yells, your blades hit the ice too soon and you fall. Hip slamming to the ground and your forearm and elbow along with it. “Shit, I’m sorry.” His voice trembles, his knees sinking to the ice beside you. He notice the earphones, the sharp intake of breath as you sit up too quickly.

Garrett puts his palm on your back, you lean into the gesture and tear the earphone from one ear. Your mouth opens and then closes, eyes roaming his face as if you’re searching for something you can’t quite place.

“Did you hit your head?” His other hand reaches for your head, but you shove him away. It happened so fast, a blink of an eye and you were down. He’s not sure if your head took a hit.

“No, did you?” You snap, smoothing the sheer skirt over your leggings. So you did watch the game. He didn’t think you would since you didn’t show up in the dressing room earlier.

He can’t help, but chuckle. Looks like it’ll take a while to thaw out that ice heart of yours. “Yeah, that’s what the helmets for,” he says, pushing the wet curls out his face. Your eyes follow the movement, a sheen of sweat on your forehead and you wipe it off with the cuff your sleeve.

“Surprised you’ve still got your teeth, Puckhead.” You flash him smile, brows raising as his lips twitch at the edges. He’s growing to like the nickname you think is an insult.

“Okay ice princess,” Garrett says, standing up and offering you a hand. “We’ve got a party to go to.”

You hesitate, glancing to his outstretched hand and his face. The walls of ice you build around you, thick and he’s trying to pick away at it a little each time he’s around you. Your palm meets his and he pulls you up, a hovering hand at you back as you find some balance. He stays half a step behind you, splinters of ices clinging to your leggings and sleeve on your left side. There’s a slight edge to your presence today, words cutting like blades on ice. Somethings bothering you and he sees it in the raised shoulders and straight spine. He’s spent a lifetime reading Phil’s body language and anticipating his mood swings. Garrett’s not sure how hard he can push, doesn’t think he has the right to interfere in your life, but he knows that long held mask is beginning to slip. There’s only so much you can withstand.

Garrett waits at the bench as you unlace your skates, sliding the guards back over your blades like a ritual. You’re gentle, particular as you stuff your black leg warmers inside the boots followed by the laces. The large canvas bag holds a boot bag, your name stitched on the soft leather like liquid mercury, it shines in the light. He picks up your bag as you slip on your heeled boots. Your gloves stay on and by the looks of the contents in your bag you’re going to this party in your practice clothes. Your purse, phone and earphones resting on top of your boots bag.

“I can carry that.” You reach for your bag, but he swerves out of the way and you huff. “Is this what dedicated boyfriends do then? Do girlfriends do this?” You link your arm with his, tugging him back to match your steps and he sways into you.

Have you never let in anyone in? Never trusted someone enough to let them do these simple acts for you?

He leans down, voice lowering. “Ohh yeah, you wanna know what else they do?” He waits a beat for you to shake your head. “They give you a ride after practice.”

“I’m not sleeping with you Graham.”

Garrett doesn’t laugh, he’s made it obvious that he doesn’t expect that of you, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to say no if you ask him to.

“Well it’s not part of the contract,” Garrett says, his gaze watching you in the reflection of the exit door. He holds it open so you can step out first, your arm falling from his.

The car ride to off campus is quiet, the mumble of the radio not holding either of your attentions. You’re staring out the window, your bag clutched in your lap and he can’t stop glancing to you every now and then. Your knees pointed to the passenger door as if you’re ready to escape as soon as the car stops. Garrett’s never seen you off campus or any other house parties. He knows your friend, Senna. She’s hard to miss and she frequents the parties like she’s networking. Nothing like you. No you’re a mystery.

Garrett pulls up by the house, he leans on the steering wheel and angles his body to you giving you a moment to take it in. He’s glad the guys cleared all the stuff off the lawn and the porch. It’s too early for the party to begin, an opportunity to let you settle in with all the guys and hang about during the actual crowds after. The perfect time to act like a couple and convince every one you are together.

“Ready, Puckhead?” You don’t glance back at him as you open the car door. As if he’s the one that needed a moment and not you. The mask readjusted, you’re sizing up the house and plotting.

“An hour to meet guys before the real party starts and another to play the part for everyone else,” Garret says, slipping the strap off your bag off your shoulder and carrying it for you. He leads you up the stairs and to the porch, the front door ajar and he kicks it open gently.

The guys cheer at your arrival, Dean lifting a bottle of beer in the air. Logan pausing mid bite and Tucker nearly dropping the baking tray in his hands on the floor, but he catches it and the contents on top. Your chin lifts and your shoulders push back, Garrett calls it your armour. Slightly unapproachable, but the smile pulling your lips softens your harsh features. He thinks you should smile at him more often.

“Gonna go put our bags upstairs,” Garrett says, kissing your temple and giving you a reassuring nudge to his friends. He hears Tucker’s voice first as he’s half way up the stairs, thankful that he’s the one to greet you first.

When he returns to the living room he’s surprised, you’re helping Tucker plate up some of his food for party. He keeps his distance watching you talk to his friend with an ease he’s not familiar with. You even touch his arm as you laugh at a joke, an arm curls around Garrett’s shoulder and he knows it’s Dean.

“Took you long enough, G,” Dean says, releasing him from his hold and taking a sip of his beer. He doesn’t stick around long, a girl leading him to the sofa.

Logan throws him a can of beer and he catches it, popping it open and taking a gulp. He mouths a “good catch.” And Garrett’s not sure if he means you or the beer or both.

A few more people arrive and Garrett finds himself gravitating towards the kitchen and you. You’ve stuck to the same alcohol free beer, not once putting it down. If he’s not got his arm around you, his arms brushing against yours. The gloves you wore earlier are sticking out your jacket pocket and the zipper of your jacket is lowered, offering a slither of skin of your chest. Your palm runs up and down his back unprompted whenever he’s lost in his head. The game loss still hanging over him as captain. He’s sure you realise it too, he doesn’t question you guiding him through the crowd and into the free space on the sofa. Your hands land on his shoulders and he looks up at you as you sit on his lap. This is not how expected the evening to go, your lips tracing the side of his face, hot breath fanning against the shell of his ear.

“Shall we seal this contract with a kiss Captain?” You whisper, pulling back to look at him once again. Your hands slide over his shoulders and up to his face, he almost shivers at your light feathery touch. He reminds himself it’s all an act, a role to play, but the way you spoke to him drew him in.

Maybe this deal wouldn’t be so bad.

It didn’t matter what else was going on around him, Garrett edged closer and nudged his nose to yours. His lips pressing against yours and one of his hands finds your cheek, the other slipping up the outer side of your thigh, his finger tracing the raised patch beneath your legging on your hip. You pull away, gaze darting around his face as if warning him not to ask. He pats your thigh, his hands guiding you off his lap and you stand, stumbling back as he rises from the sofa.

“Wanna go upstairs?” Garrett shouts over the thumping music, a few people turn to watch the two of you wade through the crowd. His hand in yours, the people part out of his way and he stops at the stairs, his fingers catching the raised skin on your palm as you let get of his hand. Maybe that’s why you’ve been wearing gloves and standing to one particular side of him all night. He’d felt the rough scratch of your palm against his cheek, but was too distracted with the kiss to get a look at it.

You stop at the top of the landing, moving aside as Garrett shows you his room. The door clicks shut, but you’re inspecting the band poster on his wall near his desk. Not many girls look beyond him in his room, but you’re trying to piece together who is.

“Are you hurt?” Garrett asks, eyeing the cooling bandage on your hip. He knows, he’s used them too on himself after bad games. Could feel the cold gel beneath the padded bandage.

You nod, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Yeah, I’ll be alright. Nothing I can’t handle. Just need to stop falling,” you say, a sharp intake of air furrowing your brows and wrinkling your nose as you shifted your weight on the bed. Garrett’s a master of passing off pain as not a big deal, they’re bruises to him and they will fade. Athletes try not to get hurt, but being careful gets in the way of the game, the routine. Sometimes risks are better, no matter the pain.

Garrett hums, sitting down beside you and taking your hand in his and turning your palm up. “What about this?” He traces the fresh cut on the curve of your palm, you flinch and he instantly lets go. He doesn’t push, he’s done the same each time someone added any pressure on his injuries and why they sometimes seem to never fade before a fresh one blossoms.

“Says the one that got beat up on ice, huh Puckhead. Bet you’re in more pain than I am,” you say, snatching your hand away and cradling it in your lap.

He scoffs. “Didn’t realise we were competing,” he says, wondering if you’re the type to deflect your own pain because others have it worse.

“Oh you’re definitely winning that one,” you half laugh, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your face away from him. “Sorry, heads a little tender,” you add, massaging that one spot by your hairline.

Garrett moves off the bed and rifles through his chest of drawers, throwing you a pair of his shorts and baggy band tee. He opens his closet door, half hidden behind it as he gives you privacy to change and he does the same. His jeans shoved down to this ankles, he steps out of them and kicks them into the bottom of the closet. He drapes his hoody over the rail and tugs the back of his T-shirt over his head.

“Garrett,” you gasp, he likes the way you say his name, but all he can focus on is your cold touch on his back. The pads of your fingers ghosting over his grazed skin. “Is it always like this after a game? Why would you do this?”

He shrugs regretting it, the tight pull of his skin stopping the movement. His flesh feels like it’s on fire, but you’re gentle with your inspection. Hands mapping out each curve of the muscles on his back, the hard to reach injuries he usually leaves to heal themselves. Sure girls noticed after a game, but they wanted something else, not that Garrett would complain. Sex was a welcome distraction from the pain.

“Used to it,” Garrett mumbles, he’s endured much worse.

You wave your hand at his reply, digging through your boot bag and the small compartment to pull out a small pouch. The numbing cream he’d given you placed on the floor where you crouched. You popped a couple pain pills into your palm and chased it with a bottled water from your bag, something about helping with your headache, but Garrett doesn’t question it.

The caps discarded and a blob of creams already on your fingertips before Garrett can persuade you he’s fine. “Let me at least help you like you did for me. This stuff did wonders for my ankle, plus you can’t reach half of these on your back.”

Garrett doesn’t say anything and you don’t either. He leans away from your touch as you add a little pressure, a gentle apology falling from your lips like a chant as you repeat it a few times. He’s never been treated with such softness and he doesn’t think he deserves it either, not from you anyways. He’s the reason you hurt your ankle in the first place.

“Better?”

He hears the cap snap back onto the tube of cream, his breath falters as he turns round and catches a glimpse of his baggy tee skimming your mid thighs. All he can do is nod, smile mirroring yours in thanks.

“We can share the bed,” you say, rolling the duvet back and kneeling in the mattress. “Stick to your side, Puckhead.” You point to his half, the slight dip of where he usually takes up space.

“You keep your hands to yourself,” he says, settling down in bed. He sleeps on his front, the duvet rolled back leaving his bare back exposed. His skin tingling as the numbing cream finally kicks in.

“In your dreams, Puckhead.”

Numb. Every time your gaze meets his across the ice, you feel numb. A dull thrum buzzing through your body, the weight of who you used to be pressing down on you. The photos tacked to your mirror don’t trigger a memory or any warmth at the thought of John Logan. Star hockey player and apparently your steady boyfriend.

John Logan’s given you space, hovering on the edge of everything you know. He hangs back before training allowing you time to get through the corridor without bumping into him. Watches you from afar at house parties and lectures, never forcing an interaction unless you’re the one to start a conversation. His faltered smile enough of a kick in the gut that you don’t linger too long in his presence, like you’re the reason for his pain. A ghost of someone else passing through his mind.

You approach him one night, desperate to feel something and he ends up taking you on a string of dates. Not once touching you. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, his laugh either cut short or forced as you admit you don’t remember that one time or the other. You just want to know what his love feels like, why he fought so hard to date the figure skater who swore off relationships before him.

So you turn up at John Logan’s bedroom door, long after the parties over and walk straight in. You would have done so months ago, before you were a shell of your previous self. He flings the sheets from his body and rolls out of bed. You close the distance, not letting him question what you’re doing in his room and you grab the front of his T-shirt, pressing your lips to his. The mint on his lips tingle against your own, merged with whisky as his tongue slides through your parted lips. He deepens the kiss, his fingers digging into your hips as he tugs you closer.

He pulls away, inhaling a trembling breath. “You, you remember,” he says, resting his forehead against yours. You’d lie just to keep seeing the genuine smile on his face. The way he looks at you. No one looks at you like he does.

“John. I…” you rarely called him John, previous you would have called him Logan and that’s all he needs to hear to retreat from your embrace. Your nails scraping the fabric of his shirt. He’s told you so, doesn’t like his first name, you’ve been repeating his surname in your head before every interaction with him.

He shakes his head. “We can’t, not like this,” Logan pushes your hand away from his chest and steps back, swaying in his spot as if he’s fighting himself to stay away from you. You hate the way he looks through you now, like you’re dead.

“I just want to feel something. Show me how it used to be,” you whisper, tugging him back by his arm. His gaze flits to your hand on him and to your face. “Please.”

Logan tilts your face up to his, the heat of his thumb brushing against your cheek bone. You lean into his touch and close your eyes, hoping the muscle memory is the same as skating. As if his touch will awaken something in you. He knows you.

“Are you sure?” He says, thumb trailing over your jawline and down the column of your throat. His hot breath fans against your neck and you raise your chin, letting his lips press gently below your jaw.

“Help me remember,” you whisper, your voice trembling beneath the pad of his thumb. He guides you back, your calves meeting the edge of the mattress.

His fingers glide over your shoulders and down your arms. Your eyes opening as his hands circle your wrists, his thumb smooths over the raised scar on your inner wrist and he stills. A reminder of how you tried to catch yourself before you fell. Before you knew him. He doesn’t tell you how the memory of your fall tears him from his sleep most nights, but his friends have. Maybe you can help him forget. Maybe he can help you remember.

You break out of his hold, “it’s okay, I’m here,” you say, tiptoeing and pressing your lips to his cheek. He tenses, muscle of his jaw fluttering as he softens his clenched teeth. Your kisses melting away the tension. You tug the hem of his T-shirt up, gaze locked on his as you wait for him to protest, but he doesn’t. He lets you pull his T-shirt over his head and he chuckles as you toss the wrinkled top behind him. You rake your fingers through his messy hair as it falls over his forehead. An instinct or you just want to see his face.

He leans his forehead to yours once again, his palms sliding under your dress. The same one you wore to the house party in hopes of catching his attention. The same dress you wore in the photo tacked to your mirror of your first date. His chest shudders as if he’s just realising it himself. The warmth of his touch is light, calluses rough against your thighs as his hands journey further up your body. Finger ghosting your cotton panties and he grunts as he’s stopped short. He spins you round, a surprised gasp drawn out of you. Your zipper biting down the teeth so he can shimmy the extra fabric down your hips and let it pool at your feet. The cool air nips your bare skin, his arm wrapping around your waist and his nose nudges the side of your neck, tracing your jawline as you glance over your shoulder at him.

You reach back without thinking, hand in his hair and tug him closer. Lips to lips, slow and heavy like he’s trying to chase a memory or conjure up a flicker of knowing within you. Of what he likes and what you like, but this feels right how his steady arm holds you up right against his chest. There’s a safety in him you’ve never known before, well maybe you did. Not that you could remember. The muscle memory remains and your hoping your body doesn’t betray you as you claim more of John Logan. The thought alone loosening your fingers from the curls of hair at his nape, knuckles skimming along his jaw. His arm falls away and you turn to face him, aching to know the guy who came before the one you see now. The stranger, the lover all merged into one. Could he love you again? You don’t expect him to.

He kisses the line settling between your brows, the gesture grounding you. “Don’t think so hard there,” he chuckles, you feel his smile against the curve of your ear as he whispers to you. Like it’s something he’s said a thousand times to you and maybe he has. Maybe he’s the one that brings you back to your body.

No, you didn’t want to think. You’d done too much of it. You sit on the edge of the bed, untying the drawstring of Logan’s shorts. You push the waistband down his hips and glance at his strained cock beneath his boxers. He doesn’t give you the opportunity to explore more, his head nudging to the bed for you to lay down. His knees dip either side of you on the mattress and he hovers over you, leaning on his forearms. The silver chain dangling from his neck swings, soft yellow light shimmering the dainty links. A gift he’s told you recently that you got him. His gaze flits to the rise and fall of your chest and he pulls you up, hand finding yours as he sits against the wall guiding you closer. You sit between his legs, head falling back on his shoulder and one of his hands drapes over your thigh, the over snaking up the valley between your breasts.

“Relax,” he says, placing his hand on your chest. Your heart’s drumming fast, his fingers tapping slow and your grateful for the change of pace. Slow and steady like your supposed relationship. He knows you more than you do.

“I’ve got you,” his deep voice rumbles through his chest and you feel the vibration of it on your shoulder blades.

Logan’s other hand dips to the elastic of your panties, his fingers diving beneath the waistband and he circles your mound, working his way to the slick between your thighs. The fabric of your panties are wet, but he doesn’t mention it. No teasing words, you’re not sure why you long for it though.

He rubs your pebbled nipple in his thumb and finger, touch wandering from your chest to your breast. Your heart beat drums faster, breath faltering as one finger presses to your cunt. You close your eyes, focusing on his touch alone.

“That’s it, let it all go,” he whispers, as if he knows how heavy your bodies felt these past months. The weight no longer pushing down on your shoulders, head lighter as his whispered breath talks you through it. The frustrations been building and building.

And John Logan knows exactly how to loosen the tension. His touch is fire, your thighs squeezing shut as a second finger enters your cunt. He doesn’t let up that easy though, his free hand prying your legs open again. He hooks his knee over your shin pinning it in place, your hips jutting as his fingers pull out only to go back in. The knot in your stomach tightens, thighs trembling as he quickens the pace, in and out, you don’t hear much of what he whispers in your ear.

Your hand wraps around his wrist, nails no doubt leaving their mark on his flesh. He sucks in a breath, continuing his handy work.

“Fuck,” you huff, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you suppress a moan. “You’re good with your hands.” You laugh half heartedly, not able to summon the energy to do much else.

Logan hums, “I know love, you’ve told me many times.” He says it without missing a beat, like it’s just easy as breathing air. Like he’s talking the love you used to be. “Sorry,” the words fall quickly, even though he has nothing to apologise for.

“Mmmf, I’m not sorry,” it’s a struggle to get those words out. The knot in your stomach twists, snaps as his laughter shakes his form and yours. Your release undoing the built up frustration you haven’t been able to let go of for months. His fingers still inside you and he holds you against his chest as your ragged breaths even out.

He kisses your sweaty temple. “Stay if you want, it’s late,” he says, pulling out of you gently. The movement drawing you out of your head.

“I’ll stay.” If only to keep the nightmares away, to know what it feels like to lay in his arms. To feel like you know who you and he used to be.

Thanks for reading :) I might do a few more parts of these two trying to trigger reader’s memory together. - I am dyslexic so there might be some mistakes I’ve missed whilst editing.

The ticking clock seems to move in slow motion on Saturday morning, but you clean your apartment. Sweeping the worn wooden flooring and wiping down every surface, which isn’t much in a studio. Just enough space for you. Garrett texted you about the dinner, double checking the time and it’s twisted the knot in your stomach. You’re convinced there’s a message waiting to be delivered later with an excuse of him not showing up. It can’t be this easy. You don’t bother eating breakfast in fear of throwing it up. Dean arrives at twelve on the dot, just as he promised. A cardboard box tucked under his arm and a bag. Whatever’s in the box it clinks as he places it on the dining table.

“A few things to help you get settled.” Dean shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. It is to you. You didn’t ask for his help, but he’s offering it. No conditions attached either. Direct Dean Di Laurentis.

You rifle through the box, tracing the peeling sports team logo of a white mug. Silver cutlery wrapped in a square napkin and a few glasses in differing sizes.

Dean moves around your teeny studio apartment like he lives there. It’s his third time here and he skips the fake drawer, a decorative feature that takes up needed space. He slides the plates and bowls into the narrow cupboard above the sink. Along with a few mugs and glasses he promised wouldn’t go missed in his shared house. He’s thought of every little thing in order to make your dinner this evening with Garrett go smoothly. His friend Tucker made up a tray of lasagna, a neat written note of instructions and reheating for later. You’d have to meet this friend and thank him yourself.

Your gaze follows Dean as he crouches down to set the lasagna in the small fridge, the shift of his muscles moving beneath his snug fitted T-shirt. Apparently he’d shrunk half of his wardrobe, even gave you some too small t shirts and a hoody he couldn’t wear anymore. You did try to refuse it, but as soon as the soft fabric met your hands you couldn’t say no. Expensive pieces you’ve not had since you were living at home. Luxuries you gave up in order to be free. The short sleeves of his top dig into his biceps, his fingers curling around the hem to push it up and relieve the pressure, tanned skin flushed pink. He resorts to rolling up the sleeves over his shoulders, giving you full view of the solid muscle of his arms. All you can think of though, is how you walked into the dressing room yesterday and his bare chest. You should not be thinking about him like that or blatantly staring at him.

“There’s lunch in the bag too,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you. His messy blonde hair falling over his forehead.

He probably saw your near empty fridge the other day. A jar of peanut butter and a carton of milk. You can’t live off of peanut butter toast and cereal. Well on weekends you can, in the week you made sure to eat on campus and make the most of the cafeteria.

Two noodle soups and a bottle of soda. He washes up the glasses from the box and sets them on the table, pouring you both a cool drink. You don’t know how he’s so comfortable with the smallest of gestures. He’s the first person to buy you a meal, this being the second time. You’d have to repay the favour soon.

“Thank you, but you really didn’t have to,” you say, peeling the lid of the carton off your noodles.

“I wanted to.” Dean wastes no time, stirring the extra seasoning packet into his bowl. “Besides I was starving after practice.”

You cough, nearly choking on your food. “Wait, you had practice this morning? Garrett didn’t say anything. I never would have asked you…”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.” Dean points his chopstick at you, raising a brow. As if he knows you, he kinda does. “We gotta run through the game-plan, Gray. No way am I letting you down.”

Your chest aches, a tingling sensation shooting through your flesh. Dean doesn’t realise the exact meaning his words have on you. You’d been so closed off to connecting with others that you forgot what it meant to lean on someone or accept their help. And with Dean you don’t have to beg or ask for it.

“Thank you. I really appreciate all your help,” you say, mirroring the smile he flashes at you. It’s hard not to smile around him, he brings the best out of others. You’ve observed him around campus, jealousy eating away at you at how he can pull a laugh out of Garrett. Something you can’t even remember the sound of.

Dean relays the morning training session and mentions Garrett telling the guys he’d be at yours this evening for dinner. He’s picks up on your disinterested hums when he utters your dad’s name and anything to do with hockey tactics. A little too close to home. You straighten up in your seat, gathering the takeout cartons and dumping them in the trash bin. The lid slamming shut, metal clanging behind you.

“Everything okay?” Dean asks, his gentle voice hitting you harder than a physical blow. No one has spoke to you so softly til now. You want him to say your name over and over again, listen to the way it should be said instead of shouted.

You fold your arms over your chest, fists twisting the excess fabric of your sweater in their grasp. The back of your throat burns, tongue heavy as the legs of his chair screech. His eyes searching your face, but he doesn’t reach for you. He leans against the kitchen counter beside you, arm brushing yours.

“I’m sorry,” you say, head titling up to ceiling as you exhale a trembling breath. “It’s just hockey’s always come first, I hate him for that.” Tears sting your eyes, but you won’t give in too easy. Hockey and Garrett were all that mattered to Phil. Another legacy to keep the Graham name going. Anything he could get his claws into and lap up the attention. The ex hockey player turned coach, all of Garrett’s accomplishments were his too. You didn’t matter. Seeing him yesterday brought up all those old feelings you buried long ago.

“Hockey came before you.” It doesn’t matter how soft Dean said it, it still hurt. You hated how obvious it was to him too. How he could decipher that from a couple of hums and the added increase of space you put between him and you.

You nod, unable to say yes. To admit the neglect, because it would be all too easy for Dean to figure out the worse too. He’s halfway there already.

“Phil did his best, he doesn’t know anything other than hockey. It’s been his whole life.”

It’s still ingrained into your being to lie and cover up for Phil. As if saying it out loud would make it worse. He had the rare good moments with you, but those were sobering afters when he’d dealt a heavier hand and was trying to make up for it. You learnt it was only to make himself feel better and he always turned it around on you. It’s always your fault, you shouldn’t have done that one thing to set him off. There wasn’t just one thing though, it was whatever he found frustrating or annoying.

Dean’s arm brushes against yours again. “You don’t talk to Phil?” He’s staring at the wall opposite, his hands shoved his pockets. The line between his brows deepens, but he doesn’t glance at you, as if he knows you won’t be able to talk if he’s looking at you.

You shake your head. “Not since I left, four years ago.”

“So hockey talks banned here, huh,” he says, pushing off the counter and standing in front of you. The weight pressing down on your chest lifts, his smile contagious. He’s good at lightening the mood, like he knows you’re almost checked out. The invisible wall stopped short, enough height for him to peer over and keep your attention.

Dean Di Laurentis was dangerous in a whole different way than you’re used to. You could easily fall into the trap of thinking he cared enough to understand, but letting someone in meant everything falling apart. And you didn’t want to pick up the pieces again.

“Yeah, that’s banned here,” you say, head tilted up to meet his gaze and his lips twitch into a smirk. “I think that’s like a strike or something. Three and you’re out.”

He nods, raking a hand through his hair and brushing it out of his eyes. You tense at the sudden movement, but don’t take your eyes off his in hopes he doesn’t notice. He either missed it or gives you grace, not questioning the way your arms tightened around your body. Holding yourself upright.

“Well no one told me rules here, Gray.” Dean leans closer, “clean slate? You don’t have to worry about me and strikes.”

The way he words it makes you think he saw your minuscule flinching. He would never strike you.

“I hope your dinner with Garret goes well,” Dean says. He never overstays his welcome, his jacket in his grasp when you ask him to leave. No protests, but he does linger in the doorway, reminding you it’s just dinner and there’s nothing to worry about. Half in, half out as he smooths his palm over your arm. You don’t expect his feathery light touch, a gentle reassurance you’re not familiar with.

You can’t muster up any words as you watch him disappear down the hallway and to the stairs. Dean might not know Phil, but Garrett certainly knows. You just hoped the conversation didn’t go there later tonight. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

═══════

Garret doesn’t remember much, he tries not to and he’s hoping the yellow tulips in his hand are something you like. They seemed the safest colour option, soft and light like you. Part of him doesn’t want to dwell on the past or his childhood, he doesn’t want to feel helpless like that ever again. Phil hasn’t raised a hand on him since he fought back, the odd grab of the arm or shove to the wall, but no closed fists. The escape of boarding school for you and him were both of your ways out.

The rundown apartment building has him checking the address again. The fuse box at the entrance is charred, chalky black and rendered useless. The glass pane of the door is boarded up with wood, he doesn’t even need to press the buzzer to gain access to the lobby. Your name blurred on the postal lockers, blue ink bleeding on the sticker beneath the plaque. Garrett doesn’t like it. He’s not holding out much hope for the lift, probably smells of piss. So he takes the stairs, staying well clear of the rattling rail hanging off the crumbling wall. The steps are warped in various places, least you’re only on the third floor.

The simple act of inviting him to dinner has him wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, like he’s waiting for you to drop something on him. Nothings been easy for either of you. He knocks on your door, slightly relieved when the chain on the door prevents it from opening wide. Your face half concealed, eyes softening at the sight of him, the door clicks shut and he can hear the chain dragging over the lock and clinking against the frame.

“Hey, come on in,” you say, ushering him into your small studio apartment. A stack of books are wedged beneath the window, letting a cool breeze of air through the room. “You want a drink?”

Garrett nods, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders and hanging it on the back of the chair at the table. You suit the space, a striped long sleeve top swallowing your figure and faded blue jeans rolled up at hem. It’s like you’re still a teen, piles of books scattered around the place. A makeshift table of books beside a lone armchair and a mug, reading glasses on top. You’ve always loved to read, but your book collections gathering dust back home at Phil’s. Along with all your clothes that are stored in bin bags at the bottom of your wardrobe, the rail holding Phil’s merch. He wonders if you’ve been back there or even spoken to him.

He reads the titles on the spines of books on slanted wall shelf, it’s one bolt away from crashing to the floor.

“Borrow one if you want.”

Everything’s a mismatch, duvet and pillowcase prints clashing. There’s a small cactus on the windowsill bending towards the light, a couple of post it notes on the second glass pane telling you not to open it in capital letters. He trades the yellow tulips in his hand for the glass of soda, a brief smile twitching your lips.

“Thanks, you really didn’t have to,” your fingers brush the yellow petals as you put them in some water in a beer glass. No vase. You set it down on the table against the wall and step back to admire the bright flowers.

“Wanted to,” Garrett says, pulling the chair out and taking a seat. His arm leans on the plastic surface, finger tracing over a scratch. He pushes the cuff of his sleeve down, hiding the purple bruise on his forearm. The marks of Phil’s fingers from his confrontation yesterday. He scans over your body, watching you lay a chipped plate in front of him. The bare skin of your wrist on full display as you reach over to place down a knife and fork too. No marks and it’s all he needs to know that you didn’t run into Phil too. He tried to steer him out of the sports centre before you came out.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he tenses, not realising you were so close. You remind him of his mother, always there to pick up the pieces before you left. Maybe that’s why it hurt the most, you leaving. Leaving him. No one else could understand his childhood better than you. He didn’t even have to explain the way he was, because you knew why. You knew how to piece him back together, to ground him. He had to learn how to do it himself and that meant avoiding his dad. There’s no running for him.

“Eat, you like lasagna right?” Your fork’s already diving into your food. You’ve never been one for eye contact or talking a lot. He supposes that’s Phil’s doing. Out of sight, out of mind. And if you didn’t draw attention to yourself, you were left alone.

Garrett eats anything, not that he’d tell you that. He sits in comfortable silence with you as you both eat. His gaze flitting from you and his plate. The glass you sip from though catches his attention. The sports logo one he’s seen many times back at the house. The same one Dean keeps telling Logan not to leave in his room whenever he uses it. Has Dean been here? He has been hanging around you lately, Garrett’s seen you two on campus walking to the library and going your separate ways. Why would you have the glass? The hoody you pull over your head is from some tv show, he asks if you’ve seen it but you say you’ve never heard of it. Maybe you’ve thrifted them secondhand? He’ll have to check the house later.

He doesn’t let you wash up after dinner, forgetting about what lies beneath his long sleeves.

“What the hell is that,” you snarl, grabbing his arm and inspecting the purplish, blue marring his skin. You prod your thumb to each finger shaped bruise. “He, he’s still doing this. You said he didn’t.” Your other hand tugs the neckline of his hoody.

Yeah he told you he didn’t four years ago. The last time he answered your call, he wished he didn’t as you left without saying bye.

“Stop,” Garrett snaps, shoving your hands off him and he regrets it instantly. You stumble back into the kitchen counter, the cutlery scattering across the draining board of the sink. His hands are dripping with water, soapy bubbles sliding down his arms.

Your glassy eyes are focused on the mark, your chest rising up and down. Garrett can’t bring himself to close the distance between you and him, doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s tired of talking about the obvious. How you’ve got the chance of getting out and he hasn’t. It’d be easier to push you away, act like he didn’t care, but he does. He misses you, not that he’d admit that.

“It’s not like that okay. He’s just mad I’ve not been answering his calls.” He catches the kitchen towel you throw his way, drying his hands and twisting the fabric in his hold. Any distraction welcome, he can’t look at you. He knows you’re blaming yourself. Like you’re the reason for all of this and not Phil who can’t control his anger. You’re hardwired to apologise for his wrongdoings.

One night, Garrett wanted one night with you and no complications. No mentions of Phil, but he’s always there leaving his mark.

He takes a step forward, wrapping his arms around you and he runs his palm up and down your back. “It’s alright, I’m alright,” he whispers, repeating it more to himself as you melt into his embrace. Your arms slipping around his torso and hands grasping the back of his hoody. He remembers you holding him when he was younger and smaller, how he tucked himself into you and felt safe. For once he gets to do the same for you.

“Why don’t we watch a film before I go?” Garrett releases you from his hold, one arm still draped over your shoulder. You nod, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. He doesn’t want to leave you upset, so he signs into his streaming service account and scours through the films whilst you shower and get ready for bed.

You prop your laptop on a stack of books at the bottom of your bed. Garrett settles on top of the duvet as you snuggle underneath it, your head falling on his shoulder half way through. He stays till the credits roll to the end, closing your laptop and leaving you a post it note on the back of your door before he leaves.

═══════

Once John Tucker’s got his mind set on something, he doesn’t back down. Whether that be on or off the ice. Cooking and baking normally helps him destress, but the fresh dark chocolate brownies in Logan’s hand has him bolting for the front door. He spots the familiar yellow bicycle, your ridiculous blue and white daisy helmet. The same delivery girl that’s been in Dean’s pocket since he admitted his love for sweet treats. He doesn’t think twice, hurtling in front of you and grabbing the handlebars to stop you before you knock him over. Your fingers clutching the brakes for dear life. The basket secured above your rear wheel shakes, no doubt more cakes and bakes packed inside.

“Dude! What the hell?” You snarl, your balance teetering to one side as you plant your platform sneaker to the ground. Sweat rolls down your forehead, your lilac eyeshadow smudged beneath your lower lashes.

“Uh, sorry. I…are you the one baking?” He lets go of the handlebars, scratching his nape as he inhales your vanilla scent. He’s not sure if the cinnamon’s coming from you or the baked goods in the basket.

“No im just making some extra cash working delivery,” you say, fiddling with the clasp of your helmet. “Never met ‘em, I pick up and drop off. You got a problem with the bakes, you email them.”

Tucker stumbles back, raising his hands. “Oh, no. There’s no problem with…” he shakes his head, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” only just realising he’d come on too strong.

“Riiight…” you say, adjusting your grip on the handlebars and looking between him and the pavement. “You wanna talk to the owner, you’ll have to email them.”

He steps out of your way, watching you cycle down the road. All of your orders were done strictly online, bigger ones requiring the buyer to fill out a form. No phone number, just an email that communicates the order confirmation and the scheduled delivery time, which is normally after studies and midday on the weekends. So you must be a student on campus. That’s all Tucker’s come up with.

The kitchen counters are piled with your boxes, courtesy of the party this evening to celebrate the big game win. Tucker can smell the rich cocoa without opening them, well that and the pot laced beneath it. Something for the guys to let loose to after a big game and a break between training. The pink ‘Brookies’ sticker on the box. A selection of brownies and cookies delivered to the mailbox. Apparently you’re the go to for pot brownies, Dean knows the pick up for that discreet exchange, but he doesn’t know who’s behind ‘Brookies’. No one does. Just two delivery girls and a pick up point as the address.

He’s tested your recipes, attempted to guess the exact ingredients and recreate them, but they’re never the same. Not even like the recipes he’s scoured online in hopes of finding his mysterious competitor. He’d launched a new e-book on desserts and it didn’t do as well as he thought it would. Even eyed the comments on his cooking profile mentioning ‘Brookies’. He’s getting sick of anything sweet, chocolate this, chocolate that.

Maybe he’ll stick to meal plans, cooking tutorials and recipe lists like usual. Or maybe he’ll figure out whoever’s behind this ‘Brookies’ and challenge them to a bake off. For now though he’ll fill the gap in your market and create a pastry e-book, branch out of the student shadow and aim for experienced bakers.

-

Business owner wasn’t ever the plan during studying, but it was something you dove straight into after you got fired from your hotel job. Luckily the room you rented from an old lady offered you a spacious kitchen to bake. The perks of living close to campus at a fraction of the cost meant helping out around the house and driving her to doctor appointments. Alba was a sweet old dear, letting you use her car for groceries and encouraging you to start from scratch. She’d usually be sitting at the breakfast table each evening whilst you baked and she boxed them up so that your friend and fellow renter Sen could deliver them.

Sen rented the bigger room, connected to a shared bathroom and your much smaller room. You baked straight after classes on the weekdays, paying Sen a percentage of sales to deliver them same day. The weekends were all on you though, baking and delivering. Not that you minded, it got you out of the house and increased your money. You just made sure you finished delivering by 2.pm Saturday and Sunday’s so you could catch up on studies and live a little. Riding bikes made you untraceable, plus you didn’t have to pay for gas.

The same yellow bike you used to ride to school, Sen of course has a high spec electric bike and that’s how the two of you got to/around campus. Now they carried ‘Brookies’ your cookie/brownie boxes. Simple desserts for the burnt out student. Not all had the time to bake or wanted to. You’d done a few parties too, those were your biggest earners, but they weren’t regular. What you didn’t expect was the target on your back and the hockey player who was hellbent on finding out who was behind your own tasty treats. You’re certain he coulda ran you over and crushed your bike in one charge, but you can’t help but think of the flex of his biceps and the front wheel of your bike between his thick denim clad thighs. He was too busy trying to grill you for information on the owner, yeah your details, to notice your blatant wandering gaze.

You stuff some off cuts of brownie in your mouth, prying the box open of a squashed batch of cookies. “Some hockey guy stopped me in the road asking about ‘Brookies’. Well the owner, me. Not that I admitted to being behind it,” you say, hand covering the food you’re chewing. A recipe for disaster if a disgruntled customer wasn’t happy.

Thankfully Alba’s taking her routinely afternoon nap and Sen’s nursing a hungover in the kitchen as you both pick at imperfect bakes. Which means weekend debrief, a.k.a catching up on gossip and the nitty gritty details of the week. Sen does most of the talking normally.

“Dark curly hair, moody Captain or dark curly hair cowboy, chocolate brown eyes and thick thighs?” Sen raises a brow, pouring herself another black coffee and topping yours up across the kitchen island.

“Thick thighs, chocolate brown eyed cowboy.” You say, sliding your cup back in front of you.

Oddly specific words Sen had chosen to describe him, but they fit him well. You didn’t follow sports or keep up with the hockey players on campus, only knowing Dean who had befriended you as his friendly neighbourhood delivery girl and John Logan who accompanied him last time you delivered. He’d invited you to a few parties, but you’d declined each one. Sen’s still trying to convince you to go to one with her.

“That’s John Tucker, he asked me the same last week,” Sen says, her gaze trailing after her finger tracing the grout between the tiles. Anything to avoid your gaze and the fact she didn’t warn you. Probably for the best, you’d only overthink the interaction like you are now.

“Why’s he so interested in me? Well ‘Brookies’ that is?”

“We should go to that party, you know to gather intel,” Sen pauses, turning her phone screen to you and tapping the campus wide message, the party invite. “Maybe even flirt with some hot hockey players and cute cowboys.”

There’s a string of replies, Sen seems to be in every social circle in Briar university. You have no idea who most of the people are.

“Only to gather intel.” You point to her, “no flirting, okay maybe a little.”

[ ]

A little short first part to set up for the part two. Thank you for reading :) I hope you enjoyed this first part. I’m dyslexic so there might be some mistakes I miss when editing.

There’s three games you play one of you wearing the cowboy hat…under no circumstances can you let it fall off your head whilst you ride John.

“Don’t fall off the bull, sweet thing” he says, bucking his hips and slamming his dick into your cunt. You squeal, not expecting the sudden fullness, but you’re bouncing on top of him chasing his movements in hopes of meeting his thrusts and taking him deeper.

You might be on top riding the waves, but John Tucker has all of the control. One of his hands are wrapped around your wrists and anchored to his chest, his heart beat drumming against your palm all so he can show how much you get him going. The cowboy hats askew, his finger flicking the rim and his dick slips out of you, slick with your mixed arousal between your legs and his body beneath you. Your stomach tightens, thighs squeezing around his hips in a bid to keep yourself on top on him as if you haven’t got a weight on his chest.

“Be careful there,” he smirks, the usual kind nickname going unsaid as you rock back and forth over his shaft. A groan breaks free from his parted lips and he arches his back off the mattress, eyes fluttering shut for a breath. His other hand trails down the column of your throat, fingers tracing your collar bone and the valley between your breasts. He detours his wanted path, rolling your nipple and twisting it between the pads of his fingers. He mimics your moan, gaze flitting to your lips. Your chest’s sweaty, sticky, but his touch trails after the bead of sweat rolling down your stomach. A shiver trembling down your spine. His palm cups your pussy, smiling as you grind down on his hand for a bit of friction.

John’s already coaxed two orgasms out of you. He pulls you back down on his cock, warmth burning between your legs and your stomach tightening. The hat’s still on, barely. Your boys close, his movements slow and timed, both of his hands now settling on your hips. You keep your palms on his chest not wanting to break your connection with him. John’s fingers press into the soft flesh of your hips, but your mind’s a haze, thighs trembling as you let him guide you. Let him take care of both of your releases, your forehead resting on his shoulder as he rides out his own.

He slips out of you as soon as you remove the cowboy hat, arm stretched over the mattress as he you curl into his side. Your ear listening to his steady heartbeat, his lips pressing to your hairline. He smoothes his palm up and down your leg, hooking it over his hip so he can massage the tender and sore aches of being on top of him. All whilst you eye the hat on the floor.

The second game is can John eat you out with the hat still on? If it falls off his head, he don’t get no head.