dark fics by rae

You’d signed with Emily at Frozen Edge Sports when you were only eighteen years old, and she’d become too much of a friend to end your relationship the easy way. It would just hurt less if you didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes up close. 

You’d been skating since you were five years old. Your father pushed you into it, but at a certain point, you’d become the one putting pressure on yourself. It never occurred to you for all those years, but you’d given up your entire childhood for one thing. 

You’d won your first U.S. championship at eleven years old. The best day of your entire life was not qualifying for this year’s Olympics, but when you won Bronze at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships when you were fifteen years old.

You'd nearly killed yourself that season. You begged your parents to homeschool you so you could spend more hours at the rink, and you even turned down Stephan Greenwoon, the heartthrob of Arlington Catholic's Cougars hockey team—when he asked you to be his date to junior prom.

It had all been for nothing because at the young age of twenty-two, you were officially a has-been. 

That’s what four torn ligaments in your right knee can do to a bright future. 

Despite the surgeries and the intensive physical therapy, your light continued to dim. Although you eased back into practicing again, you just couldn’t seem to land the jumps that helped you qualify in the first place. Your sponsors were kind and waited a few months before they broke their contracts. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t making Emily, the main person keeping your career afloat, any more money. 

Your own money would run out soon, and your parents' help only went so far in a city as expensive as Boston. You'd thought about putting your bachelor's degree in Communications to use, a degree you had no passion for and no idea what to do with. Your Olympics-destined best friend, Anna, was kind and paying more than her fair share of rent right now to help you out. She was waiting for you to snap out of your funk, and honestly, you hoped something would change too.

The nearby elevator dinged, and you avoided eye contact with whoever was stepping out. As the person walked past you, you were hit with the smell of expensive cologne. He approached the secretary's desk, and your eyes lifted as the deep timbre of his voice reached your ears. “Hey, I have a ten a.m. appointment with David and Emily.” 

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re here, Mr. Graham.”

Your brows raised at that. His eyes turned towards you just as the confusion spread across your face. His face was familiar, chiseled, and sculpted by dark curls. A duffel bag with the Bruins’ logo hung at his side, as if he’d just arrived from practice. 

That didn’t make sense. You had a ten o’clock appointment with Emily. And it was about twelve minutes past that time. 

“Hey.” His smile stretches at the sight of you, and your heart pounds as you realize he’s walking up to you. “You must be Y/N. I’m Garrett.” 

Garrett Graham. The Bruins' rookie center. All six feet of him. 

It takes too long for you to realize he’s holding his hand out to you. He appears professional, composed, and nothing like his reputation. You stand, smoothing down your gray athleisure set, and you politely shake his hand, “Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a big fan,” He admits, still managing to sound cool and not like a fan at all. “I watched your routine at the U.S. Championships. The one where you skated to that Lana Del Rey song. It was insane.”

Your lips part in shock. You’re not sure how long it’s been since someone gave you a compliment that wasn’t covered in layers of condescension.

"You watched figure skating?"

"I watched you."

He laughed before the words could become awkward.

"I mean, I don't know much about the sport, but that routine was incredible. I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Yeah…”

“You back on the ice yet?”

“Oh, um,” The dreaded question. You keep your face from falling and smile sheepishly, awkwardly, “A little bit. Not too much. Still can’t put much weight on my right knee, but I’ve still been trying to support the other girls while they train.”  

You’d been cleared to start training lightly, but your knee had another thing to say. You couldn't even count how many times you wiped out the last time you were on the ice. 

He gives you a look that’s more empathetic than you expect: “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “It does.” 

Your agent's door opens seconds later, and Emily appears, waving the two of you into her office. “Do you know what’s going on?” You ask Garrett as he walks beside you. Why in the world is Garrett Graham joining in on your final meeting with your agent? 

“Uhm,” He presses his lips together as he decides to think over his words carefully, “I think it’s better if you hear it from Emily.”

What the fuck is going on? 

The two of you join Emily and David, who you learn is Garrett’s agent. It becomes pretty clear as the mundane introductions occur that you’re the only one who has no idea why all four of you are meeting.

Every time she opens her mouth, you expect her to finally explain.

She never does.

David is the one who eventually decides to stop pretending.

David, an old white man whose look is so corporate it actually frightens you, is the one who decides to cut to the chase. He’s balding, overweight, and he stands in contrast to Emily, who’s tall, blonde, and a former Olympic swimmer. 

“We’d like to arrange a mutually beneficial relationship between the two of you."

Your heart drops to your stomach.

"We’re all aware that your injury, Ms. Y/L/N, is likely going to prevent you from competing in the Olympics. That means many of the sponsorship opportunities previously arranged for you are no longer guaranteed. Millions of dollars in potential earnings are now at risk."

You sit completely still.

"Talent and good character, which you still have, are important to our agency. But relevance is also a factor in this industry. By establishing a romantic relationship with Mr. Graham, we believe you’ll be able to maintain public interest and preserve some of the opportunities that may otherwise disappear.”

The room goes silent, your heart fully stops beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a breath.

Is this a worse fate than being fired?

Being told that you're no longer valuable?

Knowing the only way you’ll have a career is if you become a rookie hockey player’s girlfriend for clout? 

“Emily," You force your voice from your throat. "What is he talking about?”

“I think this is the best option for you, Y/N."

Shame floods your features as your body goes rigid. Your hand instinctively drops to your right knee, your fingers tracing the scar there, pressing against the place where the pain still lingers even though your injury has technically healed.

“I want the best for you. I’m trying to find a way for you to maintain your lifestyle, your fans, and your financial security while you figure out what comes next.” 

Garrett chimes in when another silence settles over the room, “I don’t mean to be rude. This sounds great and all. I’m just not sure what I’m getting out of all of this.”

“Credibility,” Emily answers, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You have two different reputations. Y/N, you’re recognizable, poised, and charitable. You’re a good girl. And Garrett…”

She looks back at him.

"You’re talented, but you’re also seen as cocky. Hot-headed. The new rookie with something to prove."

"You think she balances me out?"

Garrett nods, as if he’s truly considering this. “You’re not serious?”

He looks over.

“What?” He lifts his hands slightly, confused. “You’re not considering this?”

He had everything to gain. Your life was slipping through your hands as the days passed. 

Emily continues, eyes focused on you, as if she were desperate for you to understand her point of view. “There are a lot of details for us to work out. There’s absolutely no rush. We can start by setting up a few chance meetings and events where you can be photographed together. We’ll see how social media responds, and that’ll help guide our next moves.”

Feeling suffocated, you stand up. You were mentally prepared to be let go; you weren't prepared for this. 

“For four years, you've told me to protect my image. To protect my brand. To make sure no one else controlled my career. And now you’re telling me all that I’m good for is being someone else’s girlfriend.”

“I’m trying to help, Y/N,” Emily says, more dejected than before.

“This isn’t personal; this is business,” David adds. 

You can’t help but scoff, and you take a final look at Emily now that she’s dragged the two of them into your business. “I trusted you.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“Wait–” Garrett turns in his chair to face you, and no matter how kind he seems, you’re too embarrassed to face him. 

“This actually has nothing to do with you.”

Anna: Hey, how’d it go?

You decided not to reply rather than explain to your friend that you had cried your eyes out in a single stall bathroom and were now trying to collect yourself and get the hell out of this building. 

God, you looked horrible. You dabbed a cold towel under your eyes, wiping away your smudged mascara. Despite reapplying your lip gloss and letting your hair down, you still found yourself frightened by your own appearance. 

You made your way out of the lobby bathroom, out the revolving doors, and onto the busy sidewalk. Looking down at your phone again, you realize your rideshare is still eight minutes away. 

Then—

“Y/N!” 

“Are you retiring?”

A group of photographers and a reporter suddenly surrounds you. You stumble backwards as the reporter forces a microphone into your face. 

“Is it true you’re not going to the Olympics?”

“Were you released today?”

You freeze. 

No, no, no. 

Flashing lights start to blind you. Your whispered “please stop” and your “no comment” are drowned out by the camera shutters. 

“Have you accepted you’ll never compete again?”

A large camera nearly knocks you to the ground. 

A deep engine rumbles from the street, cutting through the chaos, and you catch a glance at a black car that skids to a stop in front of the sidewalk. A car door opens and Garrett appears. He doesn't hesitate, rounding the front of his Jeep and shoving his way in between you and the mob. 

“Back the fuck up!” 

His voice cuts through the noise, command sharp enough to make them hesitate.

He grabs hold of your waist, pulling you against his body, an act that would typically freak you out, but for some reason, you find yourself clinging to him. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He lifts you off your feet, not on purpose, but because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that his attempt to shield you from the crowd accidentally pulls you onto your toes.

“Garrett, are you guys dating?”

“How did you two meet?” 

“Did the agency arrange this?”

He opens the passenger door and lifts you inside, the door slamming behind you. You cover your face with your hands as the flashing continues, now directed inside the car, and Garrett slides back into the driver's seat. 

“Fucking hell,” He curses as he speeds off, engine roaring, the vibrations rolling through you. “They should’ve never let you walk out of there by yourself.” 

Knees pulled to your chest, you hiccup as tears fall again. You’re grateful you’ve already cried off the rest of your mascara. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, too emotionally tired to hold up any sort of shield. Garrett rests one hand casually on the steering wheel and the other on the middle console. “Fucking assholes.”

You rest your arm next to his, your skin brushing against the fabric of his black sweatshirt. The noise seems to quiet around you, your heart's pounding starts to slow, and you feel the desire to hold onto him again.

You don't know why you feel safer.

You don't even know him.

Fingers grazing against his, Garrett decides to close the gap between you, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

He releases a deep breath, glancing over you before he says. “That was shitty, I know. I honestly thought Emily had already mentioned that whole plan to you. I’m sure it caught you off guard.” 

“Were you going to agree just because you feel bad for me?” 

Garret doesn't flinch, although the words come out sharper than you intended.

“I was going to agree because I wanted to get to know you.”

You stare at him. His jaw tightens as he focuses on the traffic ahead.

“You wanted to get to know an athlete with no career left?”

“Honestly?" He says. "I think you’re just lost, Y/N.”

You blink. “What? You don’t …” Your lips part to argue, and then he squeezes your hand, and that seems to keep your emotions from escalating. His touch grounds you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an answer just yet. And when a possible solution was presented to you, you immediately shot it down. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable feeling … broken.”

You were broken. Your body did not work the way it used to. As someone so tuned to her own body, that fact was evident. 

“Maybe you don’t want to take control of your own life…” You didn’t appreciate the introspection into your personal problems, and yet, his words made too much sense. “I mean, I totally get spending so long in complete control of your career, your mind, your body. It would make sense that you’d want a break from that.”

He strokes his thumb over your hand.

“I do,” You say automatically, solemnly,  “I want control. People look up to me. My friends are counting on me.”

Garrett hums, nodding his head, and by the way his attention stays on the road, you can tell he doesn’t believe you.

And somehow, that bothers you more because you’re not sure you believe yourself either.

“It’d be wrong to let them down. Let myself down.”

“Seems like you don’t have much control over that, you know, if you can’t skate.”

His words sting.

“How would you feel if you couldn’t play anymore?”

You expect him to pause; he doesn’t, his answer is immediate. “It would probably suck for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“What? It’s a job; it’s not my entire existence.”

“Well, it’s different for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I qualified for the Olympics.”

“That’s fair.” Garrett agrees, which surprises you. “Are you hungry?”

He’s not what you expected, at all. Because some small, desperate part of you wants to stay in this car. Wants to keep holding his hand and let him decide what happens next.

You barely know Garrett Graham.

But somehow, impossibly, he already sees right through you.

Garrett ends up buying you a hamburger and fries, something you hadn’t eaten since you started training for the Olympics, and you enjoy it in the passenger seat of his car. The two of you sit in your apartment building’s parking garage. Your moments of silence aren’t uncomfortable, and you attempt not to be thrown off by how comfortable he already feels around you. He offers to walk you up to your place, but the thought of him seeing your depression room after all of this chivalry makes you want to spiral again. 

Although he looks disappointed, he takes no for an answer. Not before he gives you his number. 

You don’t leave him with a clear answer on how you feel about the “fake dating” relationship, and you don’t mention it to Anna either. Honestly, you convince yourself that meeting Garrett Graham was a part of some strange dream you had and that you could go back to wallowing in despair. 

Except the internet doesn't let you forget.

It only takes a day for the video of you and Garrett saving you from the paparazzi to go viral on the internet. You’re sure this is the relevance that Emily had insisted Garrett would be able to give you. Millions of views and thousands of comments on a single TikTok. You still weren’t sure about being famous for something other than figure skating. 

That weekend, you hear from Garrett for the first time, hours after he wins his game against the Florida Panthers. 

Garrett: What are you doing tonight?

You: Why do you ask?

Garrett: Because I want you to come out with me. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: Out with you where?

Garrett: Did you injure your sense of adventure as well?

You sit up from your bed, pushing away your laptop playing Dirty Dancing, and stare down at your phone, incredulous.  

You: What is wrong with you?

Garrett: What’s wrong is I haven’t seen you all week. 

You: You’re not my boyfriend. 

Garrett: I’m starting to understand why you don’t have one. 

You: Fuck off.

You should’ve known he was an asshole. A stupid, smug, handsome asshole. Frustrated, you bring a pillow to your face and scream. Screw him for interrupting your self-care night all to yourself. Anna was in New York prepping for being on the Drew Barrymore show next week. This was your personal time. What right did he have to question your sense of adventure?

His rude comments throw you so off kilter, you can no longer enjoy your movie. You rise from your bed, oversized t-shirt falling against your upper thigh, and start to pace across your room. You should say something else, something clever, but you find yourself coming up short when trying to craft a reply. 

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. 

Hesitantly, you leave your room, padding across the living room of your high-rise two-bedroom apartment and slowly approach the door. Another knock, this one much louder, makes you jump. You see a head of dark, curly hair when you peek through the peephole. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper. 

Another knock. “Open the door, Y/N. I can hear you.”

You curse again. The second it opens, Garrett steps inside like he belongs there, leaving you stumbling backward.

“How did you get here so fast?”

He’s clad in a dark bomber jacket, expensive chain, and dark sneakers. Effortless confidence. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention I live in the apartment building across the street.”

You stare at him.

“Whatever, you have to leave!” You exclaim as he walks further into your place. It’s modern in style and has pink accents everywhere, Anna's and your favorite color. He ignores you completely, turning to the right, toward your open doorway, and he enters your room, completely determined. “Garrett!” 

He seems to ignore the complete disarray that your room is in and heads straight to your closet.

“I’ll call the police!”

You follow behind him, horrified.

He chuckles at that. “Sure, go ahead.” He looks you over then, at your lack of pants and messily strewn hair. A faint smirk appears. “Love the outfit, princess, but you’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out at all.” Knowing you weren’t bold enough to call the police on him, you huff and take a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Uh huh.” Garrett goes through all your drawers before he picks out a silver, sparkling mini-skirt and black, thigh-high boots. “Bingo. Put these on.”

Both items you hadn’t worn since your accident. With the weight you’ve gained from not working out, you’re not even sure you’ll fit into the skirt. “Absolutely not. I can’t even walk in those things anymore.”

“You can hold onto me–”

“No, Garrett.”

“Don’t be a fucking brat, Y/N.” 

That sends the air straight out of your lungs. 

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Garrett drops the boots at your feet, and you jump. “I told you to put them on.”

He stares down at your flustered face, not in a challenge, but because he was giving you one option. Back down. You bit down on your tongue, hard, your chest rising up and down as you struggled to breathe. He said so much and nothing at all in the intensity of his gaze. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Did you want to find out what he’d do if you didn’t obey?

Carefully, you bent down and grabbed hold of the left boot, pushing your feet into the shoe before pulling the black leather fabric all the way up to your knee. To your surprise, they still fit over your calves.

“There you go.” His voice is quieter now.

You bite down on your tongue harder, eyes focused on his feet, as his voice caresses over you. You do the same with the right foot, this time your hands lingering for an uncomfortable amount of time on your right knee.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your breath catch.

And you hate how much you notice it.

“Now, take off those granny panties.”

“I don’t want to.” Your voice is small, unrecognizable. 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

“It’s either no panties or these.” He holds out a pair of black, lacy panties. Those were a part of a gift that Anna had gotten you when you turned twenty-one. No one had ever seen you in them. “I’ll let you decide that.”

You stand, wobbling, like you did the first time you got back on the ice. Garrett grabs you by your hips to steady you. For a moment, you get stuck in his gaze, and the hungry way he’s staring at you. “Panties, princess.”

He’s so insistent. It’s overwhelming. And it’s not like you to listen to a man. Or anyone, for a matter. You’re independent. You make your own decisions. You’re anything but that, now, as you reach down to slide off your boyshorts. He holds onto you as you step out of them. He kneels then, and you hold onto his shoulders as you step into the black lacy pair of underwear. 

“Garrett!” You yelp when he grabs you by your bottom, pressing his nose into the fabric that’s now wrapped tightly against your center. He inhales deeply, and you feel that warmth spreading to your core. He pushes you back onto the bed then, and you land with a bounce. “What–what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I know I want you on my arm tonight, but I’m debating if I should fill your cunt before we leave or end the night inside of you.” Garrett strips off his jacket before he lifts your thighs as he settles between them. You’re speechless when he presses his lips to yours. He wastes no time exploring you, parting your lips, and sticking his tongue in your mouth. When he pulls away, allowing you to get a breath, he’s made up his mind. “Both work, actually. Both sound good.”

 “Garrett,” You whine. 

"What? Tell me what's wrong. You don't like it when I touch you?"

"I hate it." In a swift movement, he forcefully pins your hands above your head. "Garrett!"

"Then why are you grinding against me?"

Fuck. You tilt your head back in frustration.

“I had a feeling about you. I knew you were a dirty little princess,” Garrett grunts against your skin. His jeans are tight enough for you to already feel how hard he is, and he wastes no time creating friction between you. “All pent up.”

“Fuck, I wanna taste all of you.”

“Garrett–”

“Warm you up, yeah?”

You whine louder, unrecognizable to yourself. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that? Want me to make it hurt?”

“Please.” Tears sting your eyes. How did he know exactly what you needed to feel? That you liked the pain. That you wanted to feel worthless. That you needed someone else to finally tell you what to do.

“Dirty fucking princess. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

It burned between your legs. Garrett had kept his word. Made it hurt. And you’d finished while he rocked his hips, deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. 

He’d dragged you to the club along with his teammates and worn what he had done to you like a badge of honor, all night. As soon as you got used to walking in the heels again, the vodka shots, unfortunately, made it harder again. 

A party for other athletes is actually the last place you’d usually want to be—athletes who have successful careers and are close to winning another playoff. You’ve managed to go six months without being in a room like this, and Anna had been begging you to integrate yourself back into the world. Except, you hadn’t been sure this was even your world anymore. 

Tonight, you hoped your thigh-high black boots and sparkling mini-skirt would give you an heir of confidence and nonverbally say I’m totally fine, totally sexy, and I can live without figure skating. 

The nightclub was decked out in black, gold, and white in celebration of the Bruins’ win tonight. There were packs of puck bunnies who’d paired their thigh-high boots with the jerseys of their favorite players. 

You didn’t wonder long if you belonged here because being on Garrett’s arm made it so the sea of people parted everywhere the two of you walked. People only had kind things to say when they greeted him, which meant you got less of the back-handed compliments you were getting used to. 

No mentions of “Oh my God. I used to love you!” or “You were so good last year!” Garrett, somehow, was making you feel less like you were “talented” in the past tense and more like you could exist without any of those labels. He gave you a taste of what it would be like to be Garrett's girl.

When you started to leave your body, feeling like a million eyes were on you, Garrett grabbed your chin and forced your eyes onto his. “Look at me. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Except me, his eyes seemed to say. “I’ll handle it”

You try to relax and to use all that poise and sensuality you’d learned from skating and channel it into dancing with Garrett. 

After the two of you have danced hard enough to leave you covered in a layer of sweat, Garrett guides you over to the bar. 

“You’re glad you came, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure glad is the way you would describe it. 

“You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says smoothly before he orders you a Vodka Red Bull. As you wait for the bartender to mix your drink, he leans down to speak into your ear, “Hey, so, a few of the guys and their girls are going to Vegas tonight.”

“Oh,” You lean up to say, “That sounds fun.”

“Good." Garrett smiles. “We’re going too.”

You shake your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Vegas? Tonight? It’s already almost midnight!”

“You can sleep through the flight.”

Concern fills your eyes but Garrett turns his focus on grabbing your drink and forcing it into your hands. “I’m not prepared to fly. And you don’t have plane tickets, do you?”

“Drink that.”

“Garrett–”

“Don’t be rude. I just paid twenty bucks for that. Drink it.”

His tone is stern, and you can feel the seriousness even over the pounding EDM music. Again, there’s no challenge in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to argue.

He just looks at you like he already knows you’ll listen.

The worst part is that he's been right the entire night.

You take a sip, instantly cringing at how strong it is. Garrett isn’t satisfied when you flash your eyes up at hiim. A non-verbal command. More. Taking a breath, you take a longer sip. 

"There you go."

"You're annoying."

"Maybe."

He smiles again, white teeth flashing, and you're starting to understand why all of Boston has become obsessed with him.

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow, princess?” Your teeth bite at your straw, slightly frustrated and mostly buzzed.

"No."

“That’s what I thought.” 

After midnight, when you’re in the car with Garrett, you realize that Garrett didn’t have a single drink tonight. Meanwhile, your head was spinning, mini-skirt riding up and knee high boots that were now pooling around your ankles. 

The last time you were in Vegas was for a competition years ago. You’d done your fair share of partying in the early days of college but ever since you locked in for the Olympics, you hadn’t done any heavy drinking. Which meant you’d become much more of a lightweight than you remembered. 

“I can’t go through TSA like this,” you mumble, sinking into the passenger seat.

An old rock song plays quietly through the speakers.

“I’ll get arrested.”

Garrett glances over.

“No TSA where we’re going, baby.”

“What?” You moan, “I thought we were getting on a plane.”

“A private plane.”

You gasp, “No freaking way. You have a plane.”

“I don’t have a plane, princess. I have friends who have a plane.” 

“I have to text Anna.”

“I’ll text her for you when we get on the plane.”

“Fuck,” You felt like you were talking in slow motion.  “This has been the weirdest night of my life. I can’t believe I fucked Garrett Graham.

A pause.

"Me."

Your eyes start to close.

"America’s sweetheart.”

You don’t see the smile that crosses his face.

You’re asleep before the car even reaches the runway.

The bed you wake up in is soft but obviously not yours. The room is blurry when you first open your eyes, the sun peeking in through a nearby window, a loud hum immediately flooding your ears. The sound is deep and constant. 

A plane. 

You swore you dreamt that part of the night. There’s no way you agreed to go with Garrett all the way to Vegas. Then again, you were completely sober when you let him inside of you. 

Running your fingers over your skin, you realize the only piece of clothing you’re still wearing are your underwar. As the panic continues to sink in, the bed dips beside you, and heavy arm wrapping around you. A shirtless, sleeping Garrett, settles beside you, his hips pressing into your bottom. 

“Garrett,” You whisper, your heart racing in your chest. He moans in response, hands reaching to grab a handful of your breast. “Can you wake up?”

“What?” He asks gruffly, annoyed. 

“Why am I naked?”

“What?” He asks again, half asleep, “I undressed you. You were wasted last night.”

“But you didn’t …” Your voice trails off as the question hangs in the air. 

“Of course not..”

“Oh…okay.”

He presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your shoulder and your worries melt … slightly. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” He says, unbelieving. He continues to grab your breast, placing kissess along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He’s hard, erection straining against his briefs, and pressing into your ass. 

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” You think out loud. 

Garrett hums, strong fingers trailing down your stomach and towards your center, “Doesn’t help that you’re touch starved.” This observation makes you want to roll your eyes, “You’re so responsive.”

You breath out, holding in your moans, “Are we landing soon?”

“There's time, don’t worry.”

Garrett presses you into the bed, stomach and the side of your head against the sheets. He positions himself at your entrance moments later.

"So needy."

He slips inside of you like last night, knowing you’re wet but not wet enough to take all of him.

He holds the back of your neck tightly, pressing your face further into the mattress as he roughly grabs the flesh of your bottom. He spanks you as he takes you deeper. It hurts, but that's what you like the most, and from this angle, he can watch as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“I think I’ll take you everywhere with me.” 

He spanks you so hard it’ll surely leave bruises. The feeling makes you grit your teeth, but you don't ask him to stop. You don't want him to.

“My little stress reliever.”

“I can use you however I want, right?”

His words, the shame, the friction against the bed- it quickly sends you tumbling over the edge. Your body shakes as you squeeze him tighter. His hips stutter. “Fuck.”

“You like that.”

“This is what you’re good for, princess. Making me feel good.”

His goal is not your pleasure. It just so happens that his taking what he needs from you is what feels best.

“Oh my -- Garrett!”

It’s his name on your lips that brings him to his own end. He pins you tighter to the bed, another reminder of where you belong.

Beneath him. 

It’s eye-opening, the relief, and how much you like the feeling.

You think you would want to feel this way all the time, if that were even possible.

For now, though, surrendering to him feels easier than fighting to hold yourself together.

Two days later, you pace inside the luxurious hotel suite, the lights of the Las Vegas strip shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s just a bikini, Y/N,” Anna’s voice comes through your phone. You stare down at your screen and see her camera propped up in front of her as she wipes off her makeup from the day. You're three hours ahead of her, your night just beginning as hers is coming to an end.

She's wrong.

It’s actually the opposite of a bikini. 

It’s a piece of clothing that Garrett Graham has picked out for you and expects you to wear to a huge pool party tonight. 

It’s unforgiving of your scars or your changing body. 

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve spontaneously decided to go to Las Vegas with Garrett Graham and wearing a bikini in public is where you’re drawing the line.” 

“You know, you’re not helping, you’re supposed to tell me that I’m being crazy. That I’m fucking up my entire life.”

“Fucking up your life? Girl, do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?”

You sigh, frustrated. 

“I can’t do this, Anna.”

“You can.”

“Can’t!”

“Fine, you’ve never listened to me. Maybe he can convince you, though.”

You scoff at that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that, for some reason, Garrett Graham is the only person who’s been able to get to you since all of this happened. I just have a feeling that I’m gonna wake up in the morning to some paparazzi photos of you looking gorgeous in that bikini and having the time of your life.” 

Anna ends up being right because everyone, like Garrett, seemed to know you better than you did yourself. 

It doesn’t take any convincing for Garrett to get you into a red bikini. All he has to do is tell you to put it on. You give in instantly. 

He leaves you no room to feel insecure with him. There’s no way you can’t feel gorgeous because Garrett doesn’t go longer than five minutes without his tongue down your throat. 

You shower that night together, after the pool party, and Garrett takes his time carefully dragging the soapy washcloth across your skin. 

“Plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been a very good girl for me this weekend.”

You knew what it meant. You kept close to him no matter what party or event he wanted to take you to. When he wanted to be inside of you, you let him bend you over. 

“Uhm.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You think you deserve a reward?”

Was the free vacation and a dozen orgasms not enough of a reward?

You turn to face him, eyes blinking up at him nervously, warm water beating against your back. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” He grabs hold of your chin with one hand. With the other, he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “I want to spank you.”

A sharp inhale. “Is that …is that not a punishment?”

“Not for you.”

The steam escapes the glass shower as Garrett leads you back into the bathroom. He takes his time drying your hair and your skin, paying attention to every curve of your body. You notice the way his fingers hover over your scar. When you flinch away, he grabs your leg tighter, a reminder to stay in place. To not run away from him.

Pleasure or pain, whatever he decided to give you.

You had to take it. 

You wanted to.

It was getting harder and harder to hide how desperate you were.

“I’m tired.”

“So you don’t want your reward?”

Garrett stands, wrapping a towel around his waist, dark hair still dripping onto the skin of sculpted chest. 

You bite down on your lip, afraid to tell him no. He looks you over closely. 

“Fine. Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

He turns away from you, walking over to one of the Jack and Jill sinks. 

“I feel sore too. From earlier.”

Garrett hums, ignoring you, and although he’s had his tongue in your mouth all night, you start to feel upset that he’s turned his attention from you. 

He wants you to beg now. Beg for him to hurt you. 

You haven’t moved yet, twiddling your fingers, and Garrett hasn’t said another word. 

“Is this how you treat all your girlfriends?”

Garrett sighs, drying his hair in the mirror, “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll let me. And you like it.”

“I don’t,” You argue. “Okay, sure, it’s fun in the bedroom. But all the time? If we …if we started dating like our agents suggested, this is how you would treat me?”

“Is that what you want? To date me?”

“No,” You answer too quickly, “I don’t know. Not if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Garrett turns, tossing his towel to the side, before he stalks over to you. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m serious–”

“Get on your knees.”

“Garrett, it’s not gonna work. I’m not playing …I don’t want to play your game anymore.”

“Get on your knees, princess.” His voice vibrates through you. The peaks of your chest rise as he stares down at your naked body. 

“Please stop–”

“On your knees, baby. You want to be my good girl, I know you do.”

You lower yourself down gently, your eyes traveling down his legs before they land on the tile floor. 

"Show me how good you are."

“Crawl to the bed.”

Your knees ache almost as bad as your warm center. 

Garrett follows behind you as you slowly, surely taking in the sight of your bare bottom, as you make your way across the tile and then onto the carpet of the bedroom. The room is straight out of a porno. A king-sized bed, red-felt headboard, and a mirror that hangs on the ceiling directly above the bed. Red velvet curtains partially cover the view of the Vegas city life, and the sound of the city- honking cars and nightlife roars on in the background. 

Garrett grabs you and lifts you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“Face on the bed. Ass up.” 

Your body moves before your mind can tell it what to do. 

Much to your disappointment, seconds pass, and you realize Garrett has left the room. You hear shuffling in the kitchen, and you frown. You keep your position perfectly, which is the sickest part. Minutes later, Garrett returns with a glass of water in hand. 

“Do you like when I tell you what to do, Y/N?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, Garrett.” He corrects you. 

“Yes, Garrett.” You parrot back. 

"Then don't complicate things. Let me give you what you need."

He sets down the glass of water on his bedside table before he disappears into the bathroom. Again, you don’t move. 

Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment settling deep. He returns, now wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein underwear. 

The bed dips as Garrett gets into the bed, pulling the covers over his body. He waits another long minute before he says, “C’mere.”

Hesitant, you lift your head. His tired eyes burn into yours. He pats the spot beside him, and you crawl slowly, like a dog, until you’re beside him. He lifts the covers so you can slide your body next to you. You sniffle, wiping your tears, as you lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, not forgetting to add, “Garrett.”

“I know, baby, you're just overwhelmed. Let’s go to sleep.”

No more games.

No more power plays.

At least for tonight.

You’d signed with Emily at Frozen Edge Sports when you were only eighteen years old, and she’d become too much of a friend to end your relationship the easy way. It would just hurt less if you didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes up close. 

You’d been skating since you were five years old. Your father pushed you into it, but at a certain point, you’d become the one putting pressure on yourself. It never occurred to you for all those years, but you’d given up your entire childhood for one thing. 

You’d won your first U.S. championship at eleven years old. The best day of your entire life was not qualifying for this year’s Olympics, but when you won Bronze at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships when you were fifteen years old.

You'd nearly killed yourself that season. You begged your parents to homeschool you so you could spend more hours at the rink, and you even turned down Stephan Greenwoon, the heartthrob of Arlington Catholic's Cougars hockey team—when he asked you to be his date to junior prom.

It had all been for nothing because at the young age of twenty-two, you were officially a has-been. 

That’s what four torn ligaments in your right knee can do to a bright future. 

Despite the surgeries and the intensive physical therapy, your light continued to dim. Although you eased back into practicing again, you just couldn’t seem to land the jumps that helped you qualify in the first place. Your sponsors were kind and waited a few months before they broke their contracts. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t making Emily, the main person keeping your career afloat, any more money. 

Your own money would run out soon, and your parents' help only went so far in a city as expensive as Boston. You'd thought about putting your bachelor's degree in Communications to use, a degree you had no passion for and no idea what to do with. Your Olympics-destined best friend, Anna, was kind and paying more than her fair share of rent right now to help you out. She was waiting for you to snap out of your funk, and honestly, you hoped something would change too.

The nearby elevator dinged, and you avoided eye contact with whoever was stepping out. As the person walked past you, you were hit with the smell of expensive cologne. He approached the secretary's desk, and your eyes lifted as the deep timbre of his voice reached your ears. “Hey, I have a ten a.m. appointment with David and Emily.” 

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re here, Mr. Graham.”

Your brows raised at that. His eyes turned towards you just as the confusion spread across your face. His face was familiar, chiseled, and sculpted by dark curls. A duffel bag with the Bruins’ logo hung at his side, as if he’d just arrived from practice. 

That didn’t make sense. You had a ten o’clock appointment with Emily. And it was about twelve minutes past that time. 

“Hey.” His smile stretches at the sight of you, and your heart pounds as you realize he’s walking up to you. “You must be Y/N. I’m Garrett.” 

Garrett Graham. The Bruins' rookie center. All six feet of him. 

It takes too long for you to realize he’s holding his hand out to you. He appears professional, composed, and nothing like his reputation. You stand, smoothing down your gray athleisure set, and you politely shake his hand, “Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a big fan,” He admits, still managing to sound cool and not like a fan at all. “I watched your routine at the U.S. Championships. The one where you skated to that Lana Del Rey song. It was insane.”

Your lips part in shock. You’re not sure how long it’s been since someone gave you a compliment that wasn’t covered in layers of condescension.

"You watched figure skating?"

"I watched you."

He laughed before the words could become awkward.

"I mean, I don't know much about the sport, but that routine was incredible. I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Yeah…”

“You back on the ice yet?”

“Oh, um,” The dreaded question. You keep your face from falling and smile sheepishly, awkwardly, “A little bit. Not too much. Still can’t put much weight on my right knee, but I’ve still been trying to support the other girls while they train.”  

You’d been cleared to start training lightly, but your knee had another thing to say. You couldn't even count how many times you wiped out the last time you were on the ice. 

He gives you a look that’s more empathetic than you expect: “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “It does.” 

Your agent's door opens seconds later, and Emily appears, waving the two of you into her office. “Do you know what’s going on?” You ask Garrett as he walks beside you. Why in the world is Garrett Graham joining in on your final meeting with your agent? 

“Uhm,” He presses his lips together as he decides to think over his words carefully, “I think it’s better if you hear it from Emily.”

What the fuck is going on? 

The two of you join Emily and David, who you learn is Garrett’s agent. It becomes pretty clear as the mundane introductions occur that you’re the only one who has no idea why all four of you are meeting.

Every time she opens her mouth, you expect her to finally explain.

She never does.

David is the one who eventually decides to stop pretending.

David, an old white man whose look is so corporate it actually frightens you, is the one who decides to cut to the chase. He’s balding, overweight, and he stands in contrast to Emily, who’s tall, blonde, and a former Olympic swimmer. 

“We’d like to arrange a mutually beneficial relationship between the two of you."

Your heart drops to your stomach.

"We’re all aware that your injury, Ms. Y/L/N, is likely going to prevent you from competing in the Olympics. That means many of the sponsorship opportunities previously arranged for you are no longer guaranteed. Millions of dollars in potential earnings are now at risk."

You sit completely still.

"Talent and good character, which you still have, are important to our agency. But relevance is also a factor in this industry. By establishing a romantic relationship with Mr. Graham, we believe you’ll be able to maintain public interest and preserve some of the opportunities that may otherwise disappear.”

The room goes silent, your heart fully stops beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a breath.

Is this a worse fate than being fired?

Being told that you're no longer valuable?

Knowing the only way you’ll have a career is if you become a rookie hockey player’s girlfriend for clout? 

“Emily," You force your voice from your throat. "What is he talking about?”

“I think this is the best option for you, Y/N."

Shame floods your features as your body goes rigid. Your hand instinctively drops to your right knee, your fingers tracing the scar there, pressing against the place where the pain still lingers even though your injury has technically healed.

“I want the best for you. I’m trying to find a way for you to maintain your lifestyle, your fans, and your financial security while you figure out what comes next.” 

Garrett chimes in when another silence settles over the room, “I don’t mean to be rude. This sounds great and all. I’m just not sure what I’m getting out of all of this.”

“Credibility,” Emily answers, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You have two different reputations. Y/N, you’re recognizable, poised, and charitable. You’re a good girl. And Garrett…”

She looks back at him.

"You’re talented, but you’re also seen as cocky. Hot-headed. The new rookie with something to prove."

"You think she balances me out?"

Garrett nods, as if he’s truly considering this. “You’re not serious?”

He looks over.

“What?” He lifts his hands slightly, confused. “You’re not considering this?”

He had everything to gain. Your life was slipping through your hands as the days passed. 

Emily continues, eyes focused on you, as if she were desperate for you to understand her point of view. “There are a lot of details for us to work out. There’s absolutely no rush. We can start by setting up a few chance meetings and events where you can be photographed together. We’ll see how social media responds, and that’ll help guide our next moves.”

Feeling suffocated, you stand up. You were mentally prepared to be let go; you weren't prepared for this. 

“For four years, you've told me to protect my image. To protect my brand. To make sure no one else controlled my career. And now you’re telling me all that I’m good for is being someone else’s girlfriend.”

“I’m trying to help, Y/N,” Emily says, more dejected than before.

“This isn’t personal; this is business,” David adds. 

You can’t help but scoff, and you take a final look at Emily now that she’s dragged the two of them into your business. “I trusted you.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“Wait–” Garrett turns in his chair to face you, and no matter how kind he seems, you’re too embarrassed to face him. 

“This actually has nothing to do with you.”

Anna: Hey, how’d it go?

You decided not to reply rather than explain to your friend that you had cried your eyes out in a single stall bathroom and were now trying to collect yourself and get the hell out of this building. 

God, you looked horrible. You dabbed a cold towel under your eyes, wiping away your smudged mascara. Despite reapplying your lip gloss and letting your hair down, you still found yourself frightened by your own appearance. 

You made your way out of the lobby bathroom, out the revolving doors, and onto the busy sidewalk. Looking down at your phone again, you realize your rideshare is still eight minutes away. 

Then—

“Y/N!” 

“Are you retiring?”

A group of photographers and a reporter suddenly surrounds you. You stumble backwards as the reporter forces a microphone into your face. 

“Is it true you’re not going to the Olympics?”

“Were you released today?”

You freeze. 

No, no, no. 

Flashing lights start to blind you. Your whispered “please stop” and your “no comment” are drowned out by the camera shutters. 

“Have you accepted you’ll never compete again?”

A large camera nearly knocks you to the ground. 

A deep engine rumbles from the street, cutting through the chaos, and you catch a glance at a black car that skids to a stop in front of the sidewalk. A car door opens and Garrett appears. He doesn't hesitate, rounding the front of his Jeep and shoving his way in between you and the mob. 

“Back the fuck up!” 

His voice cuts through the noise, command sharp enough to make them hesitate.

He grabs hold of your waist, pulling you against his body, an act that would typically freak you out, but for some reason, you find yourself clinging to him. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He lifts you off your feet, not on purpose, but because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that his attempt to shield you from the crowd accidentally pulls you onto your toes.

“Garrett, are you guys dating?”

“How did you two meet?” 

“Did the agency arrange this?”

He opens the passenger door and lifts you inside, the door slamming behind you. You cover your face with your hands as the flashing continues, now directed inside the car, and Garrett slides back into the driver's seat. 

“Fucking hell,” He curses as he speeds off, engine roaring, the vibrations rolling through you. “They should’ve never let you walk out of there by yourself.” 

Knees pulled to your chest, you hiccup as tears fall again. You’re grateful you’ve already cried off the rest of your mascara. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, too emotionally tired to hold up any sort of shield. Garrett rests one hand casually on the steering wheel and the other on the middle console. “Fucking assholes.”

You rest your arm next to his, your skin brushing against the fabric of his black sweatshirt. The noise seems to quiet around you, your heart's pounding starts to slow, and you feel the desire to hold onto him again.

You don't know why you feel safer.

You don't even know him.

Fingers grazing against his, Garrett decides to close the gap between you, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

He releases a deep breath, glancing over you before he says. “That was shitty, I know. I honestly thought Emily had already mentioned that whole plan to you. I’m sure it caught you off guard.” 

“Were you going to agree just because you feel bad for me?” 

Garret doesn't flinch, although the words come out sharper than you intended.

“I was going to agree because I wanted to get to know you.”

You stare at him. His jaw tightens as he focuses on the traffic ahead.

“You wanted to get to know an athlete with no career left?”

“Honestly?" He says. "I think you’re just lost, Y/N.”

You blink. “What? You don’t …” Your lips part to argue, and then he squeezes your hand, and that seems to keep your emotions from escalating. His touch grounds you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an answer just yet. And when a possible solution was presented to you, you immediately shot it down. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable feeling … broken.”

You were broken. Your body did not work the way it used to. As someone so tuned to her own body, that fact was evident. 

“Maybe you don’t want to take control of your own life…” You didn’t appreciate the introspection into your personal problems, and yet, his words made too much sense. “I mean, I totally get spending so long in complete control of your career, your mind, your body. It would make sense that you’d want a break from that.”

He strokes his thumb over your hand.

“I do,” You say automatically, solemnly,  “I want control. People look up to me. My friends are counting on me.”

Garrett hums, nodding his head, and by the way his attention stays on the road, you can tell he doesn’t believe you.

And somehow, that bothers you more because you’re not sure you believe yourself either.

“It’d be wrong to let them down. Let myself down.”

“Seems like you don’t have much control over that, you know, if you can’t skate.”

His words sting.

“How would you feel if you couldn’t play anymore?”

You expect him to pause; he doesn’t, his answer is immediate. “It would probably suck for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“What? It’s a job; it’s not my entire existence.”

“Well, it’s different for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I qualified for the Olympics.”

“That’s fair.” Garrett agrees, which surprises you. “Are you hungry?”

He’s not what you expected, at all. Because some small, desperate part of you wants to stay in this car. Wants to keep holding his hand and let him decide what happens next.

You barely know Garrett Graham.

But somehow, impossibly, he already sees right through you.

Garrett ends up buying you a hamburger and fries, something you hadn’t eaten since you started training for the Olympics, and you enjoy it in the passenger seat of his car. The two of you sit in your apartment building’s parking garage. Your moments of silence aren’t uncomfortable, and you attempt not to be thrown off by how comfortable he already feels around you. He offers to walk you up to your place, but the thought of him seeing your depression room after all of this chivalry makes you want to spiral again. 

Although he looks disappointed, he takes no for an answer. Not before he gives you his number. 

You don’t leave him with a clear answer on how you feel about the “fake dating” relationship, and you don’t mention it to Anna either. Honestly, you convince yourself that meeting Garrett Graham was a part of some strange dream you had and that you could go back to wallowing in despair. 

Except the internet doesn't let you forget.

It only takes a day for the video of you and Garrett saving you from the paparazzi to go viral on the internet. You’re sure this is the relevance that Emily had insisted Garrett would be able to give you. Millions of views and thousands of comments on a single TikTok. You still weren’t sure about being famous for something other than figure skating. 

That weekend, you hear from Garrett for the first time, hours after he wins his game against the Florida Panthers. 

Garrett: What are you doing tonight?

You: Why do you ask?

Garrett: Because I want you to come out with me. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: Out with you where?

Garrett: Did you injure your sense of adventure as well?

You sit up from your bed, pushing away your laptop playing Dirty Dancing, and stare down at your phone, incredulous.  

You: What is wrong with you?

Garrett: What’s wrong is I haven’t seen you all week. 

You: You’re not my boyfriend. 

Garrett: I’m starting to understand why you don’t have one. 

You: Fuck off.

You should’ve known he was an asshole. A stupid, smug, handsome asshole. Frustrated, you bring a pillow to your face and scream. Screw him for interrupting your self-care night all to yourself. Anna was in New York prepping for being on the Drew Barrymore show next week. This was your personal time. What right did he have to question your sense of adventure?

His rude comments throw you so off kilter, you can no longer enjoy your movie. You rise from your bed, oversized t-shirt falling against your upper thigh, and start to pace across your room. You should say something else, something clever, but you find yourself coming up short when trying to craft a reply. 

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. 

Hesitantly, you leave your room, padding across the living room of your high-rise two-bedroom apartment and slowly approach the door. Another knock, this one much louder, makes you jump. You see a head of dark, curly hair when you peek through the peephole. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper. 

Another knock. “Open the door, Y/N. I can hear you.”

You curse again. The second it opens, Garrett steps inside like he belongs there, leaving you stumbling backward.

“How did you get here so fast?”

He’s clad in a dark bomber jacket, expensive chain, and dark sneakers. Effortless confidence. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention I live in the apartment building across the street.”

You stare at him.

“Whatever, you have to leave!” You exclaim as he walks further into your place. It’s modern in style and has pink accents everywhere, Anna's and your favorite color. He ignores you completely, turning to the right, toward your open doorway, and he enters your room, completely determined. “Garrett!” 

He seems to ignore the complete disarray that your room is in and heads straight to your closet.

“I’ll call the police!”

You follow behind him, horrified.

He chuckles at that. “Sure, go ahead.” He looks you over then, at your lack of pants and messily strewn hair. A faint smirk appears. “Love the outfit, princess, but you’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out at all.” Knowing you weren’t bold enough to call the police on him, you huff and take a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Uh huh.” Garrett goes through all your drawers before he picks out a silver, sparkling mini-skirt and black, thigh-high boots. “Bingo. Put these on.”

Both items you hadn’t worn since your accident. With the weight you’ve gained from not working out, you’re not even sure you’ll fit into the skirt. “Absolutely not. I can’t even walk in those things anymore.”

“You can hold onto me–”

“No, Garrett.”

“Don’t be a fucking brat, Y/N.” 

That sends the air straight out of your lungs. 

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Garrett drops the boots at your feet, and you jump. “I told you to put them on.”

He stares down at your flustered face, not in a challenge, but because he was giving you one option. Back down. You bit down on your tongue, hard, your chest rising up and down as you struggled to breathe. He said so much and nothing at all in the intensity of his gaze. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Did you want to find out what he’d do if you didn’t obey?

Carefully, you bent down and grabbed hold of the left boot, pushing your feet into the shoe before pulling the black leather fabric all the way up to your knee. To your surprise, they still fit over your calves.

“There you go.” His voice is quieter now.

You bite down on your tongue harder, eyes focused on his feet, as his voice caresses over you. You do the same with the right foot, this time your hands lingering for an uncomfortable amount of time on your right knee.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your breath catch.

And you hate how much you notice it.

“Now, take off those granny panties.”

“I don’t want to.” Your voice is small, unrecognizable. 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

“It’s either no panties or these.” He holds out a pair of black, lacy panties. Those were a part of a gift that Anna had gotten you when you turned twenty-one. No one had ever seen you in them. “I’ll let you decide that.”

You stand, wobbling, like you did the first time you got back on the ice. Garrett grabs you by your hips to steady you. For a moment, you get stuck in his gaze, and the hungry way he’s staring at you. “Panties, princess.”

He’s so insistent. It’s overwhelming. And it’s not like you to listen to a man. Or anyone, for a matter. You’re independent. You make your own decisions. You’re anything but that, now, as you reach down to slide off your boyshorts. He holds onto you as you step out of them. He kneels then, and you hold onto his shoulders as you step into the black lacy pair of underwear. 

“Garrett!” You yelp when he grabs you by your bottom, pressing his nose into the fabric that’s now wrapped tightly against your center. He inhales deeply, and you feel that warmth spreading to your core. He pushes you back onto the bed then, and you land with a bounce. “What–what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I know I want you on my arm tonight, but I’m debating if I should fill your cunt before we leave or end the night inside of you.” Garrett strips off his jacket before he lifts your thighs as he settles between them. You’re speechless when he presses his lips to yours. He wastes no time exploring you, parting your lips, and sticking his tongue in your mouth. When he pulls away, allowing you to get a breath, he’s made up his mind. “Both work, actually. Both sound good.”

 “Garrett,” You whine. 

"What? Tell me what's wrong. You don't like it when I touch you?"

"I hate it." In a swift movement, he forcefully pins your hands above your head. "Garrett!"

"Then why are you grinding against me?"

Fuck. You tilt your head back in frustration.

“I had a feeling about you. I knew you were a dirty little princess,” Garrett grunts against your skin. His jeans are tight enough for you to already feel how hard he is, and he wastes no time creating friction between you. “All pent up.”

“Fuck, I wanna taste all of you.”

“Garrett–”

“Warm you up, yeah?”

You whine louder, unrecognizable to yourself. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that? Want me to make it hurt?”

“Please.” Tears sting your eyes. How did he know exactly what you needed to feel? That you liked the pain. That you wanted to feel worthless. That you needed someone else to finally tell you what to do.

“Dirty fucking princess. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

It burned between your legs. Garrett had kept his word. Made it hurt. And you’d finished while he rocked his hips, deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. 

He’d dragged you to the club along with his teammates and worn what he had done to you like a badge of honor, all night. As soon as you got used to walking in the heels again, the vodka shots, unfortunately, made it harder again. 

A party for other athletes is actually the last place you’d usually want to be—athletes who have successful careers and are close to winning another playoff. You’ve managed to go six months without being in a room like this, and Anna had been begging you to integrate yourself back into the world. Except, you hadn’t been sure this was even your world anymore. 

Tonight, you hoped your thigh-high black boots and sparkling mini-skirt would give you an heir of confidence and nonverbally say I’m totally fine, totally sexy, and I can live without figure skating. 

The nightclub was decked out in black, gold, and white in celebration of the Bruins’ win tonight. There were packs of puck bunnies who’d paired their thigh-high boots with the jerseys of their favorite players. 

You didn’t wonder long if you belonged here because being on Garrett’s arm made it so the sea of people parted everywhere the two of you walked. People only had kind things to say when they greeted him, which meant you got less of the back-handed compliments you were getting used to. 

No mentions of “Oh my God. I used to love you!” or “You were so good last year!” Garrett, somehow, was making you feel less like you were “talented” in the past tense and more like you could exist without any of those labels. He gave you a taste of what it would be like to be Garrett's girl.

When you started to leave your body, feeling like a million eyes were on you, Garrett grabbed your chin and forced your eyes onto his. “Look at me. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Except me, his eyes seemed to say. “I’ll handle it”

You try to relax and to use all that poise and sensuality you’d learned from skating and channel it into dancing with Garrett. 

After the two of you have danced hard enough to leave you covered in a layer of sweat, Garrett guides you over to the bar. 

“You’re glad you came, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure glad is the way you would describe it. 

“You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says smoothly before he orders you a Vodka Red Bull. As you wait for the bartender to mix your drink, he leans down to speak into your ear, “Hey, so, a few of the guys and their girls are going to Vegas tonight.”

“Oh,” You lean up to say, “That sounds fun.”

“Good." Garrett smiles. “We’re going too.”

You shake your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Vegas? Tonight? It’s already almost midnight!”

“You can sleep through the flight.”

Concern fills your eyes but Garrett turns his focus on grabbing your drink and forcing it into your hands. “I’m not prepared to fly. And you don’t have plane tickets, do you?”

“Drink that.”

“Garrett–”

“Don’t be rude. I just paid twenty bucks for that. Drink it.”

His tone is stern, and you can feel the seriousness even over the pounding EDM music. Again, there’s no challenge in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to argue.

He just looks at you like he already knows you’ll listen.

The worst part is that he's been right the entire night.

You take a sip, instantly cringing at how strong it is. Garrett isn’t satisfied when you flash your eyes up at hiim. A non-verbal command. More. Taking a breath, you take a longer sip. 

"There you go."

"You're annoying."

"Maybe."

He smiles again, white teeth flashing, and you're starting to understand why all of Boston has become obsessed with him.

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow, princess?” Your teeth bite at your straw, slightly frustrated and mostly buzzed.

"No."

“That’s what I thought.” 

After midnight, when you’re in the car with Garrett, you realize that Garrett didn’t have a single drink tonight. Meanwhile, your head was spinning, mini-skirt riding up and knee high boots that were now pooling around your ankles. 

The last time you were in Vegas was for a competition years ago. You’d done your fair share of partying in the early days of college but ever since you locked in for the Olympics, you hadn’t done any heavy drinking. Which meant you’d become much more of a lightweight than you remembered. 

“I can’t go through TSA like this,” you mumble, sinking into the passenger seat.

An old rock song plays quietly through the speakers.

“I’ll get arrested.”

Garrett glances over.

“No TSA where we’re going, baby.”

“What?” You moan, “I thought we were getting on a plane.”

“A private plane.”

You gasp, “No freaking way. You have a plane.”

“I don’t have a plane, princess. I have friends who have a plane.” 

“I have to text Anna.”

“I’ll text her for you when we get on the plane.”

“Fuck,” You felt like you were talking in slow motion.  “This has been the weirdest night of my life. I can’t believe I fucked Garrett Graham.

A pause.

"Me."

Your eyes start to close.

"America’s sweetheart.”

You don’t see the smile that crosses his face.

You’re asleep before the car even reaches the runway.

The bed you wake up in is soft but obviously not yours. The room is blurry when you first open your eyes, the sun peeking in through a nearby window, a loud hum immediately flooding your ears. The sound is deep and constant. 

A plane. 

You swore you dreamt that part of the night. There’s no way you agreed to go with Garrett all the way to Vegas. Then again, you were completely sober when you let him inside of you. 

Running your fingers over your skin, you realize the only piece of clothing you’re still wearing are your underwar. As the panic continues to sink in, the bed dips beside you, and heavy arm wrapping around you. A shirtless, sleeping Garrett, settles beside you, his hips pressing into your bottom. 

“Garrett,” You whisper, your heart racing in your chest. He moans in response, hands reaching to grab a handful of your breast. “Can you wake up?”

“What?” He asks gruffly, annoyed. 

“Why am I naked?”

“What?” He asks again, half asleep, “I undressed you. You were wasted last night.”

“But you didn’t …” Your voice trails off as the question hangs in the air. 

“Of course not..”

“Oh…okay.”

He presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your shoulder and your worries melt … slightly. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” He says, unbelieving. He continues to grab your breast, placing kissess along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He’s hard, erection straining against his briefs, and pressing into your ass. 

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” You think out loud. 

Garrett hums, strong fingers trailing down your stomach and towards your center, “Doesn’t help that you’re touch starved.” This observation makes you want to roll your eyes, “You’re so responsive.”

You breath out, holding in your moans, “Are we landing soon?”

“There's time, don’t worry.”

Garrett presses you into the bed, stomach and the side of your head against the sheets. He positions himself at your entrance moments later.

"So needy."

He slips inside of you like last night, knowing you’re wet but not wet enough to take all of him.

He holds the back of your neck tightly, pressing your face further into the mattress as he roughly grabs the flesh of your bottom. He spanks you as he takes you deeper. It hurts, but that's what you like the most, and from this angle, he can watch as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“I think I’ll take you everywhere with me.” 

He spanks you so hard it’ll surely leave bruises. The feeling makes you grit your teeth, but you don't ask him to stop. You don't want him to.

“My little stress reliever.”

“I can use you however I want, right?”

His words, the shame, the friction against the bed- it quickly sends you tumbling over the edge. Your body shakes as you squeeze him tighter. His hips stutter. “Fuck.”

“You like that.”

“This is what you’re good for, princess. Making me feel good.”

His goal is not your pleasure. It just so happens that his taking what he needs from you is what feels best.

“Oh my -- Garrett!”

It’s his name on your lips that brings him to his own end. He pins you tighter to the bed, another reminder of where you belong.

Beneath him. 

It’s eye-opening, the relief, and how much you like the feeling.

You think you would want to feel this way all the time, if that were even possible.

For now, though, surrendering to him feels easier than fighting to hold yourself together.

Two days later, you pace inside the luxurious hotel suite, the lights of the Las Vegas strip shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s just a bikini, Y/N,” Anna’s voice comes through your phone. You stare down at your screen and see her camera propped up in front of her as she wipes off her makeup from the day. You're three hours ahead of her, your night just beginning as hers is coming to an end.

She's wrong.

It’s actually the opposite of a bikini. 

It’s a piece of clothing that Garrett Graham has picked out for you and expects you to wear to a huge pool party tonight. 

It’s unforgiving of your scars or your changing body. 

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve spontaneously decided to go to Las Vegas with Garrett Graham and wearing a bikini in public is where you’re drawing the line.” 

“You know, you’re not helping, you’re supposed to tell me that I’m being crazy. That I’m fucking up my entire life.”

“Fucking up your life? Girl, do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?”

You sigh, frustrated. 

“I can’t do this, Anna.”

“You can.”

“Can’t!”

“Fine, you’ve never listened to me. Maybe he can convince you, though.”

You scoff at that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that, for some reason, Garrett Graham is the only person who’s been able to get to you since all of this happened. I just have a feeling that I’m gonna wake up in the morning to some paparazzi photos of you looking gorgeous in that bikini and having the time of your life.” 

Anna ends up being right because everyone, like Garrett, seemed to know you better than you did yourself. 

It doesn’t take any convincing for Garrett to get you into a red bikini. All he has to do is tell you to put it on. You give in instantly. 

He leaves you no room to feel insecure with him. There’s no way you can’t feel gorgeous because Garrett doesn’t go longer than five minutes without his tongue down your throat. 

You shower that night together, after the pool party, and Garrett takes his time carefully dragging the soapy washcloth across your skin. 

“Plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been a very good girl for me this weekend.”

You knew what it meant. You kept close to him no matter what party or event he wanted to take you to. When he wanted to be inside of you, you let him bend you over. 

“Uhm.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You think you deserve a reward?”

Was the free vacation and a dozen orgasms not enough of a reward?

You turn to face him, eyes blinking up at him nervously, warm water beating against your back. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” He grabs hold of your chin with one hand. With the other, he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “I want to spank you.”

A sharp inhale. “Is that …is that not a punishment?”

“Not for you.”

The steam escapes the glass shower as Garrett leads you back into the bathroom. He takes his time drying your hair and your skin, paying attention to every curve of your body. You notice the way his fingers hover over your scar. When you flinch away, he grabs your leg tighter, a reminder to stay in place. To not run away from him.

Pleasure or pain, whatever he decided to give you.

You had to take it. 

You wanted to.

It was getting harder and harder to hide how desperate you were.

“I’m tired.”

“So you don’t want your reward?”

Garrett stands, wrapping a towel around his waist, dark hair still dripping onto the skin of sculpted chest. 

You bite down on your lip, afraid to tell him no. He looks you over closely. 

“Fine. Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

He turns away from you, walking over to one of the Jack and Jill sinks. 

“I feel sore too. From earlier.”

Garrett hums, ignoring you, and although he’s had his tongue in your mouth all night, you start to feel upset that he’s turned his attention from you. 

He wants you to beg now. Beg for him to hurt you. 

You haven’t moved yet, twiddling your fingers, and Garrett hasn’t said another word. 

“Is this how you treat all your girlfriends?”

Garrett sighs, drying his hair in the mirror, “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll let me. And you like it.”

“I don’t,” You argue. “Okay, sure, it’s fun in the bedroom. But all the time? If we …if we started dating like our agents suggested, this is how you would treat me?”

“Is that what you want? To date me?”

“No,” You answer too quickly, “I don’t know. Not if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Garrett turns, tossing his towel to the side, before he stalks over to you. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m serious–”

“Get on your knees.”

“Garrett, it’s not gonna work. I’m not playing …I don’t want to play your game anymore.”

“Get on your knees, princess.” His voice vibrates through you. The peaks of your chest rise as he stares down at your naked body. 

“Please stop–”

“On your knees, baby. You want to be my good girl, I know you do.”

You lower yourself down gently, your eyes traveling down his legs before they land on the tile floor. 

"Show me how good you are."

“Crawl to the bed.”

Your knees ache almost as bad as your warm center. 

Garrett follows behind you as you slowly, surely taking in the sight of your bare bottom, as you make your way across the tile and then onto the carpet of the bedroom. The room is straight out of a porno. A king-sized bed, red-felt headboard, and a mirror that hangs on the ceiling directly above the bed. Red velvet curtains partially cover the view of the Vegas city life, and the sound of the city- honking cars and nightlife roars on in the background. 

Garrett grabs you and lifts you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“Face on the bed. Ass up.” 

Your body moves before your mind can tell it what to do. 

Much to your disappointment, seconds pass, and you realize Garrett has left the room. You hear shuffling in the kitchen, and you frown. You keep your position perfectly, which is the sickest part. Minutes later, Garrett returns with a glass of water in hand. 

“Do you like when I tell you what to do, Y/N?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, Garrett.” He corrects you. 

“Yes, Garrett.” You parrot back. 

"Then don't complicate things. Let me give you what you need."

He sets down the glass of water on his bedside table before he disappears into the bathroom. Again, you don’t move. 

Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment settling deep. He returns, now wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein underwear. 

The bed dips as Garrett gets into the bed, pulling the covers over his body. He waits another long minute before he says, “C’mere.”

Hesitant, you lift your head. His tired eyes burn into yours. He pats the spot beside him, and you crawl slowly, like a dog, until you’re beside him. He lifts the covers so you can slide your body next to you. You sniffle, wiping your tears, as you lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, not forgetting to add, “Garrett.”

“I know, baby, you're just overwhelmed. Let’s go to sleep.”

No more games.

No more power plays.

At least for tonight.

You’d signed with Emily at Frozen Edge Sports when you were only eighteen years old, and she’d become too much of a friend to end your relationship the easy way. It would just hurt less if you didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes up close. 

You’d been skating since you were five years old. Your father pushed you into it, but at a certain point, you’d become the one putting pressure on yourself. It never occurred to you for all those years, but you’d given up your entire childhood for one thing. 

You’d won your first U.S. championship at eleven years old. The best day of your entire life was not qualifying for this year’s Olympics, but when you won Bronze at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships when you were fifteen years old.

You'd nearly killed yourself that season. You begged your parents to homeschool you so you could spend more hours at the rink, and you even turned down Stephan Greenwoon, the heartthrob of Arlington Catholic's Cougars hockey team—when he asked you to be his date to junior prom.

It had all been for nothing because at the young age of twenty-two, you were officially a has-been. 

That’s what four torn ligaments in your right knee can do to a bright future. 

Despite the surgeries and the intensive physical therapy, your light continued to dim. Although you eased back into practicing again, you just couldn’t seem to land the jumps that helped you qualify in the first place. Your sponsors were kind and waited a few months before they broke their contracts. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t making Emily, the main person keeping your career afloat, any more money. 

Your own money would run out soon, and your parents' help only went so far in a city as expensive as Boston. You'd thought about putting your bachelor's degree in Communications to use, a degree you had no passion for and no idea what to do with. Your Olympics-destined best friend, Anna, was kind and paying more than her fair share of rent right now to help you out. She was waiting for you to snap out of your funk, and honestly, you hoped something would change too.

The nearby elevator dinged, and you avoided eye contact with whoever was stepping out. As the person walked past you, you were hit with the smell of expensive cologne. He approached the secretary's desk, and your eyes lifted as the deep timbre of his voice reached your ears. “Hey, I have a ten a.m. appointment with David and Emily.” 

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re here, Mr. Graham.”

Your brows raised at that. His eyes turned towards you just as the confusion spread across your face. His face was familiar, chiseled, and sculpted by dark curls. A duffel bag with the Bruins’ logo hung at his side, as if he’d just arrived from practice. 

That didn’t make sense. You had a ten o’clock appointment with Emily. And it was about twelve minutes past that time. 

“Hey.” His smile stretches at the sight of you, and your heart pounds as you realize he’s walking up to you. “You must be Y/N. I’m Garrett.” 

Garrett Graham. The Bruins' rookie center. All six feet of him. 

It takes too long for you to realize he’s holding his hand out to you. He appears professional, composed, and nothing like his reputation. You stand, smoothing down your gray athleisure set, and you politely shake his hand, “Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a big fan,” He admits, still managing to sound cool and not like a fan at all. “I watched your routine at the U.S. Championships. The one where you skated to that Lana Del Rey song. It was insane.”

Your lips part in shock. You’re not sure how long it’s been since someone gave you a compliment that wasn’t covered in layers of condescension.

"You watched figure skating?"

"I watched you."

He laughed before the words could become awkward.

"I mean, I don't know much about the sport, but that routine was incredible. I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Yeah…”

“You back on the ice yet?”

“Oh, um,” The dreaded question. You keep your face from falling and smile sheepishly, awkwardly, “A little bit. Not too much. Still can’t put much weight on my right knee, but I’ve still been trying to support the other girls while they train.”  

You’d been cleared to start training lightly, but your knee had another thing to say. You couldn't even count how many times you wiped out the last time you were on the ice. 

He gives you a look that’s more empathetic than you expect: “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “It does.” 

Your agent's door opens seconds later, and Emily appears, waving the two of you into her office. “Do you know what’s going on?” You ask Garrett as he walks beside you. Why in the world is Garrett Graham joining in on your final meeting with your agent? 

“Uhm,” He presses his lips together as he decides to think over his words carefully, “I think it’s better if you hear it from Emily.”

What the fuck is going on? 

The two of you join Emily and David, who you learn is Garrett’s agent. It becomes pretty clear as the mundane introductions occur that you’re the only one who has no idea why all four of you are meeting.

Every time she opens her mouth, you expect her to finally explain.

She never does.

David is the one who eventually decides to stop pretending.

David, an old white man whose look is so corporate it actually frightens you, is the one who decides to cut to the chase. He’s balding, overweight, and he stands in contrast to Emily, who’s tall, blonde, and a former Olympic swimmer. 

“We’d like to arrange a mutually beneficial relationship between the two of you."

Your heart drops to your stomach.

"We’re all aware that your injury, Ms. Y/L/N, is likely going to prevent you from competing in the Olympics. That means many of the sponsorship opportunities previously arranged for you are no longer guaranteed. Millions of dollars in potential earnings are now at risk."

You sit completely still.

"Talent and good character, which you still have, are important to our agency. But relevance is also a factor in this industry. By establishing a romantic relationship with Mr. Graham, we believe you’ll be able to maintain public interest and preserve some of the opportunities that may otherwise disappear.”

The room goes silent, your heart fully stops beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a breath.

Is this a worse fate than being fired?

Being told that you're no longer valuable?

Knowing the only way you’ll have a career is if you become a rookie hockey player’s girlfriend for clout? 

“Emily," You force your voice from your throat. "What is he talking about?”

“I think this is the best option for you, Y/N."

Shame floods your features as your body goes rigid. Your hand instinctively drops to your right knee, your fingers tracing the scar there, pressing against the place where the pain still lingers even though your injury has technically healed.

“I want the best for you. I’m trying to find a way for you to maintain your lifestyle, your fans, and your financial security while you figure out what comes next.” 

Garrett chimes in when another silence settles over the room, “I don’t mean to be rude. This sounds great and all. I’m just not sure what I’m getting out of all of this.”

“Credibility,” Emily answers, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You have two different reputations. Y/N, you’re recognizable, poised, and charitable. You’re a good girl. And Garrett…”

She looks back at him.

"You’re talented, but you’re also seen as cocky. Hot-headed. The new rookie with something to prove."

"You think she balances me out?"

Garrett nods, as if he’s truly considering this. “You’re not serious?”

He looks over.

“What?” He lifts his hands slightly, confused. “You’re not considering this?”

He had everything to gain. Your life was slipping through your hands as the days passed. 

Emily continues, eyes focused on you, as if she were desperate for you to understand her point of view. “There are a lot of details for us to work out. There’s absolutely no rush. We can start by setting up a few chance meetings and events where you can be photographed together. We’ll see how social media responds, and that’ll help guide our next moves.”

Feeling suffocated, you stand up. You were mentally prepared to be let go; you weren't prepared for this. 

“For four years, you've told me to protect my image. To protect my brand. To make sure no one else controlled my career. And now you’re telling me all that I’m good for is being someone else’s girlfriend.”

“I’m trying to help, Y/N,” Emily says, more dejected than before.

“This isn’t personal; this is business,” David adds. 

You can’t help but scoff, and you take a final look at Emily now that she’s dragged the two of them into your business. “I trusted you.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“Wait–” Garrett turns in his chair to face you, and no matter how kind he seems, you’re too embarrassed to face him. 

“This actually has nothing to do with you.”

Anna: Hey, how’d it go?

You decided not to reply rather than explain to your friend that you had cried your eyes out in a single stall bathroom and were now trying to collect yourself and get the hell out of this building. 

God, you looked horrible. You dabbed a cold towel under your eyes, wiping away your smudged mascara. Despite reapplying your lip gloss and letting your hair down, you still found yourself frightened by your own appearance. 

You made your way out of the lobby bathroom, out the revolving doors, and onto the busy sidewalk. Looking down at your phone again, you realize your rideshare is still eight minutes away. 

Then—

“Y/N!” 

“Are you retiring?”

A group of photographers and a reporter suddenly surrounds you. You stumble backwards as the reporter forces a microphone into your face. 

“Is it true you’re not going to the Olympics?”

“Were you released today?”

You freeze. 

No, no, no. 

Flashing lights start to blind you. Your whispered “please stop” and your “no comment” are drowned out by the camera shutters. 

“Have you accepted you’ll never compete again?”

A large camera nearly knocks you to the ground. 

A deep engine rumbles from the street, cutting through the chaos, and you catch a glance at a black car that skids to a stop in front of the sidewalk. A car door opens and Garrett appears. He doesn't hesitate, rounding the front of his Jeep and shoving his way in between you and the mob. 

“Back the fuck up!” 

His voice cuts through the noise, command sharp enough to make them hesitate.

He grabs hold of your waist, pulling you against his body, an act that would typically freak you out, but for some reason, you find yourself clinging to him. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He lifts you off your feet, not on purpose, but because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that his attempt to shield you from the crowd accidentally pulls you onto your toes.

“Garrett, are you guys dating?”

“How did you two meet?” 

“Did the agency arrange this?”

He opens the passenger door and lifts you inside, the door slamming behind you. You cover your face with your hands as the flashing continues, now directed inside the car, and Garrett slides back into the driver's seat. 

“Fucking hell,” He curses as he speeds off, engine roaring, the vibrations rolling through you. “They should’ve never let you walk out of there by yourself.” 

Knees pulled to your chest, you hiccup as tears fall again. You’re grateful you’ve already cried off the rest of your mascara. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, too emotionally tired to hold up any sort of shield. Garrett rests one hand casually on the steering wheel and the other on the middle console. “Fucking assholes.”

You rest your arm next to his, your skin brushing against the fabric of his black sweatshirt. The noise seems to quiet around you, your heart's pounding starts to slow, and you feel the desire to hold onto him again.

You don't know why you feel safer.

You don't even know him.

Fingers grazing against his, Garrett decides to close the gap between you, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

He releases a deep breath, glancing over you before he says. “That was shitty, I know. I honestly thought Emily had already mentioned that whole plan to you. I’m sure it caught you off guard.” 

“Were you going to agree just because you feel bad for me?” 

Garret doesn't flinch, although the words come out sharper than you intended.

“I was going to agree because I wanted to get to know you.”

You stare at him. His jaw tightens as he focuses on the traffic ahead.

“You wanted to get to know an athlete with no career left?”

“Honestly?" He says. "I think you’re just lost, Y/N.”

You blink. “What? You don’t …” Your lips part to argue, and then he squeezes your hand, and that seems to keep your emotions from escalating. His touch grounds you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an answer just yet. And when a possible solution was presented to you, you immediately shot it down. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable feeling … broken.”

You were broken. Your body did not work the way it used to. As someone so tuned to her own body, that fact was evident. 

“Maybe you don’t want to take control of your own life…” You didn’t appreciate the introspection into your personal problems, and yet, his words made too much sense. “I mean, I totally get spending so long in complete control of your career, your mind, your body. It would make sense that you’d want a break from that.”

He strokes his thumb over your hand.

“I do,” You say automatically, solemnly,  “I want control. People look up to me. My friends are counting on me.”

Garrett hums, nodding his head, and by the way his attention stays on the road, you can tell he doesn’t believe you.

And somehow, that bothers you more because you’re not sure you believe yourself either.

“It’d be wrong to let them down. Let myself down.”

“Seems like you don’t have much control over that, you know, if you can’t skate.”

His words sting.

“How would you feel if you couldn’t play anymore?”

You expect him to pause; he doesn’t, his answer is immediate. “It would probably suck for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“What? It’s a job; it’s not my entire existence.”

“Well, it’s different for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I qualified for the Olympics.”

“That’s fair.” Garrett agrees, which surprises you. “Are you hungry?”

He’s not what you expected, at all. Because some small, desperate part of you wants to stay in this car. Wants to keep holding his hand and let him decide what happens next.

You barely know Garrett Graham.

But somehow, impossibly, he already sees right through you.

Garrett ends up buying you a hamburger and fries, something you hadn’t eaten since you started training for the Olympics, and you enjoy it in the passenger seat of his car. The two of you sit in your apartment building’s parking garage. Your moments of silence aren’t uncomfortable, and you attempt not to be thrown off by how comfortable he already feels around you. He offers to walk you up to your place, but the thought of him seeing your depression room after all of this chivalry makes you want to spiral again. 

Although he looks disappointed, he takes no for an answer. Not before he gives you his number. 

You don’t leave him with a clear answer on how you feel about the “fake dating” relationship, and you don’t mention it to Anna either. Honestly, you convince yourself that meeting Garrett Graham was a part of some strange dream you had and that you could go back to wallowing in despair. 

Except the internet doesn't let you forget.

It only takes a day for the video of you and Garrett saving you from the paparazzi to go viral on the internet. You’re sure this is the relevance that Emily had insisted Garrett would be able to give you. Millions of views and thousands of comments on a single TikTok. You still weren’t sure about being famous for something other than figure skating. 

That weekend, you hear from Garrett for the first time, hours after he wins his game against the Florida Panthers. 

Garrett: What are you doing tonight?

You: Why do you ask?

Garrett: Because I want you to come out with me. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: Out with you where?

Garrett: Did you injure your sense of adventure as well?

You sit up from your bed, pushing away your laptop playing Dirty Dancing, and stare down at your phone, incredulous.  

You: What is wrong with you?

Garrett: What’s wrong is I haven’t seen you all week. 

You: You’re not my boyfriend. 

Garrett: I’m starting to understand why you don’t have one. 

You: Fuck off.

You should’ve known he was an asshole. A stupid, smug, handsome asshole. Frustrated, you bring a pillow to your face and scream. Screw him for interrupting your self-care night all to yourself. Anna was in New York prepping for being on the Drew Barrymore show next week. This was your personal time. What right did he have to question your sense of adventure?

His rude comments throw you so off kilter, you can no longer enjoy your movie. You rise from your bed, oversized t-shirt falling against your upper thigh, and start to pace across your room. You should say something else, something clever, but you find yourself coming up short when trying to craft a reply. 

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. 

Hesitantly, you leave your room, padding across the living room of your high-rise two-bedroom apartment and slowly approach the door. Another knock, this one much louder, makes you jump. You see a head of dark, curly hair when you peek through the peephole. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper. 

Another knock. “Open the door, Y/N. I can hear you.”

You curse again. The second it opens, Garrett steps inside like he belongs there, leaving you stumbling backward.

“How did you get here so fast?”

He’s clad in a dark bomber jacket, expensive chain, and dark sneakers. Effortless confidence. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention I live in the apartment building across the street.”

You stare at him.

“Whatever, you have to leave!” You exclaim as he walks further into your place. It’s modern in style and has pink accents everywhere, Anna's and your favorite color. He ignores you completely, turning to the right, toward your open doorway, and he enters your room, completely determined. “Garrett!” 

He seems to ignore the complete disarray that your room is in and heads straight to your closet.

“I’ll call the police!”

You follow behind him, horrified.

He chuckles at that. “Sure, go ahead.” He looks you over then, at your lack of pants and messily strewn hair. A faint smirk appears. “Love the outfit, princess, but you’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out at all.” Knowing you weren’t bold enough to call the police on him, you huff and take a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Uh huh.” Garrett goes through all your drawers before he picks out a silver, sparkling mini-skirt and black, thigh-high boots. “Bingo. Put these on.”

Both items you hadn’t worn since your accident. With the weight you’ve gained from not working out, you’re not even sure you’ll fit into the skirt. “Absolutely not. I can’t even walk in those things anymore.”

“You can hold onto me–”

“No, Garrett.”

“Don’t be a fucking brat, Y/N.” 

That sends the air straight out of your lungs. 

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Garrett drops the boots at your feet, and you jump. “I told you to put them on.”

He stares down at your flustered face, not in a challenge, but because he was giving you one option. Back down. You bit down on your tongue, hard, your chest rising up and down as you struggled to breathe. He said so much and nothing at all in the intensity of his gaze. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Did you want to find out what he’d do if you didn’t obey?

Carefully, you bent down and grabbed hold of the left boot, pushing your feet into the shoe before pulling the black leather fabric all the way up to your knee. To your surprise, they still fit over your calves.

“There you go.” His voice is quieter now.

You bite down on your tongue harder, eyes focused on his feet, as his voice caresses over you. You do the same with the right foot, this time your hands lingering for an uncomfortable amount of time on your right knee.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your breath catch.

And you hate how much you notice it.

“Now, take off those granny panties.”

“I don’t want to.” Your voice is small, unrecognizable. 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

“It’s either no panties or these.” He holds out a pair of black, lacy panties. Those were a part of a gift that Anna had gotten you when you turned twenty-one. No one had ever seen you in them. “I’ll let you decide that.”

You stand, wobbling, like you did the first time you got back on the ice. Garrett grabs you by your hips to steady you. For a moment, you get stuck in his gaze, and the hungry way he’s staring at you. “Panties, princess.”

He’s so insistent. It’s overwhelming. And it’s not like you to listen to a man. Or anyone, for a matter. You’re independent. You make your own decisions. You’re anything but that, now, as you reach down to slide off your boyshorts. He holds onto you as you step out of them. He kneels then, and you hold onto his shoulders as you step into the black lacy pair of underwear. 

“Garrett!” You yelp when he grabs you by your bottom, pressing his nose into the fabric that’s now wrapped tightly against your center. He inhales deeply, and you feel that warmth spreading to your core. He pushes you back onto the bed then, and you land with a bounce. “What–what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I know I want you on my arm tonight, but I’m debating if I should fill your cunt before we leave or end the night inside of you.” Garrett strips off his jacket before he lifts your thighs as he settles between them. You’re speechless when he presses his lips to yours. He wastes no time exploring you, parting your lips, and sticking his tongue in your mouth. When he pulls away, allowing you to get a breath, he’s made up his mind. “Both work, actually. Both sound good.”

 “Garrett,” You whine. 

"What? Tell me what's wrong. You don't like it when I touch you?"

"I hate it." In a swift movement, he forcefully pins your hands above your head. "Garrett!"

"Then why are you grinding against me?"

Fuck. You tilt your head back in frustration.

“I had a feeling about you. I knew you were a dirty little princess,” Garrett grunts against your skin. His jeans are tight enough for you to already feel how hard he is, and he wastes no time creating friction between you. “All pent up.”

“Fuck, I wanna taste all of you.”

“Garrett–”

“Warm you up, yeah?”

You whine louder, unrecognizable to yourself. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that? Want me to make it hurt?”

“Please.” Tears sting your eyes. How did he know exactly what you needed to feel? That you liked the pain. That you wanted to feel worthless. That you needed someone else to finally tell you what to do.

“Dirty fucking princess. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

It burned between your legs. Garrett had kept his word. Made it hurt. And you’d finished while he rocked his hips, deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. 

He’d dragged you to the club along with his teammates and worn what he had done to you like a badge of honor, all night. As soon as you got used to walking in the heels again, the vodka shots, unfortunately, made it harder again. 

A party for other athletes is actually the last place you’d usually want to be—athletes who have successful careers and are close to winning another playoff. You’ve managed to go six months without being in a room like this, and Anna had been begging you to integrate yourself back into the world. Except, you hadn’t been sure this was even your world anymore. 

Tonight, you hoped your thigh-high black boots and sparkling mini-skirt would give you an heir of confidence and nonverbally say I’m totally fine, totally sexy, and I can live without figure skating. 

The nightclub was decked out in black, gold, and white in celebration of the Bruins’ win tonight. There were packs of puck bunnies who’d paired their thigh-high boots with the jerseys of their favorite players. 

You didn’t wonder long if you belonged here because being on Garrett’s arm made it so the sea of people parted everywhere the two of you walked. People only had kind things to say when they greeted him, which meant you got less of the back-handed compliments you were getting used to. 

No mentions of “Oh my God. I used to love you!” or “You were so good last year!” Garrett, somehow, was making you feel less like you were “talented” in the past tense and more like you could exist without any of those labels. He gave you a taste of what it would be like to be Garrett's girl.

When you started to leave your body, feeling like a million eyes were on you, Garrett grabbed your chin and forced your eyes onto his. “Look at me. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Except me, his eyes seemed to say. “I’ll handle it”

You try to relax and to use all that poise and sensuality you’d learned from skating and channel it into dancing with Garrett. 

After the two of you have danced hard enough to leave you covered in a layer of sweat, Garrett guides you over to the bar. 

“You’re glad you came, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure glad is the way you would describe it. 

“You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says smoothly before he orders you a Vodka Red Bull. As you wait for the bartender to mix your drink, he leans down to speak into your ear, “Hey, so, a few of the guys and their girls are going to Vegas tonight.”

“Oh,” You lean up to say, “That sounds fun.”

“Good." Garrett smiles. “We’re going too.”

You shake your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Vegas? Tonight? It’s already almost midnight!”

“You can sleep through the flight.”

Concern fills your eyes but Garrett turns his focus on grabbing your drink and forcing it into your hands. “I’m not prepared to fly. And you don’t have plane tickets, do you?”

“Drink that.”

“Garrett–”

“Don’t be rude. I just paid twenty bucks for that. Drink it.”

His tone is stern, and you can feel the seriousness even over the pounding EDM music. Again, there’s no challenge in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to argue.

He just looks at you like he already knows you’ll listen.

The worst part is that he's been right the entire night.

You take a sip, instantly cringing at how strong it is. Garrett isn’t satisfied when you flash your eyes up at hiim. A non-verbal command. More. Taking a breath, you take a longer sip. 

"There you go."

"You're annoying."

"Maybe."

He smiles again, white teeth flashing, and you're starting to understand why all of Boston has become obsessed with him.

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow, princess?” Your teeth bite at your straw, slightly frustrated and mostly buzzed.

"No."

“That’s what I thought.” 

After midnight, when you’re in the car with Garrett, you realize that Garrett didn’t have a single drink tonight. Meanwhile, your head was spinning, mini-skirt riding up and knee high boots that were now pooling around your ankles. 

The last time you were in Vegas was for a competition years ago. You’d done your fair share of partying in the early days of college but ever since you locked in for the Olympics, you hadn’t done any heavy drinking. Which meant you’d become much more of a lightweight than you remembered. 

“I can’t go through TSA like this,” you mumble, sinking into the passenger seat.

An old rock song plays quietly through the speakers.

“I’ll get arrested.”

Garrett glances over.

“No TSA where we’re going, baby.”

“What?” You moan, “I thought we were getting on a plane.”

“A private plane.”

You gasp, “No freaking way. You have a plane.”

“I don’t have a plane, princess. I have friends who have a plane.” 

“I have to text Anna.”

“I’ll text her for you when we get on the plane.”

“Fuck,” You felt like you were talking in slow motion.  “This has been the weirdest night of my life. I can’t believe I fucked Garrett Graham.

A pause.

"Me."

Your eyes start to close.

"America’s sweetheart.”

You don’t see the smile that crosses his face.

You’re asleep before the car even reaches the runway.

The bed you wake up in is soft but obviously not yours. The room is blurry when you first open your eyes, the sun peeking in through a nearby window, a loud hum immediately flooding your ears. The sound is deep and constant. 

A plane. 

You swore you dreamt that part of the night. There’s no way you agreed to go with Garrett all the way to Vegas. Then again, you were completely sober when you let him inside of you. 

Running your fingers over your skin, you realize the only piece of clothing you’re still wearing are your underwar. As the panic continues to sink in, the bed dips beside you, and heavy arm wrapping around you. A shirtless, sleeping Garrett, settles beside you, his hips pressing into your bottom. 

“Garrett,” You whisper, your heart racing in your chest. He moans in response, hands reaching to grab a handful of your breast. “Can you wake up?”

“What?” He asks gruffly, annoyed. 

“Why am I naked?”

“What?” He asks again, half asleep, “I undressed you. You were wasted last night.”

“But you didn’t …” Your voice trails off as the question hangs in the air. 

“Of course not..”

“Oh…okay.”

He presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your shoulder and your worries melt … slightly. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” He says, unbelieving. He continues to grab your breast, placing kissess along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He’s hard, erection straining against his briefs, and pressing into your ass. 

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” You think out loud. 

Garrett hums, strong fingers trailing down your stomach and towards your center, “Doesn’t help that you’re touch starved.” This observation makes you want to roll your eyes, “You’re so responsive.”

You breath out, holding in your moans, “Are we landing soon?”

“There's time, don’t worry.”

Garrett presses you into the bed, stomach and the side of your head against the sheets. He positions himself at your entrance moments later.

"So needy."

He slips inside of you like last night, knowing you’re wet but not wet enough to take all of him.

He holds the back of your neck tightly, pressing your face further into the mattress as he roughly grabs the flesh of your bottom. He spanks you as he takes you deeper. It hurts, but that's what you like the most, and from this angle, he can watch as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“I think I’ll take you everywhere with me.” 

He spanks you so hard it’ll surely leave bruises. The feeling makes you grit your teeth, but you don't ask him to stop. You don't want him to.

“My little stress reliever.”

“I can use you however I want, right?”

His words, the shame, the friction against the bed- it quickly sends you tumbling over the edge. Your body shakes as you squeeze him tighter. His hips stutter. “Fuck.”

“You like that.”

“This is what you’re good for, princess. Making me feel good.”

His goal is not your pleasure. It just so happens that his taking what he needs from you is what feels best.

“Oh my -- Garrett!”

It’s his name on your lips that brings him to his own end. He pins you tighter to the bed, another reminder of where you belong.

Beneath him. 

It’s eye-opening, the relief, and how much you like the feeling.

You think you would want to feel this way all the time, if that were even possible.

For now, though, surrendering to him feels easier than fighting to hold yourself together.

Two days later, you pace inside the luxurious hotel suite, the lights of the Las Vegas strip shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s just a bikini, Y/N,” Anna’s voice comes through your phone. You stare down at your screen and see her camera propped up in front of her as she wipes off her makeup from the day. You're three hours ahead of her, your night just beginning as hers is coming to an end.

She's wrong.

It’s actually the opposite of a bikini. 

It’s a piece of clothing that Garrett Graham has picked out for you and expects you to wear to a huge pool party tonight. 

It’s unforgiving of your scars or your changing body. 

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve spontaneously decided to go to Las Vegas with Garrett Graham and wearing a bikini in public is where you’re drawing the line.” 

“You know, you’re not helping, you’re supposed to tell me that I’m being crazy. That I’m fucking up my entire life.”

“Fucking up your life? Girl, do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?”

You sigh, frustrated. 

“I can’t do this, Anna.”

“You can.”

“Can’t!”

“Fine, you’ve never listened to me. Maybe he can convince you, though.”

You scoff at that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that, for some reason, Garrett Graham is the only person who’s been able to get to you since all of this happened. I just have a feeling that I’m gonna wake up in the morning to some paparazzi photos of you looking gorgeous in that bikini and having the time of your life.” 

Anna ends up being right because everyone, like Garrett, seemed to know you better than you did yourself. 

It doesn’t take any convincing for Garrett to get you into a red bikini. All he has to do is tell you to put it on. You give in instantly. 

He leaves you no room to feel insecure with him. There’s no way you can’t feel gorgeous because Garrett doesn’t go longer than five minutes without his tongue down your throat. 

You shower that night together, after the pool party, and Garrett takes his time carefully dragging the soapy washcloth across your skin. 

“Plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been a very good girl for me this weekend.”

You knew what it meant. You kept close to him no matter what party or event he wanted to take you to. When he wanted to be inside of you, you let him bend you over. 

“Uhm.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You think you deserve a reward?”

Was the free vacation and a dozen orgasms not enough of a reward?

You turn to face him, eyes blinking up at him nervously, warm water beating against your back. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” He grabs hold of your chin with one hand. With the other, he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “I want to spank you.”

A sharp inhale. “Is that …is that not a punishment?”

“Not for you.”

The steam escapes the glass shower as Garrett leads you back into the bathroom. He takes his time drying your hair and your skin, paying attention to every curve of your body. You notice the way his fingers hover over your scar. When you flinch away, he grabs your leg tighter, a reminder to stay in place. To not run away from him.

Pleasure or pain, whatever he decided to give you.

You had to take it. 

You wanted to.

It was getting harder and harder to hide how desperate you were.

“I’m tired.”

“So you don’t want your reward?”

Garrett stands, wrapping a towel around his waist, dark hair still dripping onto the skin of sculpted chest. 

You bite down on your lip, afraid to tell him no. He looks you over closely. 

“Fine. Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

He turns away from you, walking over to one of the Jack and Jill sinks. 

“I feel sore too. From earlier.”

Garrett hums, ignoring you, and although he’s had his tongue in your mouth all night, you start to feel upset that he’s turned his attention from you. 

He wants you to beg now. Beg for him to hurt you. 

You haven’t moved yet, twiddling your fingers, and Garrett hasn’t said another word. 

“Is this how you treat all your girlfriends?”

Garrett sighs, drying his hair in the mirror, “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll let me. And you like it.”

“I don’t,” You argue. “Okay, sure, it’s fun in the bedroom. But all the time? If we …if we started dating like our agents suggested, this is how you would treat me?”

“Is that what you want? To date me?”

“No,” You answer too quickly, “I don’t know. Not if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Garrett turns, tossing his towel to the side, before he stalks over to you. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m serious–”

“Get on your knees.”

“Garrett, it’s not gonna work. I’m not playing …I don’t want to play your game anymore.”

“Get on your knees, princess.” His voice vibrates through you. The peaks of your chest rise as he stares down at your naked body. 

“Please stop–”

“On your knees, baby. You want to be my good girl, I know you do.”

You lower yourself down gently, your eyes traveling down his legs before they land on the tile floor. 

"Show me how good you are."

“Crawl to the bed.”

Your knees ache almost as bad as your warm center. 

Garrett follows behind you as you slowly, surely taking in the sight of your bare bottom, as you make your way across the tile and then onto the carpet of the bedroom. The room is straight out of a porno. A king-sized bed, red-felt headboard, and a mirror that hangs on the ceiling directly above the bed. Red velvet curtains partially cover the view of the Vegas city life, and the sound of the city- honking cars and nightlife roars on in the background. 

Garrett grabs you and lifts you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“Face on the bed. Ass up.” 

Your body moves before your mind can tell it what to do. 

Much to your disappointment, seconds pass, and you realize Garrett has left the room. You hear shuffling in the kitchen, and you frown. You keep your position perfectly, which is the sickest part. Minutes later, Garrett returns with a glass of water in hand. 

“Do you like when I tell you what to do, Y/N?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, Garrett.” He corrects you. 

“Yes, Garrett.” You parrot back. 

"Then don't complicate things. Let me give you what you need."

He sets down the glass of water on his bedside table before he disappears into the bathroom. Again, you don’t move. 

Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment settling deep. He returns, now wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein underwear. 

The bed dips as Garrett gets into the bed, pulling the covers over his body. He waits another long minute before he says, “C’mere.”

Hesitant, you lift your head. His tired eyes burn into yours. He pats the spot beside him, and you crawl slowly, like a dog, until you’re beside him. He lifts the covers so you can slide your body next to you. You sniffle, wiping your tears, as you lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, not forgetting to add, “Garrett.”

“I know, baby, you're just overwhelmed. Let’s go to sleep.”

No more games.

No more power plays.

At least for tonight.

You’d signed with Emily at Frozen Edge Sports when you were only eighteen years old, and she’d become too much of a friend to end your relationship the easy way. It would just hurt less if you didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes up close. 

You’d been skating since you were five years old. Your father pushed you into it, but at a certain point, you’d become the one putting pressure on yourself. It never occurred to you for all those years, but you’d given up your entire childhood for one thing. 

You’d won your first U.S. championship at eleven years old. The best day of your entire life was not qualifying for this year’s Olympics, but when you won Bronze at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships when you were fifteen years old.

You'd nearly killed yourself that season. You begged your parents to homeschool you so you could spend more hours at the rink, and you even turned down Stephan Greenwoon, the heartthrob of Arlington Catholic's Cougars hockey team—when he asked you to be his date to junior prom.

It had all been for nothing because at the young age of twenty-two, you were officially a has-been. 

That’s what four torn ligaments in your right knee can do to a bright future. 

Despite the surgeries and the intensive physical therapy, your light continued to dim. Although you eased back into practicing again, you just couldn’t seem to land the jumps that helped you qualify in the first place. Your sponsors were kind and waited a few months before they broke their contracts. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t making Emily, the main person keeping your career afloat, any more money. 

Your own money would run out soon, and your parents' help only went so far in a city as expensive as Boston. You'd thought about putting your bachelor's degree in Communications to use, a degree you had no passion for and no idea what to do with. Your Olympics-destined best friend, Anna, was kind and paying more than her fair share of rent right now to help you out. She was waiting for you to snap out of your funk, and honestly, you hoped something would change too.

The nearby elevator dinged, and you avoided eye contact with whoever was stepping out. As the person walked past you, you were hit with the smell of expensive cologne. He approached the secretary's desk, and your eyes lifted as the deep timbre of his voice reached your ears. “Hey, I have a ten a.m. appointment with David and Emily.” 

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re here, Mr. Graham.”

Your brows raised at that. His eyes turned towards you just as the confusion spread across your face. His face was familiar, chiseled, and sculpted by dark curls. A duffel bag with the Bruins’ logo hung at his side, as if he’d just arrived from practice. 

That didn’t make sense. You had a ten o’clock appointment with Emily. And it was about twelve minutes past that time. 

“Hey.” His smile stretches at the sight of you, and your heart pounds as you realize he’s walking up to you. “You must be Y/N. I’m Garrett.” 

Garrett Graham. The Bruins' rookie center. All six feet of him. 

It takes too long for you to realize he’s holding his hand out to you. He appears professional, composed, and nothing like his reputation. You stand, smoothing down your gray athleisure set, and you politely shake his hand, “Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a big fan,” He admits, still managing to sound cool and not like a fan at all. “I watched your routine at the U.S. Championships. The one where you skated to that Lana Del Rey song. It was insane.”

Your lips part in shock. You’re not sure how long it’s been since someone gave you a compliment that wasn’t covered in layers of condescension.

"You watched figure skating?"

"I watched you."

He laughed before the words could become awkward.

"I mean, I don't know much about the sport, but that routine was incredible. I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Yeah…”

“You back on the ice yet?”

“Oh, um,” The dreaded question. You keep your face from falling and smile sheepishly, awkwardly, “A little bit. Not too much. Still can’t put much weight on my right knee, but I’ve still been trying to support the other girls while they train.”  

You’d been cleared to start training lightly, but your knee had another thing to say. You couldn't even count how many times you wiped out the last time you were on the ice. 

He gives you a look that’s more empathetic than you expect: “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “It does.” 

Your agent's door opens seconds later, and Emily appears, waving the two of you into her office. “Do you know what’s going on?” You ask Garrett as he walks beside you. Why in the world is Garrett Graham joining in on your final meeting with your agent? 

“Uhm,” He presses his lips together as he decides to think over his words carefully, “I think it’s better if you hear it from Emily.”

What the fuck is going on? 

The two of you join Emily and David, who you learn is Garrett’s agent. It becomes pretty clear as the mundane introductions occur that you’re the only one who has no idea why all four of you are meeting.

Every time she opens her mouth, you expect her to finally explain.

She never does.

David is the one who eventually decides to stop pretending.

David, an old white man whose look is so corporate it actually frightens you, is the one who decides to cut to the chase. He’s balding, overweight, and he stands in contrast to Emily, who’s tall, blonde, and a former Olympic swimmer. 

“We’d like to arrange a mutually beneficial relationship between the two of you."

Your heart drops to your stomach.

"We’re all aware that your injury, Ms. Y/L/N, is likely going to prevent you from competing in the Olympics. That means many of the sponsorship opportunities previously arranged for you are no longer guaranteed. Millions of dollars in potential earnings are now at risk."

You sit completely still.

"Talent and good character, which you still have, are important to our agency. But relevance is also a factor in this industry. By establishing a romantic relationship with Mr. Graham, we believe you’ll be able to maintain public interest and preserve some of the opportunities that may otherwise disappear.”

The room goes silent, your heart fully stops beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a breath.

Is this a worse fate than being fired?

Being told that you're no longer valuable?

Knowing the only way you’ll have a career is if you become a rookie hockey player’s girlfriend for clout? 

“Emily," You force your voice from your throat. "What is he talking about?”

“I think this is the best option for you, Y/N."

Shame floods your features as your body goes rigid. Your hand instinctively drops to your right knee, your fingers tracing the scar there, pressing against the place where the pain still lingers even though your injury has technically healed.

“I want the best for you. I’m trying to find a way for you to maintain your lifestyle, your fans, and your financial security while you figure out what comes next.” 

Garrett chimes in when another silence settles over the room, “I don’t mean to be rude. This sounds great and all. I’m just not sure what I’m getting out of all of this.”

“Credibility,” Emily answers, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You have two different reputations. Y/N, you’re recognizable, poised, and charitable. You’re a good girl. And Garrett…”

She looks back at him.

"You’re talented, but you’re also seen as cocky. Hot-headed. The new rookie with something to prove."

"You think she balances me out?"

Garrett nods, as if he’s truly considering this. “You’re not serious?”

He looks over.

“What?” He lifts his hands slightly, confused. “You’re not considering this?”

He had everything to gain. Your life was slipping through your hands as the days passed. 

Emily continues, eyes focused on you, as if she were desperate for you to understand her point of view. “There are a lot of details for us to work out. There’s absolutely no rush. We can start by setting up a few chance meetings and events where you can be photographed together. We’ll see how social media responds, and that’ll help guide our next moves.”

Feeling suffocated, you stand up. You were mentally prepared to be let go; you weren't prepared for this. 

“For four years, you've told me to protect my image. To protect my brand. To make sure no one else controlled my career. And now you’re telling me all that I’m good for is being someone else’s girlfriend.”

“I’m trying to help, Y/N,” Emily says, more dejected than before.

“This isn’t personal; this is business,” David adds. 

You can’t help but scoff, and you take a final look at Emily now that she’s dragged the two of them into your business. “I trusted you.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“Wait–” Garrett turns in his chair to face you, and no matter how kind he seems, you’re too embarrassed to face him. 

“This actually has nothing to do with you.”

Anna: Hey, how’d it go?

You decided not to reply rather than explain to your friend that you had cried your eyes out in a single stall bathroom and were now trying to collect yourself and get the hell out of this building. 

God, you looked horrible. You dabbed a cold towel under your eyes, wiping away your smudged mascara. Despite reapplying your lip gloss and letting your hair down, you still found yourself frightened by your own appearance. 

You made your way out of the lobby bathroom, out the revolving doors, and onto the busy sidewalk. Looking down at your phone again, you realize your rideshare is still eight minutes away. 

Then—

“Y/N!” 

“Are you retiring?”

A group of photographers and a reporter suddenly surrounds you. You stumble backwards as the reporter forces a microphone into your face. 

“Is it true you’re not going to the Olympics?”

“Were you released today?”

You freeze. 

No, no, no. 

Flashing lights start to blind you. Your whispered “please stop” and your “no comment” are drowned out by the camera shutters. 

“Have you accepted you’ll never compete again?”

A large camera nearly knocks you to the ground. 

A deep engine rumbles from the street, cutting through the chaos, and you catch a glance at a black car that skids to a stop in front of the sidewalk. A car door opens and Garrett appears. He doesn't hesitate, rounding the front of his Jeep and shoving his way in between you and the mob. 

“Back the fuck up!” 

His voice cuts through the noise, command sharp enough to make them hesitate.

He grabs hold of your waist, pulling you against his body, an act that would typically freak you out, but for some reason, you find yourself clinging to him. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He lifts you off your feet, not on purpose, but because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that his attempt to shield you from the crowd accidentally pulls you onto your toes.

“Garrett, are you guys dating?”

“How did you two meet?” 

“Did the agency arrange this?”

He opens the passenger door and lifts you inside, the door slamming behind you. You cover your face with your hands as the flashing continues, now directed inside the car, and Garrett slides back into the driver's seat. 

“Fucking hell,” He curses as he speeds off, engine roaring, the vibrations rolling through you. “They should’ve never let you walk out of there by yourself.” 

Knees pulled to your chest, you hiccup as tears fall again. You’re grateful you’ve already cried off the rest of your mascara. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, too emotionally tired to hold up any sort of shield. Garrett rests one hand casually on the steering wheel and the other on the middle console. “Fucking assholes.”

You rest your arm next to his, your skin brushing against the fabric of his black sweatshirt. The noise seems to quiet around you, your heart's pounding starts to slow, and you feel the desire to hold onto him again.

You don't know why you feel safer.

You don't even know him.

Fingers grazing against his, Garrett decides to close the gap between you, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

He releases a deep breath, glancing over you before he says. “That was shitty, I know. I honestly thought Emily had already mentioned that whole plan to you. I’m sure it caught you off guard.” 

“Were you going to agree just because you feel bad for me?” 

Garret doesn't flinch, although the words come out sharper than you intended.

“I was going to agree because I wanted to get to know you.”

You stare at him. His jaw tightens as he focuses on the traffic ahead.

“You wanted to get to know an athlete with no career left?”

“Honestly?" He says. "I think you’re just lost, Y/N.”

You blink. “What? You don’t …” Your lips part to argue, and then he squeezes your hand, and that seems to keep your emotions from escalating. His touch grounds you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an answer just yet. And when a possible solution was presented to you, you immediately shot it down. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable feeling … broken.”

You were broken. Your body did not work the way it used to. As someone so tuned to her own body, that fact was evident. 

“Maybe you don’t want to take control of your own life…” You didn’t appreciate the introspection into your personal problems, and yet, his words made too much sense. “I mean, I totally get spending so long in complete control of your career, your mind, your body. It would make sense that you’d want a break from that.”

He strokes his thumb over your hand.

“I do,” You say automatically, solemnly,  “I want control. People look up to me. My friends are counting on me.”

Garrett hums, nodding his head, and by the way his attention stays on the road, you can tell he doesn’t believe you.

And somehow, that bothers you more because you’re not sure you believe yourself either.

“It’d be wrong to let them down. Let myself down.”

“Seems like you don’t have much control over that, you know, if you can’t skate.”

His words sting.

“How would you feel if you couldn’t play anymore?”

You expect him to pause; he doesn’t, his answer is immediate. “It would probably suck for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“What? It’s a job; it’s not my entire existence.”

“Well, it’s different for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I qualified for the Olympics.”

“That’s fair.” Garrett agrees, which surprises you. “Are you hungry?”

He’s not what you expected, at all. Because some small, desperate part of you wants to stay in this car. Wants to keep holding his hand and let him decide what happens next.

You barely know Garrett Graham.

But somehow, impossibly, he already sees right through you.

Garrett ends up buying you a hamburger and fries, something you hadn’t eaten since you started training for the Olympics, and you enjoy it in the passenger seat of his car. The two of you sit in your apartment building’s parking garage. Your moments of silence aren’t uncomfortable, and you attempt not to be thrown off by how comfortable he already feels around you. He offers to walk you up to your place, but the thought of him seeing your depression room after all of this chivalry makes you want to spiral again. 

Although he looks disappointed, he takes no for an answer. Not before he gives you his number. 

You don’t leave him with a clear answer on how you feel about the “fake dating” relationship, and you don’t mention it to Anna either. Honestly, you convince yourself that meeting Garrett Graham was a part of some strange dream you had and that you could go back to wallowing in despair. 

Except the internet doesn't let you forget.

It only takes a day for the video of you and Garrett saving you from the paparazzi to go viral on the internet. You’re sure this is the relevance that Emily had insisted Garrett would be able to give you. Millions of views and thousands of comments on a single TikTok. You still weren’t sure about being famous for something other than figure skating. 

That weekend, you hear from Garrett for the first time, hours after he wins his game against the Florida Panthers. 

Garrett: What are you doing tonight?

You: Why do you ask?

Garrett: Because I want you to come out with me. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: Out with you where?

Garrett: Did you injure your sense of adventure as well?

You sit up from your bed, pushing away your laptop playing Dirty Dancing, and stare down at your phone, incredulous.  

You: What is wrong with you?

Garrett: What’s wrong is I haven’t seen you all week. 

You: You’re not my boyfriend. 

Garrett: I’m starting to understand why you don’t have one. 

You: Fuck off.

You should’ve known he was an asshole. A stupid, smug, handsome asshole. Frustrated, you bring a pillow to your face and scream. Screw him for interrupting your self-care night all to yourself. Anna was in New York prepping for being on the Drew Barrymore show next week. This was your personal time. What right did he have to question your sense of adventure?

His rude comments throw you so off kilter, you can no longer enjoy your movie. You rise from your bed, oversized t-shirt falling against your upper thigh, and start to pace across your room. You should say something else, something clever, but you find yourself coming up short when trying to craft a reply. 

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. 

Hesitantly, you leave your room, padding across the living room of your high-rise two-bedroom apartment and slowly approach the door. Another knock, this one much louder, makes you jump. You see a head of dark, curly hair when you peek through the peephole. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper. 

Another knock. “Open the door, Y/N. I can hear you.”

You curse again. The second it opens, Garrett steps inside like he belongs there, leaving you stumbling backward.

“How did you get here so fast?”

He’s clad in a dark bomber jacket, expensive chain, and dark sneakers. Effortless confidence. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention I live in the apartment building across the street.”

You stare at him.

“Whatever, you have to leave!” You exclaim as he walks further into your place. It’s modern in style and has pink accents everywhere, Anna's and your favorite color. He ignores you completely, turning to the right, toward your open doorway, and he enters your room, completely determined. “Garrett!” 

He seems to ignore the complete disarray that your room is in and heads straight to your closet.

“I’ll call the police!”

You follow behind him, horrified.

He chuckles at that. “Sure, go ahead.” He looks you over then, at your lack of pants and messily strewn hair. A faint smirk appears. “Love the outfit, princess, but you’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out at all.” Knowing you weren’t bold enough to call the police on him, you huff and take a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Uh huh.” Garrett goes through all your drawers before he picks out a silver, sparkling mini-skirt and black, thigh-high boots. “Bingo. Put these on.”

Both items you hadn’t worn since your accident. With the weight you’ve gained from not working out, you’re not even sure you’ll fit into the skirt. “Absolutely not. I can’t even walk in those things anymore.”

“You can hold onto me–”

“No, Garrett.”

“Don’t be a fucking brat, Y/N.” 

That sends the air straight out of your lungs. 

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Garrett drops the boots at your feet, and you jump. “I told you to put them on.”

He stares down at your flustered face, not in a challenge, but because he was giving you one option. Back down. You bit down on your tongue, hard, your chest rising up and down as you struggled to breathe. He said so much and nothing at all in the intensity of his gaze. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Did you want to find out what he’d do if you didn’t obey?

Carefully, you bent down and grabbed hold of the left boot, pushing your feet into the shoe before pulling the black leather fabric all the way up to your knee. To your surprise, they still fit over your calves.

“There you go.” His voice is quieter now.

You bite down on your tongue harder, eyes focused on his feet, as his voice caresses over you. You do the same with the right foot, this time your hands lingering for an uncomfortable amount of time on your right knee.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your breath catch.

And you hate how much you notice it.

“Now, take off those granny panties.”

“I don’t want to.” Your voice is small, unrecognizable. 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

“It’s either no panties or these.” He holds out a pair of black, lacy panties. Those were a part of a gift that Anna had gotten you when you turned twenty-one. No one had ever seen you in them. “I’ll let you decide that.”

You stand, wobbling, like you did the first time you got back on the ice. Garrett grabs you by your hips to steady you. For a moment, you get stuck in his gaze, and the hungry way he’s staring at you. “Panties, princess.”

He’s so insistent. It’s overwhelming. And it’s not like you to listen to a man. Or anyone, for a matter. You’re independent. You make your own decisions. You’re anything but that, now, as you reach down to slide off your boyshorts. He holds onto you as you step out of them. He kneels then, and you hold onto his shoulders as you step into the black lacy pair of underwear. 

“Garrett!” You yelp when he grabs you by your bottom, pressing his nose into the fabric that’s now wrapped tightly against your center. He inhales deeply, and you feel that warmth spreading to your core. He pushes you back onto the bed then, and you land with a bounce. “What–what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I know I want you on my arm tonight, but I’m debating if I should fill your cunt before we leave or end the night inside of you.” Garrett strips off his jacket before he lifts your thighs as he settles between them. You’re speechless when he presses his lips to yours. He wastes no time exploring you, parting your lips, and sticking his tongue in your mouth. When he pulls away, allowing you to get a breath, he’s made up his mind. “Both work, actually. Both sound good.”

 “Garrett,” You whine. 

"What? Tell me what's wrong. You don't like it when I touch you?"

"I hate it." In a swift movement, he forcefully pins your hands above your head. "Garrett!"

"Then why are you grinding against me?"

Fuck. You tilt your head back in frustration.

“I had a feeling about you. I knew you were a dirty little princess,” Garrett grunts against your skin. His jeans are tight enough for you to already feel how hard he is, and he wastes no time creating friction between you. “All pent up.”

“Fuck, I wanna taste all of you.”

“Garrett–”

“Warm you up, yeah?”

You whine louder, unrecognizable to yourself. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that? Want me to make it hurt?”

“Please.” Tears sting your eyes. How did he know exactly what you needed to feel? That you liked the pain. That you wanted to feel worthless. That you needed someone else to finally tell you what to do.

“Dirty fucking princess. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

It burned between your legs. Garrett had kept his word. Made it hurt. And you’d finished while he rocked his hips, deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. 

He’d dragged you to the club along with his teammates and worn what he had done to you like a badge of honor, all night. As soon as you got used to walking in the heels again, the vodka shots, unfortunately, made it harder again. 

A party for other athletes is actually the last place you’d usually want to be—athletes who have successful careers and are close to winning another playoff. You’ve managed to go six months without being in a room like this, and Anna had been begging you to integrate yourself back into the world. Except, you hadn’t been sure this was even your world anymore. 

Tonight, you hoped your thigh-high black boots and sparkling mini-skirt would give you an heir of confidence and nonverbally say I’m totally fine, totally sexy, and I can live without figure skating. 

The nightclub was decked out in black, gold, and white in celebration of the Bruins’ win tonight. There were packs of puck bunnies who’d paired their thigh-high boots with the jerseys of their favorite players. 

You didn’t wonder long if you belonged here because being on Garrett’s arm made it so the sea of people parted everywhere the two of you walked. People only had kind things to say when they greeted him, which meant you got less of the back-handed compliments you were getting used to. 

No mentions of “Oh my God. I used to love you!” or “You were so good last year!” Garrett, somehow, was making you feel less like you were “talented” in the past tense and more like you could exist without any of those labels. He gave you a taste of what it would be like to be Garrett's girl.

When you started to leave your body, feeling like a million eyes were on you, Garrett grabbed your chin and forced your eyes onto his. “Look at me. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Except me, his eyes seemed to say. “I’ll handle it”

You try to relax and to use all that poise and sensuality you’d learned from skating and channel it into dancing with Garrett. 

After the two of you have danced hard enough to leave you covered in a layer of sweat, Garrett guides you over to the bar. 

“You’re glad you came, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure glad is the way you would describe it. 

“You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says smoothly before he orders you a Vodka Red Bull. As you wait for the bartender to mix your drink, he leans down to speak into your ear, “Hey, so, a few of the guys and their girls are going to Vegas tonight.”

“Oh,” You lean up to say, “That sounds fun.”

“Good." Garrett smiles. “We’re going too.”

You shake your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Vegas? Tonight? It’s already almost midnight!”

“You can sleep through the flight.”

Concern fills your eyes but Garrett turns his focus on grabbing your drink and forcing it into your hands. “I’m not prepared to fly. And you don’t have plane tickets, do you?”

“Drink that.”

“Garrett–”

“Don’t be rude. I just paid twenty bucks for that. Drink it.”

His tone is stern, and you can feel the seriousness even over the pounding EDM music. Again, there’s no challenge in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to argue.

He just looks at you like he already knows you’ll listen.

The worst part is that he's been right the entire night.

You take a sip, instantly cringing at how strong it is. Garrett isn’t satisfied when you flash your eyes up at hiim. A non-verbal command. More. Taking a breath, you take a longer sip. 

"There you go."

"You're annoying."

"Maybe."

He smiles again, white teeth flashing, and you're starting to understand why all of Boston has become obsessed with him.

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow, princess?” Your teeth bite at your straw, slightly frustrated and mostly buzzed.

"No."

“That’s what I thought.” 

After midnight, when you’re in the car with Garrett, you realize that Garrett didn’t have a single drink tonight. Meanwhile, your head was spinning, mini-skirt riding up and knee high boots that were now pooling around your ankles. 

The last time you were in Vegas was for a competition years ago. You’d done your fair share of partying in the early days of college but ever since you locked in for the Olympics, you hadn’t done any heavy drinking. Which meant you’d become much more of a lightweight than you remembered. 

“I can’t go through TSA like this,” you mumble, sinking into the passenger seat.

An old rock song plays quietly through the speakers.

“I’ll get arrested.”

Garrett glances over.

“No TSA where we’re going, baby.”

“What?” You moan, “I thought we were getting on a plane.”

“A private plane.”

You gasp, “No freaking way. You have a plane.”

“I don’t have a plane, princess. I have friends who have a plane.” 

“I have to text Anna.”

“I’ll text her for you when we get on the plane.”

“Fuck,” You felt like you were talking in slow motion.  “This has been the weirdest night of my life. I can’t believe I fucked Garrett Graham.

A pause.

"Me."

Your eyes start to close.

"America’s sweetheart.”

You don’t see the smile that crosses his face.

You’re asleep before the car even reaches the runway.

The bed you wake up in is soft but obviously not yours. The room is blurry when you first open your eyes, the sun peeking in through a nearby window, a loud hum immediately flooding your ears. The sound is deep and constant. 

A plane. 

You swore you dreamt that part of the night. There’s no way you agreed to go with Garrett all the way to Vegas. Then again, you were completely sober when you let him inside of you. 

Running your fingers over your skin, you realize the only piece of clothing you’re still wearing are your underwar. As the panic continues to sink in, the bed dips beside you, and heavy arm wrapping around you. A shirtless, sleeping Garrett, settles beside you, his hips pressing into your bottom. 

“Garrett,” You whisper, your heart racing in your chest. He moans in response, hands reaching to grab a handful of your breast. “Can you wake up?”

“What?” He asks gruffly, annoyed. 

“Why am I naked?”

“What?” He asks again, half asleep, “I undressed you. You were wasted last night.”

“But you didn’t …” Your voice trails off as the question hangs in the air. 

“Of course not..”

“Oh…okay.”

He presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your shoulder and your worries melt … slightly. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” He says, unbelieving. He continues to grab your breast, placing kissess along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He’s hard, erection straining against his briefs, and pressing into your ass. 

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” You think out loud. 

Garrett hums, strong fingers trailing down your stomach and towards your center, “Doesn’t help that you’re touch starved.” This observation makes you want to roll your eyes, “You’re so responsive.”

You breath out, holding in your moans, “Are we landing soon?”

“There's time, don’t worry.”

Garrett presses you into the bed, stomach and the side of your head against the sheets. He positions himself at your entrance moments later.

"So needy."

He slips inside of you like last night, knowing you’re wet but not wet enough to take all of him.

He holds the back of your neck tightly, pressing your face further into the mattress as he roughly grabs the flesh of your bottom. He spanks you as he takes you deeper. It hurts, but that's what you like the most, and from this angle, he can watch as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“I think I’ll take you everywhere with me.” 

He spanks you so hard it’ll surely leave bruises. The feeling makes you grit your teeth, but you don't ask him to stop. You don't want him to.

“My little stress reliever.”

“I can use you however I want, right?”

His words, the shame, the friction against the bed- it quickly sends you tumbling over the edge. Your body shakes as you squeeze him tighter. His hips stutter. “Fuck.”

“You like that.”

“This is what you’re good for, princess. Making me feel good.”

His goal is not your pleasure. It just so happens that his taking what he needs from you is what feels best.

“Oh my -- Garrett!”

It’s his name on your lips that brings him to his own end. He pins you tighter to the bed, another reminder of where you belong.

Beneath him. 

It’s eye-opening, the relief, and how much you like the feeling.

You think you would want to feel this way all the time, if that were even possible.

For now, though, surrendering to him feels easier than fighting to hold yourself together.

Two days later, you pace inside the luxurious hotel suite, the lights of the Las Vegas strip shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s just a bikini, Y/N,” Anna’s voice comes through your phone. You stare down at your screen and see her camera propped up in front of her as she wipes off her makeup from the day. You're three hours ahead of her, your night just beginning as hers is coming to an end.

She's wrong.

It’s actually the opposite of a bikini. 

It’s a piece of clothing that Garrett Graham has picked out for you and expects you to wear to a huge pool party tonight. 

It’s unforgiving of your scars or your changing body. 

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve spontaneously decided to go to Las Vegas with Garrett Graham and wearing a bikini in public is where you’re drawing the line.” 

“You know, you’re not helping, you’re supposed to tell me that I’m being crazy. That I’m fucking up my entire life.”

“Fucking up your life? Girl, do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?”

You sigh, frustrated. 

“I can’t do this, Anna.”

“You can.”

“Can’t!”

“Fine, you’ve never listened to me. Maybe he can convince you, though.”

You scoff at that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that, for some reason, Garrett Graham is the only person who’s been able to get to you since all of this happened. I just have a feeling that I’m gonna wake up in the morning to some paparazzi photos of you looking gorgeous in that bikini and having the time of your life.” 

Anna ends up being right because everyone, like Garrett, seemed to know you better than you did yourself. 

It doesn’t take any convincing for Garrett to get you into a red bikini. All he has to do is tell you to put it on. You give in instantly. 

He leaves you no room to feel insecure with him. There’s no way you can’t feel gorgeous because Garrett doesn’t go longer than five minutes without his tongue down your throat. 

You shower that night together, after the pool party, and Garrett takes his time carefully dragging the soapy washcloth across your skin. 

“Plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been a very good girl for me this weekend.”

You knew what it meant. You kept close to him no matter what party or event he wanted to take you to. When he wanted to be inside of you, you let him bend you over. 

“Uhm.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You think you deserve a reward?”

Was the free vacation and a dozen orgasms not enough of a reward?

You turn to face him, eyes blinking up at him nervously, warm water beating against your back. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” He grabs hold of your chin with one hand. With the other, he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “I want to spank you.”

A sharp inhale. “Is that …is that not a punishment?”

“Not for you.”

The steam escapes the glass shower as Garrett leads you back into the bathroom. He takes his time drying your hair and your skin, paying attention to every curve of your body. You notice the way his fingers hover over your scar. When you flinch away, he grabs your leg tighter, a reminder to stay in place. To not run away from him.

Pleasure or pain, whatever he decided to give you.

You had to take it. 

You wanted to.

It was getting harder and harder to hide how desperate you were.

“I’m tired.”

“So you don’t want your reward?”

Garrett stands, wrapping a towel around his waist, dark hair still dripping onto the skin of sculpted chest. 

You bite down on your lip, afraid to tell him no. He looks you over closely. 

“Fine. Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

He turns away from you, walking over to one of the Jack and Jill sinks. 

“I feel sore too. From earlier.”

Garrett hums, ignoring you, and although he’s had his tongue in your mouth all night, you start to feel upset that he’s turned his attention from you. 

He wants you to beg now. Beg for him to hurt you. 

You haven’t moved yet, twiddling your fingers, and Garrett hasn’t said another word. 

“Is this how you treat all your girlfriends?”

Garrett sighs, drying his hair in the mirror, “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll let me. And you like it.”

“I don’t,” You argue. “Okay, sure, it’s fun in the bedroom. But all the time? If we …if we started dating like our agents suggested, this is how you would treat me?”

“Is that what you want? To date me?”

“No,” You answer too quickly, “I don’t know. Not if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Garrett turns, tossing his towel to the side, before he stalks over to you. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m serious–”

“Get on your knees.”

“Garrett, it’s not gonna work. I’m not playing …I don’t want to play your game anymore.”

“Get on your knees, princess.” His voice vibrates through you. The peaks of your chest rise as he stares down at your naked body. 

“Please stop–”

“On your knees, baby. You want to be my good girl, I know you do.”

You lower yourself down gently, your eyes traveling down his legs before they land on the tile floor. 

"Show me how good you are."

“Crawl to the bed.”

Your knees ache almost as bad as your warm center. 

Garrett follows behind you as you slowly, surely taking in the sight of your bare bottom, as you make your way across the tile and then onto the carpet of the bedroom. The room is straight out of a porno. A king-sized bed, red-felt headboard, and a mirror that hangs on the ceiling directly above the bed. Red velvet curtains partially cover the view of the Vegas city life, and the sound of the city- honking cars and nightlife roars on in the background. 

Garrett grabs you and lifts you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“Face on the bed. Ass up.” 

Your body moves before your mind can tell it what to do. 

Much to your disappointment, seconds pass, and you realize Garrett has left the room. You hear shuffling in the kitchen, and you frown. You keep your position perfectly, which is the sickest part. Minutes later, Garrett returns with a glass of water in hand. 

“Do you like when I tell you what to do, Y/N?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, Garrett.” He corrects you. 

“Yes, Garrett.” You parrot back. 

"Then don't complicate things. Let me give you what you need."

He sets down the glass of water on his bedside table before he disappears into the bathroom. Again, you don’t move. 

Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment settling deep. He returns, now wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein underwear. 

The bed dips as Garrett gets into the bed, pulling the covers over his body. He waits another long minute before he says, “C’mere.”

Hesitant, you lift your head. His tired eyes burn into yours. He pats the spot beside him, and you crawl slowly, like a dog, until you’re beside him. He lifts the covers so you can slide your body next to you. You sniffle, wiping your tears, as you lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, not forgetting to add, “Garrett.”

“I know, baby, you're just overwhelmed. Let’s go to sleep.”

No more games.

No more power plays.

At least for tonight.

You’d signed with Emily at Frozen Edge Sports when you were only eighteen years old, and she’d become too much of a friend to end your relationship the easy way. It would just hurt less if you didn’t have to see the pity in her eyes up close. 

You’d been skating since you were five years old. Your father pushed you into it, but at a certain point, you’d become the one putting pressure on yourself. It never occurred to you for all those years, but you’d given up your entire childhood for one thing. 

You’d won your first U.S. championship at eleven years old. The best day of your entire life was not qualifying for this year’s Olympics, but when you won Bronze at the World Junior Figure Skating Championships when you were fifteen years old.

You'd nearly killed yourself that season. You begged your parents to homeschool you so you could spend more hours at the rink, and you even turned down Stephan Greenwoon, the heartthrob of Arlington Catholic's Cougars hockey team—when he asked you to be his date to junior prom.

It had all been for nothing because at the young age of twenty-two, you were officially a has-been. 

That’s what four torn ligaments in your right knee can do to a bright future. 

Despite the surgeries and the intensive physical therapy, your light continued to dim. Although you eased back into practicing again, you just couldn’t seem to land the jumps that helped you qualify in the first place. Your sponsors were kind and waited a few months before they broke their contracts. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t making Emily, the main person keeping your career afloat, any more money. 

Your own money would run out soon, and your parents' help only went so far in a city as expensive as Boston. You'd thought about putting your bachelor's degree in Communications to use, a degree you had no passion for and no idea what to do with. Your Olympics-destined best friend, Anna, was kind and paying more than her fair share of rent right now to help you out. She was waiting for you to snap out of your funk, and honestly, you hoped something would change too.

The nearby elevator dinged, and you avoided eye contact with whoever was stepping out. As the person walked past you, you were hit with the smell of expensive cologne. He approached the secretary's desk, and your eyes lifted as the deep timbre of his voice reached your ears. “Hey, I have a ten a.m. appointment with David and Emily.” 

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re here, Mr. Graham.”

Your brows raised at that. His eyes turned towards you just as the confusion spread across your face. His face was familiar, chiseled, and sculpted by dark curls. A duffel bag with the Bruins’ logo hung at his side, as if he’d just arrived from practice. 

That didn’t make sense. You had a ten o’clock appointment with Emily. And it was about twelve minutes past that time. 

“Hey.” His smile stretches at the sight of you, and your heart pounds as you realize he’s walking up to you. “You must be Y/N. I’m Garrett.” 

Garrett Graham. The Bruins' rookie center. All six feet of him. 

It takes too long for you to realize he’s holding his hand out to you. He appears professional, composed, and nothing like his reputation. You stand, smoothing down your gray athleisure set, and you politely shake his hand, “Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a big fan,” He admits, still managing to sound cool and not like a fan at all. “I watched your routine at the U.S. Championships. The one where you skated to that Lana Del Rey song. It was insane.”

Your lips part in shock. You’re not sure how long it’s been since someone gave you a compliment that wasn’t covered in layers of condescension.

"You watched figure skating?"

"I watched you."

He laughed before the words could become awkward.

"I mean, I don't know much about the sport, but that routine was incredible. I was sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Yeah…”

“You back on the ice yet?”

“Oh, um,” The dreaded question. You keep your face from falling and smile sheepishly, awkwardly, “A little bit. Not too much. Still can’t put much weight on my right knee, but I’ve still been trying to support the other girls while they train.”  

You’d been cleared to start training lightly, but your knee had another thing to say. You couldn't even count how many times you wiped out the last time you were on the ice. 

He gives you a look that’s more empathetic than you expect: “Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” You agree, “It does.” 

Your agent's door opens seconds later, and Emily appears, waving the two of you into her office. “Do you know what’s going on?” You ask Garrett as he walks beside you. Why in the world is Garrett Graham joining in on your final meeting with your agent? 

“Uhm,” He presses his lips together as he decides to think over his words carefully, “I think it’s better if you hear it from Emily.”

What the fuck is going on? 

The two of you join Emily and David, who you learn is Garrett’s agent. It becomes pretty clear as the mundane introductions occur that you’re the only one who has no idea why all four of you are meeting.

Every time she opens her mouth, you expect her to finally explain.

She never does.

David is the one who eventually decides to stop pretending.

David, an old white man whose look is so corporate it actually frightens you, is the one who decides to cut to the chase. He’s balding, overweight, and he stands in contrast to Emily, who’s tall, blonde, and a former Olympic swimmer. 

“We’d like to arrange a mutually beneficial relationship between the two of you."

Your heart drops to your stomach.

"We’re all aware that your injury, Ms. Y/L/N, is likely going to prevent you from competing in the Olympics. That means many of the sponsorship opportunities previously arranged for you are no longer guaranteed. Millions of dollars in potential earnings are now at risk."

You sit completely still.

"Talent and good character, which you still have, are important to our agency. But relevance is also a factor in this industry. By establishing a romantic relationship with Mr. Graham, we believe you’ll be able to maintain public interest and preserve some of the opportunities that may otherwise disappear.”

The room goes silent, your heart fully stops beating in your chest, and you have to force yourself to take a breath.

Is this a worse fate than being fired?

Being told that you're no longer valuable?

Knowing the only way you’ll have a career is if you become a rookie hockey player’s girlfriend for clout? 

“Emily," You force your voice from your throat. "What is he talking about?”

“I think this is the best option for you, Y/N."

Shame floods your features as your body goes rigid. Your hand instinctively drops to your right knee, your fingers tracing the scar there, pressing against the place where the pain still lingers even though your injury has technically healed.

“I want the best for you. I’m trying to find a way for you to maintain your lifestyle, your fans, and your financial security while you figure out what comes next.” 

Garrett chimes in when another silence settles over the room, “I don’t mean to be rude. This sounds great and all. I’m just not sure what I’m getting out of all of this.”

“Credibility,” Emily answers, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You have two different reputations. Y/N, you’re recognizable, poised, and charitable. You’re a good girl. And Garrett…”

She looks back at him.

"You’re talented, but you’re also seen as cocky. Hot-headed. The new rookie with something to prove."

"You think she balances me out?"

Garrett nods, as if he’s truly considering this. “You’re not serious?”

He looks over.

“What?” He lifts his hands slightly, confused. “You’re not considering this?”

He had everything to gain. Your life was slipping through your hands as the days passed. 

Emily continues, eyes focused on you, as if she were desperate for you to understand her point of view. “There are a lot of details for us to work out. There’s absolutely no rush. We can start by setting up a few chance meetings and events where you can be photographed together. We’ll see how social media responds, and that’ll help guide our next moves.”

Feeling suffocated, you stand up. You were mentally prepared to be let go; you weren't prepared for this. 

“For four years, you've told me to protect my image. To protect my brand. To make sure no one else controlled my career. And now you’re telling me all that I’m good for is being someone else’s girlfriend.”

“I’m trying to help, Y/N,” Emily says, more dejected than before.

“This isn’t personal; this is business,” David adds. 

You can’t help but scoff, and you take a final look at Emily now that she’s dragged the two of them into your business. “I trusted you.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“Wait–” Garrett turns in his chair to face you, and no matter how kind he seems, you’re too embarrassed to face him. 

“This actually has nothing to do with you.”

Anna: Hey, how’d it go?

You decided not to reply rather than explain to your friend that you had cried your eyes out in a single stall bathroom and were now trying to collect yourself and get the hell out of this building. 

God, you looked horrible. You dabbed a cold towel under your eyes, wiping away your smudged mascara. Despite reapplying your lip gloss and letting your hair down, you still found yourself frightened by your own appearance. 

You made your way out of the lobby bathroom, out the revolving doors, and onto the busy sidewalk. Looking down at your phone again, you realize your rideshare is still eight minutes away. 

Then—

“Y/N!” 

“Are you retiring?”

A group of photographers and a reporter suddenly surrounds you. You stumble backwards as the reporter forces a microphone into your face. 

“Is it true you’re not going to the Olympics?”

“Were you released today?”

You freeze. 

No, no, no. 

Flashing lights start to blind you. Your whispered “please stop” and your “no comment” are drowned out by the camera shutters. 

“Have you accepted you’ll never compete again?”

A large camera nearly knocks you to the ground. 

A deep engine rumbles from the street, cutting through the chaos, and you catch a glance at a black car that skids to a stop in front of the sidewalk. A car door opens and Garrett appears. He doesn't hesitate, rounding the front of his Jeep and shoving his way in between you and the mob. 

“Back the fuck up!” 

His voice cuts through the noise, command sharp enough to make them hesitate.

He grabs hold of your waist, pulling you against his body, an act that would typically freak you out, but for some reason, you find yourself clinging to him. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He lifts you off your feet, not on purpose, but because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you that his attempt to shield you from the crowd accidentally pulls you onto your toes.

“Garrett, are you guys dating?”

“How did you two meet?” 

“Did the agency arrange this?”

He opens the passenger door and lifts you inside, the door slamming behind you. You cover your face with your hands as the flashing continues, now directed inside the car, and Garrett slides back into the driver's seat. 

“Fucking hell,” He curses as he speeds off, engine roaring, the vibrations rolling through you. “They should’ve never let you walk out of there by yourself.” 

Knees pulled to your chest, you hiccup as tears fall again. You’re grateful you’ve already cried off the rest of your mascara. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, too emotionally tired to hold up any sort of shield. Garrett rests one hand casually on the steering wheel and the other on the middle console. “Fucking assholes.”

You rest your arm next to his, your skin brushing against the fabric of his black sweatshirt. The noise seems to quiet around you, your heart's pounding starts to slow, and you feel the desire to hold onto him again.

You don't know why you feel safer.

You don't even know him.

Fingers grazing against his, Garrett decides to close the gap between you, interlacing his fingers with yours. 

He releases a deep breath, glancing over you before he says. “That was shitty, I know. I honestly thought Emily had already mentioned that whole plan to you. I’m sure it caught you off guard.” 

“Were you going to agree just because you feel bad for me?” 

Garret doesn't flinch, although the words come out sharper than you intended.

“I was going to agree because I wanted to get to know you.”

You stare at him. His jaw tightens as he focuses on the traffic ahead.

“You wanted to get to know an athlete with no career left?”

“Honestly?" He says. "I think you’re just lost, Y/N.”

You blink. “What? You don’t …” Your lips part to argue, and then he squeezes your hand, and that seems to keep your emotions from escalating. His touch grounds you. “What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have an answer just yet. And when a possible solution was presented to you, you immediately shot it down. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable feeling … broken.”

You were broken. Your body did not work the way it used to. As someone so tuned to her own body, that fact was evident. 

“Maybe you don’t want to take control of your own life…” You didn’t appreciate the introspection into your personal problems, and yet, his words made too much sense. “I mean, I totally get spending so long in complete control of your career, your mind, your body. It would make sense that you’d want a break from that.”

He strokes his thumb over your hand.

“I do,” You say automatically, solemnly,  “I want control. People look up to me. My friends are counting on me.”

Garrett hums, nodding his head, and by the way his attention stays on the road, you can tell he doesn’t believe you.

And somehow, that bothers you more because you’re not sure you believe yourself either.

“It’d be wrong to let them down. Let myself down.”

“Seems like you don’t have much control over that, you know, if you can’t skate.”

His words sting.

“How would you feel if you couldn’t play anymore?”

You expect him to pause; he doesn’t, his answer is immediate. “It would probably suck for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“What? It’s a job; it’s not my entire existence.”

“Well, it’s different for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I qualified for the Olympics.”

“That’s fair.” Garrett agrees, which surprises you. “Are you hungry?”

He’s not what you expected, at all. Because some small, desperate part of you wants to stay in this car. Wants to keep holding his hand and let him decide what happens next.

You barely know Garrett Graham.

But somehow, impossibly, he already sees right through you.

Garrett ends up buying you a hamburger and fries, something you hadn’t eaten since you started training for the Olympics, and you enjoy it in the passenger seat of his car. The two of you sit in your apartment building’s parking garage. Your moments of silence aren’t uncomfortable, and you attempt not to be thrown off by how comfortable he already feels around you. He offers to walk you up to your place, but the thought of him seeing your depression room after all of this chivalry makes you want to spiral again. 

Although he looks disappointed, he takes no for an answer. Not before he gives you his number. 

You don’t leave him with a clear answer on how you feel about the “fake dating” relationship, and you don’t mention it to Anna either. Honestly, you convince yourself that meeting Garrett Graham was a part of some strange dream you had and that you could go back to wallowing in despair. 

Except the internet doesn't let you forget.

It only takes a day for the video of you and Garrett saving you from the paparazzi to go viral on the internet. You’re sure this is the relevance that Emily had insisted Garrett would be able to give you. Millions of views and thousands of comments on a single TikTok. You still weren’t sure about being famous for something other than figure skating. 

That weekend, you hear from Garrett for the first time, hours after he wins his game against the Florida Panthers. 

Garrett: What are you doing tonight?

You: Why do you ask?

Garrett: Because I want you to come out with me. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: Out with you where?

Garrett: Did you injure your sense of adventure as well?

You sit up from your bed, pushing away your laptop playing Dirty Dancing, and stare down at your phone, incredulous.  

You: What is wrong with you?

Garrett: What’s wrong is I haven’t seen you all week. 

You: You’re not my boyfriend. 

Garrett: I’m starting to understand why you don’t have one. 

You: Fuck off.

You should’ve known he was an asshole. A stupid, smug, handsome asshole. Frustrated, you bring a pillow to your face and scream. Screw him for interrupting your self-care night all to yourself. Anna was in New York prepping for being on the Drew Barrymore show next week. This was your personal time. What right did he have to question your sense of adventure?

His rude comments throw you so off kilter, you can no longer enjoy your movie. You rise from your bed, oversized t-shirt falling against your upper thigh, and start to pace across your room. You should say something else, something clever, but you find yourself coming up short when trying to craft a reply. 

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. 

Hesitantly, you leave your room, padding across the living room of your high-rise two-bedroom apartment and slowly approach the door. Another knock, this one much louder, makes you jump. You see a head of dark, curly hair when you peek through the peephole. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper. 

Another knock. “Open the door, Y/N. I can hear you.”

You curse again. The second it opens, Garrett steps inside like he belongs there, leaving you stumbling backward.

“How did you get here so fast?”

He’s clad in a dark bomber jacket, expensive chain, and dark sneakers. Effortless confidence. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention I live in the apartment building across the street.”

You stare at him.

“Whatever, you have to leave!” You exclaim as he walks further into your place. It’s modern in style and has pink accents everywhere, Anna's and your favorite color. He ignores you completely, turning to the right, toward your open doorway, and he enters your room, completely determined. “Garrett!” 

He seems to ignore the complete disarray that your room is in and heads straight to your closet.

“I’ll call the police!”

You follow behind him, horrified.

He chuckles at that. “Sure, go ahead.” He looks you over then, at your lack of pants and messily strewn hair. A faint smirk appears. “Love the outfit, princess, but you’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out at all.” Knowing you weren’t bold enough to call the police on him, you huff and take a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Uh huh.” Garrett goes through all your drawers before he picks out a silver, sparkling mini-skirt and black, thigh-high boots. “Bingo. Put these on.”

Both items you hadn’t worn since your accident. With the weight you’ve gained from not working out, you’re not even sure you’ll fit into the skirt. “Absolutely not. I can’t even walk in those things anymore.”

“You can hold onto me–”

“No, Garrett.”

“Don’t be a fucking brat, Y/N.” 

That sends the air straight out of your lungs. 

“I’m not–”

“You are,” Garrett drops the boots at your feet, and you jump. “I told you to put them on.”

He stares down at your flustered face, not in a challenge, but because he was giving you one option. Back down. You bit down on your tongue, hard, your chest rising up and down as you struggled to breathe. He said so much and nothing at all in the intensity of his gaze. An unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. Did you want to find out what he’d do if you didn’t obey?

Carefully, you bent down and grabbed hold of the left boot, pushing your feet into the shoe before pulling the black leather fabric all the way up to your knee. To your surprise, they still fit over your calves.

“There you go.” His voice is quieter now.

You bite down on your tongue harder, eyes focused on his feet, as his voice caresses over you. You do the same with the right foot, this time your hands lingering for an uncomfortable amount of time on your right knee.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your breath catch.

And you hate how much you notice it.

“Now, take off those granny panties.”

“I don’t want to.” Your voice is small, unrecognizable. 

“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

“It’s either no panties or these.” He holds out a pair of black, lacy panties. Those were a part of a gift that Anna had gotten you when you turned twenty-one. No one had ever seen you in them. “I’ll let you decide that.”

You stand, wobbling, like you did the first time you got back on the ice. Garrett grabs you by your hips to steady you. For a moment, you get stuck in his gaze, and the hungry way he’s staring at you. “Panties, princess.”

He’s so insistent. It’s overwhelming. And it’s not like you to listen to a man. Or anyone, for a matter. You’re independent. You make your own decisions. You’re anything but that, now, as you reach down to slide off your boyshorts. He holds onto you as you step out of them. He kneels then, and you hold onto his shoulders as you step into the black lacy pair of underwear. 

“Garrett!” You yelp when he grabs you by your bottom, pressing his nose into the fabric that’s now wrapped tightly against your center. He inhales deeply, and you feel that warmth spreading to your core. He pushes you back onto the bed then, and you land with a bounce. “What–what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I know I want you on my arm tonight, but I’m debating if I should fill your cunt before we leave or end the night inside of you.” Garrett strips off his jacket before he lifts your thighs as he settles between them. You’re speechless when he presses his lips to yours. He wastes no time exploring you, parting your lips, and sticking his tongue in your mouth. When he pulls away, allowing you to get a breath, he’s made up his mind. “Both work, actually. Both sound good.”

 “Garrett,” You whine. 

"What? Tell me what's wrong. You don't like it when I touch you?"

"I hate it." In a swift movement, he forcefully pins your hands above your head. "Garrett!"

"Then why are you grinding against me?"

Fuck. You tilt your head back in frustration.

“I had a feeling about you. I knew you were a dirty little princess,” Garrett grunts against your skin. His jeans are tight enough for you to already feel how hard he is, and he wastes no time creating friction between you. “All pent up.”

“Fuck, I wanna taste all of you.”

“Garrett–”

“Warm you up, yeah?”

You whine louder, unrecognizable to yourself. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that? Want me to make it hurt?”

“Please.” Tears sting your eyes. How did he know exactly what you needed to feel? That you liked the pain. That you wanted to feel worthless. That you needed someone else to finally tell you what to do.

“Dirty fucking princess. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

It burned between your legs. Garrett had kept his word. Made it hurt. And you’d finished while he rocked his hips, deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles into your sensitive bud. 

He’d dragged you to the club along with his teammates and worn what he had done to you like a badge of honor, all night. As soon as you got used to walking in the heels again, the vodka shots, unfortunately, made it harder again. 

A party for other athletes is actually the last place you’d usually want to be—athletes who have successful careers and are close to winning another playoff. You’ve managed to go six months without being in a room like this, and Anna had been begging you to integrate yourself back into the world. Except, you hadn’t been sure this was even your world anymore. 

Tonight, you hoped your thigh-high black boots and sparkling mini-skirt would give you an heir of confidence and nonverbally say I’m totally fine, totally sexy, and I can live without figure skating. 

The nightclub was decked out in black, gold, and white in celebration of the Bruins’ win tonight. There were packs of puck bunnies who’d paired their thigh-high boots with the jerseys of their favorite players. 

You didn’t wonder long if you belonged here because being on Garrett’s arm made it so the sea of people parted everywhere the two of you walked. People only had kind things to say when they greeted him, which meant you got less of the back-handed compliments you were getting used to. 

No mentions of “Oh my God. I used to love you!” or “You were so good last year!” Garrett, somehow, was making you feel less like you were “talented” in the past tense and more like you could exist without any of those labels. He gave you a taste of what it would be like to be Garrett's girl.

When you started to leave your body, feeling like a million eyes were on you, Garrett grabbed your chin and forced your eyes onto his. “Look at me. No one’s gonna hurt you.” Except me, his eyes seemed to say. “I’ll handle it”

You try to relax and to use all that poise and sensuality you’d learned from skating and channel it into dancing with Garrett. 

After the two of you have danced hard enough to leave you covered in a layer of sweat, Garrett guides you over to the bar. 

“You’re glad you came, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure glad is the way you would describe it. 

“You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says smoothly before he orders you a Vodka Red Bull. As you wait for the bartender to mix your drink, he leans down to speak into your ear, “Hey, so, a few of the guys and their girls are going to Vegas tonight.”

“Oh,” You lean up to say, “That sounds fun.”

“Good." Garrett smiles. “We’re going too.”

You shake your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Vegas? Tonight? It’s already almost midnight!”

“You can sleep through the flight.”

Concern fills your eyes but Garrett turns his focus on grabbing your drink and forcing it into your hands. “I’m not prepared to fly. And you don’t have plane tickets, do you?”

“Drink that.”

“Garrett–”

“Don’t be rude. I just paid twenty bucks for that. Drink it.”

His tone is stern, and you can feel the seriousness even over the pounding EDM music. Again, there’s no challenge in his eyes.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to argue.

He just looks at you like he already knows you’ll listen.

The worst part is that he's been right the entire night.

You take a sip, instantly cringing at how strong it is. Garrett isn’t satisfied when you flash your eyes up at hiim. A non-verbal command. More. Taking a breath, you take a longer sip. 

"There you go."

"You're annoying."

"Maybe."

He smiles again, white teeth flashing, and you're starting to understand why all of Boston has become obsessed with him.

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow, princess?” Your teeth bite at your straw, slightly frustrated and mostly buzzed.

"No."

“That’s what I thought.” 

After midnight, when you’re in the car with Garrett, you realize that Garrett didn’t have a single drink tonight. Meanwhile, your head was spinning, mini-skirt riding up and knee high boots that were now pooling around your ankles. 

The last time you were in Vegas was for a competition years ago. You’d done your fair share of partying in the early days of college but ever since you locked in for the Olympics, you hadn’t done any heavy drinking. Which meant you’d become much more of a lightweight than you remembered. 

“I can’t go through TSA like this,” you mumble, sinking into the passenger seat.

An old rock song plays quietly through the speakers.

“I’ll get arrested.”

Garrett glances over.

“No TSA where we’re going, baby.”

“What?” You moan, “I thought we were getting on a plane.”

“A private plane.”

You gasp, “No freaking way. You have a plane.”

“I don’t have a plane, princess. I have friends who have a plane.” 

“I have to text Anna.”

“I’ll text her for you when we get on the plane.”

“Fuck,” You felt like you were talking in slow motion.  “This has been the weirdest night of my life. I can’t believe I fucked Garrett Graham.

A pause.

"Me."

Your eyes start to close.

"America’s sweetheart.”

You don’t see the smile that crosses his face.

You’re asleep before the car even reaches the runway.

The bed you wake up in is soft but obviously not yours. The room is blurry when you first open your eyes, the sun peeking in through a nearby window, a loud hum immediately flooding your ears. The sound is deep and constant. 

A plane. 

You swore you dreamt that part of the night. There’s no way you agreed to go with Garrett all the way to Vegas. Then again, you were completely sober when you let him inside of you. 

Running your fingers over your skin, you realize the only piece of clothing you’re still wearing are your underwar. As the panic continues to sink in, the bed dips beside you, and heavy arm wrapping around you. A shirtless, sleeping Garrett, settles beside you, his hips pressing into your bottom. 

“Garrett,” You whisper, your heart racing in your chest. He moans in response, hands reaching to grab a handful of your breast. “Can you wake up?”

“What?” He asks gruffly, annoyed. 

“Why am I naked?”

“What?” He asks again, half asleep, “I undressed you. You were wasted last night.”

“But you didn’t …” Your voice trails off as the question hangs in the air. 

“Of course not..”

“Oh…okay.”

He presses a soft, unexpected kiss to your shoulder and your worries melt … slightly. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay,” He says, unbelieving. He continues to grab your breast, placing kissess along your shoulder and the back of your neck. He’s hard, erection straining against his briefs, and pressing into your ass. 

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” You think out loud. 

Garrett hums, strong fingers trailing down your stomach and towards your center, “Doesn’t help that you’re touch starved.” This observation makes you want to roll your eyes, “You’re so responsive.”

You breath out, holding in your moans, “Are we landing soon?”

“There's time, don’t worry.”

Garrett presses you into the bed, stomach and the side of your head against the sheets. He positions himself at your entrance moments later.

"So needy."

He slips inside of you like last night, knowing you’re wet but not wet enough to take all of him.

He holds the back of your neck tightly, pressing your face further into the mattress as he roughly grabs the flesh of your bottom. He spanks you as he takes you deeper. It hurts, but that's what you like the most, and from this angle, he can watch as your face contorts in pleasure. 

“I think I’ll take you everywhere with me.” 

He spanks you so hard it’ll surely leave bruises. The feeling makes you grit your teeth, but you don't ask him to stop. You don't want him to.

“My little stress reliever.”

“I can use you however I want, right?”

His words, the shame, the friction against the bed- it quickly sends you tumbling over the edge. Your body shakes as you squeeze him tighter. His hips stutter. “Fuck.”

“You like that.”

“This is what you’re good for, princess. Making me feel good.”

His goal is not your pleasure. It just so happens that his taking what he needs from you is what feels best.

“Oh my -- Garrett!”

It’s his name on your lips that brings him to his own end. He pins you tighter to the bed, another reminder of where you belong.

Beneath him. 

It’s eye-opening, the relief, and how much you like the feeling.

You think you would want to feel this way all the time, if that were even possible.

For now, though, surrendering to him feels easier than fighting to hold yourself together.

Two days later, you pace inside the luxurious hotel suite, the lights of the Las Vegas strip shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s just a bikini, Y/N,” Anna’s voice comes through your phone. You stare down at your screen and see her camera propped up in front of her as she wipes off her makeup from the day. You're three hours ahead of her, your night just beginning as hers is coming to an end.

She's wrong.

It’s actually the opposite of a bikini. 

It’s a piece of clothing that Garrett Graham has picked out for you and expects you to wear to a huge pool party tonight. 

It’s unforgiving of your scars or your changing body. 

“You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’ve spontaneously decided to go to Las Vegas with Garrett Graham and wearing a bikini in public is where you’re drawing the line.” 

“You know, you’re not helping, you’re supposed to tell me that I’m being crazy. That I’m fucking up my entire life.”

“Fucking up your life? Girl, do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?”

You sigh, frustrated. 

“I can’t do this, Anna.”

“You can.”

“Can’t!”

“Fine, you’ve never listened to me. Maybe he can convince you, though.”

You scoff at that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that, for some reason, Garrett Graham is the only person who’s been able to get to you since all of this happened. I just have a feeling that I’m gonna wake up in the morning to some paparazzi photos of you looking gorgeous in that bikini and having the time of your life.” 

Anna ends up being right because everyone, like Garrett, seemed to know you better than you did yourself. 

It doesn’t take any convincing for Garrett to get you into a red bikini. All he has to do is tell you to put it on. You give in instantly. 

He leaves you no room to feel insecure with him. There’s no way you can’t feel gorgeous because Garrett doesn’t go longer than five minutes without his tongue down your throat. 

You shower that night together, after the pool party, and Garrett takes his time carefully dragging the soapy washcloth across your skin. 

“Plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been a very good girl for me this weekend.”

You knew what it meant. You kept close to him no matter what party or event he wanted to take you to. When he wanted to be inside of you, you let him bend you over. 

“Uhm.” You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You think you deserve a reward?”

Was the free vacation and a dozen orgasms not enough of a reward?

You turn to face him, eyes blinking up at him nervously, warm water beating against your back. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” He grabs hold of your chin with one hand. With the other, he reaches behind you to turn off the water. “I want to spank you.”

A sharp inhale. “Is that …is that not a punishment?”

“Not for you.”

The steam escapes the glass shower as Garrett leads you back into the bathroom. He takes his time drying your hair and your skin, paying attention to every curve of your body. You notice the way his fingers hover over your scar. When you flinch away, he grabs your leg tighter, a reminder to stay in place. To not run away from him.

Pleasure or pain, whatever he decided to give you.

You had to take it. 

You wanted to.

It was getting harder and harder to hide how desperate you were.

“I’m tired.”

“So you don’t want your reward?”

Garrett stands, wrapping a towel around his waist, dark hair still dripping onto the skin of sculpted chest. 

You bite down on your lip, afraid to tell him no. He looks you over closely. 

“Fine. Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

He turns away from you, walking over to one of the Jack and Jill sinks. 

“I feel sore too. From earlier.”

Garrett hums, ignoring you, and although he’s had his tongue in your mouth all night, you start to feel upset that he’s turned his attention from you. 

He wants you to beg now. Beg for him to hurt you. 

You haven’t moved yet, twiddling your fingers, and Garrett hasn’t said another word. 

“Is this how you treat all your girlfriends?”

Garrett sighs, drying his hair in the mirror, “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll let me. And you like it.”

“I don’t,” You argue. “Okay, sure, it’s fun in the bedroom. But all the time? If we …if we started dating like our agents suggested, this is how you would treat me?”

“Is that what you want? To date me?”

“No,” You answer too quickly, “I don’t know. Not if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Garrett turns, tossing his towel to the side, before he stalks over to you. 

“You’re full of shit.”

“I’m serious–”

“Get on your knees.”

“Garrett, it’s not gonna work. I’m not playing …I don’t want to play your game anymore.”

“Get on your knees, princess.” His voice vibrates through you. The peaks of your chest rise as he stares down at your naked body. 

“Please stop–”

“On your knees, baby. You want to be my good girl, I know you do.”

You lower yourself down gently, your eyes traveling down his legs before they land on the tile floor. 

"Show me how good you are."

“Crawl to the bed.”

Your knees ache almost as bad as your warm center. 

Garrett follows behind you as you slowly, surely taking in the sight of your bare bottom, as you make your way across the tile and then onto the carpet of the bedroom. The room is straight out of a porno. A king-sized bed, red-felt headboard, and a mirror that hangs on the ceiling directly above the bed. Red velvet curtains partially cover the view of the Vegas city life, and the sound of the city- honking cars and nightlife roars on in the background. 

Garrett grabs you and lifts you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

“Face on the bed. Ass up.” 

Your body moves before your mind can tell it what to do. 

Much to your disappointment, seconds pass, and you realize Garrett has left the room. You hear shuffling in the kitchen, and you frown. You keep your position perfectly, which is the sickest part. Minutes later, Garrett returns with a glass of water in hand. 

“Do you like when I tell you what to do, Y/N?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, Garrett.” He corrects you. 

“Yes, Garrett.” You parrot back. 

"Then don't complicate things. Let me give you what you need."

He sets down the glass of water on his bedside table before he disappears into the bathroom. Again, you don’t move. 

Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment settling deep. He returns, now wearing a pair of black Calvin Klein underwear. 

The bed dips as Garrett gets into the bed, pulling the covers over his body. He waits another long minute before he says, “C’mere.”

Hesitant, you lift your head. His tired eyes burn into yours. He pats the spot beside him, and you crawl slowly, like a dog, until you’re beside him. He lifts the covers so you can slide your body next to you. You sniffle, wiping your tears, as you lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, not forgetting to add, “Garrett.”

“I know, baby, you're just overwhelmed. Let’s go to sleep.”

No more games.

No more power plays.

At least for tonight.