Come into my coffin I promise I won’t bite

The late-night quiet of Garrett’s apartment was a rare luxury. Usually, the place hummed with the chaotic energy of the rest of the hockey team, but tonight, it was just the two of you.

Garrett was sprawled across the sofa, his long legs draped over your lap, while you mindlessly traced patterns on his shin. He was halfway through staring at a playbook on his tablet, but his focus had clearly drifted. A soft, lazy smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked up at you.

"One year," he murmured, setting the tablet down on the coffee table. "Can you believe we haven't sickened each other yet?"

"Speak for yourself, Graham," you teased, giving his leg a playful nudge. "I'm surviving on pure willpower."

He chuckled, pulling himself up and tugging you into his side. He wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders, burying his face in your hair. "Sure you are. That’s why you’ve stayed for a whole three hundred and sixty-five days." He kissed your temple, his tone softening. "Happy anniversary, beautiful."

"Happy anniversary, Garrett."

For a moment, the room fell into a comfortable silence, save for the hum of the refrigerator. But milestone dates have a funny way of making you look forward instead of just backward.

"Hey," you said quietly, shifting so you could look at him. "Where do you see us in, say... five years? Ten?"

Garrett blinked, a little caught off guard, but he didn't pull away. The cocky, golden-boy captain persona he wore on the ice melted entirely, replaced by the fierce, grounded sincerity he only ever showed you.

"Five years? Well, hopefully, I’m solidly established in the NHL," he began, his eyes locking onto yours. "But more importantly... I want you there. In the stands. Every single game."

"Is that a permanent fixture?" you smiled.

"Absolutely," he said, without a shred of hesitation. He took your hand, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. "I want the whole deal. If we’re talking future plans, I'm not playing around. I want to marry you."

Your heart skipped a beat. Hearing it out loud, spoken so casually yet so fiercely, sent a warm rush through your chest. "A wedding, huh? Should I brace myself for a massive, media-circus event, Mr. First-Round Pick?"

Garrett groaned playfully, rolling his eyes. "God, please no. My dad would probably try to turn it into a networking event. Let's do the exact opposite. Something intimate. A beach, maybe? Or just a small venue with our actual friends and family. Cheap beer, good food, and zero press."

"Deal," you laughed. "As long as Logan doesn't try to give a best man speech while drunk."

"Oh, he’s definitely banned from the microphone," Garrett agreed instantly.

He pulled you a little closer, his gaze drifting to the window as if he were picturing the life you were sketching out together.

"And after that?" you asked softly. "Where do we build this empire?"

"Wherever the draft takes us first, obviously," he said realistically. "But when the dust settles? I want somewhere with a big backyard. A place where we can actually breathe. Maybe New England, or somewhere with distinct seasons. I want a house with enough room for a massive kitchen—because you know I need to eat my weight in protein daily—and space for..." He trailed off, a slight, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck.

"Space for what?" you nudged him.

"Kids," he muttered, looking back at you, checking your reaction. "If you want them, I mean. I want them. Two, maybe? Enough to play a little one-on-one mini-hockey in the hallway."

A soft laugh escaped your lips, your heart swelling. Garrett Graham—the man who spent half his life avoiding his own father's shadow—talking about wanting a family of his own, wanting to do it right.

"Two sounds perfect," you whispered, leaning up to kiss his jaw. "Though if they inherit your competitive streak, we're going to need a lot of band-aids."

"Hey, they’ll inherit your brains, so they'll know when to back down," he countered, a brilliant, breathtaking smile breaking across his face. He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "It's scary sometimes, thinking about the future. Everything changes so fast. But when I think about it with you... it just makes sense. You’re the anchor, babe."

"I'm not going anywhere, Garrett," you promised, leaning into his touch.

Wearing Garrett Graham’s jersey hadn’t been part of the plan.

If anyone had asked you, you would’ve said you’d rather wear a rival team’s hoodie to a Briar game than give Garrett the satisfaction of seeing his name on your back — not because you hated him, despite what Logan kept saying, but because Garrett already walked around like half the campus was wrapped around his finger. You weren’t about to join the list of girls making that worse.

Which was exactly why you nearly dropped the case of beer when you heard his voice from the kitchen. “She’ll wear it.” Garrett sounded far too confident for someone who had absolutely no business talking about you like he had you figured out.

You stopped outside the doorway, brows furrowing as you balanced the case of beer against your hip. “You’re actually delusional.” Logan laughed, and a bottle clinked against the counter. “She called you a walking ego problem yesterday.”

Garrett chuckled. “Yeah, and ten minutes later, she stole my fries.”

“That doesn’t mean she likes you,” Tucker pointed out, sounding amused.

“It means she likes annoying me,” Garrett corrected, and you hated how easily he said it, like it was a fact he kept in his back pocket.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, no. There’s no way in hell she’s wearing your jersey.”

Your stomach tightened when you heard your name.

There was a beat of silence before Garrett spoke again, slower this time, like he was smiling around the words. “Fifty says she does.”

And that was the moment you decided Garrett Graham was going to suffer. Not because you wanted him to win the bet. He absolutely wasn’t going to win the bet. You weren’t about to become a pawn in whatever stupid male-ego competition the hockey team had going on before the playoffs. Still, the idea had already lodged itself in your brain, and suddenly, refusing to wear the jersey felt like letting him think he’d gotten under your skin.

So you wore it — but on your terms.

The thing was ridiculously big on you, because of course it was, the navy fabric falling over your frame and nearly reaching mid-thigh. His last name stretched across your back like some terrible joke, bold white letters that made Allie stop chewing the second you stepped out of your room.

“Oh, my God.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, already laughing. “You’re evil.”

“I’m supporting the team,” you said, grabbing your bag from the counter.

“You’re actually trying to kill Garrett Graham.”

You shrugged. “Then I hope the team has a backup captain.”

The rink was already loud by the time you got there, the student section packed and buzzing with the kind of preseason excitement that made everyone forget about homework and actual responsibilities. You found Dean immediately because he waved like he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes texting you to ask where you were. But the second his eyes dropped to the jersey, his entire face changed.

“No.” Dean shook his head before you even sat down. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“What?” you asked, glancing around like you had no idea what he meant.

“Take that off.”

“In public? Dean, there are children here.”

Allie snorted beside you while Logan, who’d come up into the stands for two seconds before warmups, looked like Christmas had come early. “Oh, Graham’s going to be useless.”

“Why would he be useless?” you asked, all wide eyes and fake innocence.

Logan’s grin only got wider. “You’re a menace.”

The payoff was immediate, the second Garrett skated onto the ice.

He didn’t see you at first, too busy saying something to one of the first-years near the boards. Then Dean yelled something, Garrett glanced up toward your section, and his eyes landed on you — or more specifically, on his jersey.

The puck slid clean off his stick.

You smiled and gave him a little wave.

Garrett stared at you for a second too long, mouth slightly parted like his brain had short-circuited, before Logan shouted something from the bench that made half the guys turn to look. Garrett blinked, caught himself, and shook his head, but the tips of his ears had gone red.

It was the best thing you’d ever seen.

The whole game felt like that. Every time Garrett skated by, his eyes found you. Every time they did, you pretended to care about literally anything else — the scoreboard, your phone, the girl in front of you. Dean was losing his mind when Garrett took a cheap hit and immediately got back up like he hadn’t just given half the arena a heart attack.

But when he scored in the third period, his eyes went to you first. Not the bench. Not the crowd. You, wearing his name.

The grin on his face was dangerous — all adrenaline, ego, and something that made your thighs press together before you could stop them.

By the time the game ended, Briar had won, Dean had yelled himself hoarse, and you were starting to think this might’ve been a terrible idea.

“I’m riding with Allie,” Dean announced as you walked toward the parking lot, still glaring at your jersey as it had personally betrayed him.

You frowned. “Congratulations?”

“You need a ride or what?”

“I drove here.”

Dean narrowed his eyes like he already knew you were going to ignore him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, deeply offended. “I would never.”

Allie coughed like she was hiding a laugh, but Dean was too distracted by Tucker calling his name to notice, which left you standing by your car in the half-empty parking lot, pretending very hard that you weren’t waiting.

You were shifting your bag higher on your shoulder when you heard his voice.

“Cute jersey,” Garrett said, sounding far too pleased with himself.

Your lips pressed together before you turned around, trying not to react to Garrett walking toward you with his gear bag slung over one shoulder, damp hair curling from his shower, and his suit jacket open like he hadn’t just spent sixty minutes trying to ruin your life on ice.

“Thanks,” you said, looking down at yourself. “Some guy gave it to me.”

Garrett stopped in front of you, his gaze dragging over the jersey slowly enough to make your stomach tighten. “Some guy?”

“Yeah. Tall, annoying, thinks he’s charming.”

His mouth curved. “Sounds like your type.”

“You wish,” you said, trying very hard not to smile.

He stepped closer, the smell of soap and cold air coming with him. “I think you wearing my name proves I don’t have to wish all that hard.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I only wore it because I overheard your stupid little bet.”

Garrett’s brows lifted, but the surprise lasted only a second before amusement settled over his face. “You overheard that?”

“Every single word.”

“And you still wore it?” he asked, like that proved something.

“To make a point, obviously.”

“What point?” he asked, voice dropping as his fingers caught the hem of the jersey and brushed your bare thigh.

The touch was light, barely there, and still made your breath catch.

Garrett noticed, because of course he did. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your face with a look that made you want to kick him.

“That I can make you look stupid whenever I want,” you said, though your voice wasn’t nearly as steady as you’d hoped.

Garrett laughed quietly. “You think I looked stupid?”

“You dropped the puck,” you said, trying not to smile.

“I scored,” he said.

“Eventually,” you said, unable to hide your smile this time.

Garrett moved closer, and suddenly your back was against your car, his hand still caught in the hem of the jersey like he was trying to remind both of you whose name was on it. “You know, for someone who claims she doesn’t like me, you watched me pretty closely tonight.”

“You take up a lot of space.”

“And you like looking.”

“I like judging,” you said, even though your voice had gone a little too soft.

His thumb slipped beneath the fabric, brushing your hip, and your body betrayed you again with the smallest shift toward him. “You gonna keep lying to me out here, or are you gonna get in the car?”

Your eyes went wide.

Garrett tipped his head toward his truck a few spots over, expression far too calm for someone who’d just dropped that into the conversation. “Because if you want to prove another point, pretty girl, I’m all ears.”

You should’ve told him to fuck off. You should’ve gotten in your own car and gone home. Instead, you walked to his.

The second the door shut behind you, Garrett kissed you like he’d been holding himself back for hours. Messy and impatient, like every look across the rink had been building toward this. His hands found your waist and pulled you across the backseat until you were half in his lap, and your fingers immediately went for his tie because you’d been thinking about that since the parking lot.

“You’re so fucking smug,” you breathed against his mouth.

He smiled against your mouth. “You’re in my car wearing my jersey.”

“I hate you,” you muttered.

“No, you don’t.”

Garrett’s hand slid up your thigh, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted to. You didn’t. You only parted your legs a little more, hating the way his breath caught like that alone could ruin him.

“Can I?” he murmured, his forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, but his fingers stayed still.

“Words.”

“Yes,” you breathed, face burning. “Touch me.”

His mouth curved against your cheek. “Good girl.”

Your body reacted before you could be embarrassed, hips shifting into his hand as his fingers slid beneath your shorts and pressed against the damp lace of your underwear.

Garrett went quiet for half a second before laughing under his breath. “All this attitude, and you’re already soaked?”

“Don’t make me regret this,” you breathed.

“You won’t,” he said, like a promise. He pushed your underwear to the side, fingers sliding through your wetness. “I’ve been thinking about this since you walked in with my name on your back.”

A moan slipped out when his fingers circled your clit, slow and steady, and Garrett kissed you again to swallow the sound. His hand moved like he knew exactly what he was doing, fingers dipping lower to tease your entrance before pushing one inside.

Your head fell back against the seat. “Garrett.”

“There she is,” he murmured, mouth moving along your jaw. “I was wondering when you’d stop pretending.”

You wanted to respond. Really, you did. But then he added a second finger and curled them both, hitting a spot that made your hand fly to his wrist.

His grin turned infuriating. “Right there?”

“Shut up,” you breathed.

“That’s not what you meant.”

His thumb worked your clit as his fingers moved inside you, slow at first, then faster when your hips started chasing his hand. It was obscene — the sound of it in the quiet car, the fogged windows, the fact that you were riding his fingers in a parking lot because you’d been stubborn enough to wear his jersey.

“Look at you,” Garrett said, voice rough now, less teasing as his eyes dragged over your face. “Acting like you didn’t want this.”

“I wanted to prove a point.”

“You did.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Now come for me.”

The words pushed you over faster than you wanted to admit, pleasure snapping through you so sharply your thighs shook around his hand. You buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, and Garrett kept going until you grabbed his wrist, too sensitive and breathless.

He moved slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and your stomach turned over at the expression that crossed his face.

“You’re disgusting,” you whispered.

He smiled. “You’re staring.”

You kissed him before he could say anything else, hands already reaching for his belt because one more smug comment would’ve ruined you completely. Garrett helped you, breath catching when your palm brushed over him, and suddenly, nothing was funny anymore.

“Condom?” he asked, voice rough as you shifted in his lap.

“I’m on the pill,” you murmured against his neck. “And I’m clean.”

“Me too.” His hands settled on your hips, thumbs brushing beneath the jersey. “You sure?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, at his flushed cheeks and dark eyes and the way he was still waiting, even though tension sat in every line of his body beneath you.

“Yes,” you said, looking right at him this time. “I’m sure.”

The first stretch made your mouth fall open, Garrett’s grip tightening on your waist as you took him slowly, inch by inch, until your thighs were pressed to his and both of you were breathing like the game had only just ended.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back against the seat. “You feel so good.”

You braced your hands on his shoulders and started moving before you could think too hard about it. The angle was too much and still not enough, every roll of your hips dragging a rough sound out of him while the jersey bunched around your waist.

Garrett watched you like the sight of you was slowly undoing him.

“You look good like this,” he said, voice low and rough. “Wearing my name while you take my cock.”

Your walls clenched around him, and he cursed under his breath, hands tightening on your hips as he guided you faster. “Yeah? Does that do something for you?”

“Garrett,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“No, come on,” he said, thrusting up into you and cutting off whatever you’d been about to say. “You had a lot to say earlier.”

“You’re annoying.”

He laughed softly against your mouth. “And yet here you are.”

The worst part was that he was right. The even worse part was that it only made you move faster. His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and your whole body jolted.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “Give me another one, pretty girl.”

You shook your head, even though your body had already started chasing it.

Garrett kissed you, softer than his voice, like he knew you were close before you did. “I’ve got you.”

That was what did it. Not the smugness. The softness. The way his hand held your waist like he was keeping you together while he let you fall apart.

Your orgasm hit hard, pulling a broken moan from you as you clenched around him, and Garrett followed with a groan against your throat, his hips jerking beneath you as he came.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, his hands warm beneath the jersey as his fingers traced slow lines up your back like he’d forgotten this was supposed to be a joke. A bet. A bad idea.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded against his shoulder.

His hand stilled instantly. “Words.”

“I’m okay,” you breathed.

He kissed your temple, gentle enough to make your chest ache.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice quieter now, “the bet was bullshit.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him properly.

Garrett’s eyes met yours, and for once, there was nothing smug about him. “I just wanted an excuse to see you wearing it.”

Before you could answer, Garrett’s phone lit up on the seat beside you.

Dean.

Then your phone buzzed too.

Dean: Where the hell are you?

Garrett glanced at the message, then back at you with a look that was dangerously close to a grin.

A knock sounded against the window, and both of you froze instantly.

Dean’s voice came from outside the truck, suspicious and entirely too close. “Graham?”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──