“Logan drives like he learned in Grand Theft Auto.”

Garrett smiled slightly before pressing the keys into your palm.

“You just need it for groceries, right?”

“And coffee.”

“And coffee,” he repeated patiently.

You grinned before kissing his cheek quickly.

“Thank you, baby.”

That alone made it worth it.

Garrett watched you leave through the front door a second later, his stupid smile still stuck on his face.

Tuck noticed immediately from the couch.

“Oh, he’s in love.”

Garrett flipped him off while sitting back down beside Logan with his controller.

“She called me baby.”

Tucker looked blankly at him. “You’ve been dating for eight months.”

“Yeah,” Garrett sighed happily. “Still nice though.”

Logan physically gagged.

The game resumed.

Twenty minutes later the front door slammed open hard enough to shake the walls.

Dean stumbled inside, breathing hard. Garrett looked up immediately.

“…woah D, what’s wrong? Why do you look like that?”

Dean looked weirdly pale.

And suddenly something cold twisted low in Garrett’s stomach.

“Dude,” Dean said quickly. “Oh thank God you’re here.”

Garrett sat up straighter immediately.

“What happened?”

“We just drove past what I thought was your Jeep in like a horrible accident and I tried calling you but-”

Garrett didn’t hear another word.

Not one.

The controller hit the floor loudly as he was already moving.

His chest seized violently before his brain could even catch up.

“GARRETT,” Logan yelled after him.

The front door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle.

Then he was running.

Actually running.

Straight down the street toward the flashing police lights visible from blocks away.

His heartbeat thundered violently in his ears.

Every worst-case scenario imaginable crashed through his brain all at once.

You crying.

You hurt.

You trapped.

Dead.

His lungs burned by the time he reached the intersection.

Then suddenly there it was.

His Jeep. Or what was left of it.

The entire front end was crushed inward violently.

Glass everywhere.

Metal twisted almost beyond recognition.

Garrett stopped dead in the middle of the street.

His whole body went numb, because that was your side.

Somebody was talking nearby.

Police radios crackled.

People stared.

Garrett couldn’t hear any of it over the blood rushing in his ears.

The Jeep was destroyed. Absolutely destroyed.

And for one second, Garrett genuinely thought he might throw up right there in the street.

“Sir?”

A paramedic touched his arm lightly.

Garrett yanked away immediately.

“Where is she?”

“Sir, I need you to-”

Then he heard you.

“I said I’m okay.”

His entire body nearly gave out from relief.

He turned so fast it almost hurt.

Sitting in the back of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket.

Garrett physically stopped breathing for a second.

The second you saw his face, fresh tears filled your eyes immediately.

“Oh my God.”

Garrett climbed into the ambulance before anybody could stop him.

His hands grabbed your face instantly. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily. “I’m okay.”

“You hurt?”

“No.”

“Anywhere?”

“No, Garrett, I’m okay.”

You looked devastated though.

“Garrett,” you whispered tearfully. “I’m so sorry.”

His brows pulled together immediately.

“What?”

“The Jeep. I wrecked your car.”

Garrett stared at you for a second like he genuinely couldn’t process what you were saying.

Then immediately:

“Don’t.”

“Don’t apologize right now.” His voice shook slightly. “Jesus Christ, baby, thank God you’re okay.”

Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks immediately. “It’s totaled.”

“I don’t care.”

“You love that car.”

“I love you.”

You physically froze.

So did Garrett honestly.

Because okay, maybe neither of you had technically said that part out loud yet.

But sitting there looking at you alive and crying and safe while his destroyed Jeep sat outside in pieces, nothing had ever felt clearer in his life.

Your bottom lip trembled. “You’re not mad?”

Garrett looked horrified by the question. “Mad?”

“I crashed your car.”

“Baby, if that car did its job and kept you safe, then I couldn’t care less what happened to it afterward.”

Garrett brushed shaky fingers through your hair carefully.

“I thought…” He stopped briefly, swallowing hard. “Dean said horrible accident and I thought…”

“Oh, babe...” You reached for him immediately.

Garrett folded into you without hesitation, arms wrapping around your waist so tightly it almost hurt.

His face buried into your shoulder while he exhaled shakily against your neck.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.”

But his grip tightened anyway.

Outside the ambulance, Logan, Tuck and Dean finally caught up, all breathing hard from apparently chasing Garrett down the street.

Dean looked into the ambulance carefully.

“Oh thank God.”

Logan stared at Garrett hugging you before glancing toward the totaled Jeep.

“…he’s taking this shockingly well.”

Garrett didn’t even look up. “Shut up, dude.”

You laughed wetly against his shoulder.

Garrett pulled back just enough to look at your face again.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded softly. “The airbags went off.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked briefly toward the wreck outside then back to you.

“That Jeep did good then.”

You brushed your fingers lightly against his jaw.

“I’m really sorry, G.”

Garrett leaned into your touch automatically.

As for Dean, you knew he and Beau practically lived in the school gym. And it showed. Every flex of his arms beneath his grey training shirt looked unfairly good, sweat glistening over muscles you knew very well by now. That body was a work of art. 

To Tucker’s right, Logan wasn’t doing much better. His arms trembled violently every time he pushed himself off the grass, face tight with effort like pure stubbornness was the only thing keeping him going.

‘’Not you too, Logan?” you called. ‘’Now is not the time to give up. Think about the Cup!”

He lifted his head from the grass long enough to glare at you. ‘’The cup can kiss my ass.’’

You gasped dramatically. ‘’That’s not championship mentality.’’ 

‘’Championship mentality left thirty push-ups ago,’’ Logan groaned before lowering himself again with shaky arms. ‘’I can’t feel my arms.’’ 

Beside him, Dean smirked without missing a beat. ‘’You know, hearing you yell motivational speeches is weirdly attractive.’’ 

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. 

‘’Everything’s attractive to you,’’ Tucker muttered. ‘’She sounds like a military drill sergeant.’’

Garrett laughed, shaking his head. ‘’Stop flirting and focus on your reps, boys.’’

‘’Oh, I am, G,’’ Dean said easily, lowering himself again. ‘’I’m focussed on the reward blowjob I’ll get after I—’’ 

Tucker made a gagging noise into the grass. ‘’Jesus Christ.’’

 “Be nice to my girl.” Dean shot back immediately, finally lifting his head to look at him.

He nudged Tucker with his foot hard enough to throw him off balance, sending him collapsing flat onto the lawn with a groan.

‘’Ow! Fucking cheater!’’

Dean laughed, reaching seventy without even sounding winded. “Should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

Logan followed Tucker not long after, collapsing dramatically onto his back. Seventy-three wasn’t bad, you told him as you handed him a water bottle. He took it with an exhausted but grateful smile and downed half of it immediately.

‘’Seventy-eight! Seventy-nine!’’ you counted aloud. 

‘’This looks too easy for them,’’ Logan said, watching the last two standing. 

‘’Agree,’’ Tuck chimed in. ‘’I think we need to raise the bar for some real competition.’’

A slow smirk spread across his face as he looked at the other John, who mirrored it instantly before both of them turned toward you.

Dean’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not.”

Too late.

‘’That’s cheating!’’ He barked out a laugh as you sat your full weight right on his back, adding weight to lift. 

You’ve done this a couple of times while you were training in the gym together, but it never stopped doing something to you. There was something unfairly attractive about the way Dean handled your weight like it was nothing.

‘’You can handle it. You lift more than that,’’ you teased, believing in him. ‘’Show off.’’

That crooked grin appeared instantly. ‘’Careful. You know praise turn me on.’’

You could feel every muscle in his shoulders, arms, and back flex beneath you as he kept going, body tightening with every controlled push upward. Sweat dampened the back of his shirt, heat radiating off him while he powered through rep after rep like he genuinely wanted to impress you.

A low grunt slipped from his throat as he pushed into another one,  sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes and head dipping briefly before he looked back at you over his shoulder. ‘’You comfortable up there, babydoll?’’ 

You hummed, squeezing his shoulders lightly. He’s got this. 

Logan crossed his arms, watching with amusement. ‘’This is foul play.’’

Tucker nodded solemnly. ‘’Absolutely dirty.’’

Dean smirked through another rep. ‘’Why doesn’t Garrett get someone too? This is favoritism.’’

You glanced toward the captain. ‘’Dean’s right. Get some weight on him too.’’

‘’I’ll go,’’ Tucker volunteered, still sweaty and breathless from his earlier push-ups, but clearly not done being annoying.

‘’Wait—what?! No!’’ Garrett protested, grunting as Tucker dropped onto his back with all the grace of a collapsing building, grinning as Garrett nearly face-planted into the grass. ‘’Ugh, fuck.’’ He groaned dramatically under 190 pounds of goalie muscles. ‘’I hate all of you.’’

══════════════════

Garrett grabs her arm quickly and pulls her back toward him harder than he means to.

“Enough!”

Loud enough that she startles immediately.

Her little face crumples. And then she says the sentence that completely destroys him.

“You scared me.”

Tiny voice and watery eyes.

Garrett goes white. Actually white.

Like all the blood drains from his body at once.

His grip on her arm disappears instantly.

“Oh my God.”

Your daughter looks confused now more than anything because she already regrets saying it. “Daddy…”

“I scared you?”

The crack in his voice is horrible.

You step in immediately, crouching beside your daughter. “Hey, baby, Daddy was scared because you ran near the cars.”

But Garrett can barely hear you. Because all he can hear is his own childhood. All he can hear is every moment he was ever afraid of his father.

And now his little girl just said those same words to him.

Your daughter reaches for him instinctively because despite everything, Garrett is still her safe place.

But he hesitates before touching her.

Like he suddenly doesn’t trust himself.

“Garrett,” you say softly.

He blinks hard and immediately picks her up, holding her so carefully it’s almost painful to watch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over into her hair. “I’m sorry, bug. Daddy’s sorry.”

She’s already over it. Literally already over it.

By the time you get home she’s asking for snacks and showing Garrett a rock she found in the playground like the last twenty minutes never happened.

At dinner your daughter climbs into his lap like always.

Garrett barely eats.

At bath time she splashes him until he’s soaked and giggling despite himself.

The second she’s asleep, the smile disappears.

You find him sitting alone in the dark living room staring at nothing.

“Hey.”

Garrett rubs a hand over his face. “I scared her.”

“You startled her.”

“She said she was scared.”

“She’s four.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

You sit beside him carefully. “She ran toward traffic.”

“I grabbed her too hard.”

“You kept her safe.”

His jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. “That’s exactly what my dad used to say.”

Silence.

Your heart breaks instantly.

“Garrett…”

“He always had a reason too.” Garrett laughs bitterly, eyes glassy now. “Always some explanation for why he lost his temper.”

“You did not lose your temper.”

“I saw her face.”

His voice cracks completely on the words.

“She looked scared of me.”

You take his hand immediately. “Baby, she cried because you startled her. Five minutes later she was asking if you’d cut her toast into stars tomorrow.”

But Garrett shakes his head.

“You know what the worst part is?” he whispers. “When she reached for me afterward, I almost didn’t pick her up.”

Your chest tightens. “Why?”

“Because for a second I thought maybe she shouldn’t trust me.”

There it is: The real wound.

That Garrett genuinely believes one mistake could make him unsafe forever.

You move closer instantly, cupping his face.

“She ran to you anyway.”

His eyes close.

“She loves you, Garrett.”

“But what if one day she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” you say softly. “But I can promise that bad fathers don’t sit in dark living rooms crying because their kid got startled.”

Garrett’s breathing turns uneven.

Then quietly, so quietly it nearly breaks you, he says: “I would rather she break my heart a thousand times than ever fear me again.”

For three days Garrett second-guesses everything he does.

Every tone.

Every correction.

Every single interaction with her.

The way he hesitates before telling her no now. The way he looks at you after every tiny moment of discipline like he’s checking whether he handled it wrong. The way he physically flinches when she startles too fast around him even if it has nothing to do with him.

It’s breaking your heart.

Because your daughter forgot the parking lot incident approximately eleven minutes after it happened.

“Bug, careful with your juice,” he says one morning.

She nearly tips the cup anyway and Garrett instinctively reaches to steady it.

Immediately his hand drops back, like he’s afraid to grab too suddenly.

Your chest aches.

Later that afternoon she’s running through the backyard while Garrett watches her with this constant nervousness sitting behind his eyes.

You walk up beside him quietly. “She’s okay.”

But his gaze never leaves her.

“I keep thinking about her face,” he admits after a long silence. “When she said I scared her.”

“She was startled.”

“She was afraid.”

“For one second.”

Garrett swallows hard. “One second is enough.”

You don’t know how to explain to him that loving parents accidentally scare their kids sometimes. That toddlers cry when voices get sharp or emotions get big because they’re tiny humans still learning the world.

But Garrett doesn’t hear normal parenting mistakes.

He hears echoes.

That night he’s quieter than usual during bedtime.

Still loving. Still sweet to his girl but careful.

Your daughter notices it too.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, bug?”

“Why you sad?”

Garrett immediately forces a smile. “I’m not sad.”

“You got sad eyes.”

God.

You have to look away for a second because she is so observant it’s terrifying.

Garrett brushes her hair back gently. “Just tired, baby.”

She accepts that answer easily because she’s four and currently more concerned about whether her teddy also needs pajamas.

Eventually she falls asleep between you both reading stories.

Garrett lingers by her bed longer than usual after you carry her to her room.

You watch him stand there in the soft glow of her nightlight with this awful guilt still weighing down his shoulders.

“She adores you,” you whisper after he finally closes the door.

He nods faintly.

But he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves it.

You wake to tiny sobs echoing down the hallway.

Before you can even sit up, Garrett is already moving.

You hear him open her bedroom door.

“Bug?”

More crying.

Then “Daddy!”

Pure panic.

Garrett’s heart visibly shatters.

You follow more slowly, pausing in the doorway.

Your daughter is sitting upright in bed, cheeks wet with tears, arms already reaching for him.

Garrett crosses the room in two seconds flat.

“I got you,” he says immediately, scooping her into his arms. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

“Bad dream,” she cries into his neck.

Garrett sits in the rocking chair holding her close, one hand rubbing up and down her back automatically.

“You’re okay.”

“There was monster.”

“No monsters here, baby.”

She clings tighter.

Garrett kisses her hair over and over. “Daddy’s got you.”

Your daughter’s breathing slowly starts evening out.

Tiny hiccuping sniffles against Garrett’s chest.

And then, half asleep already, she curls impossibly closer into him and mumbles “I safe now.”

Silence.

You physically see the words hit him.

Garrett goes completely still.

One hand comes up to cover his mouth for a second like he just got punched in the chest.

Your daughter doesn’t notice.

She’s already drifting back to sleep tucked against him.

But Garrett’s eyes immediately fill with tears.

That’s the answer to every fear that’s been eating him alive all week.

Her instinct, even after all his fears, is still to run toward him.

To feel safest in his arms.

“You hear that?” you whisper softly from the doorway.

He nods once.

Can’t speak.

Your daughter sighs sleepily against his chest, completely relaxed now.

Safe.

You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.

In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.

You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.

A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.

Which brought you to Logan.

You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.

It had not happened all at once.

You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.

You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.

Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.

The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.

And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.

You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.

What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.

You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.

When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.

Fuck me, you thought.

And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.

You smiled back and closed your laptop.

Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.

You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.

Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.

You stared at the screen.

Oh.

Oh no.

The real problem came later.

The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.

The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.

So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.

The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.

You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.

You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.

A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.

You did not pout. You were a professional.

"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."

"Sure," you said.

"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."

"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.

"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.

"No. I'm working."

"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.

This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.

You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.

"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."

You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.

"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"

This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.

 "I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."

"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"

Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.

You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.

Too late.

"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."

"Logan just photographs well."

"He photographs well."

"Yes."

"That's your explanation."

"That's my explanation."

Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."

"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."

"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."

You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."

"Admit it."

"I plead the fifth."

"That's not how that works."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to. I'm your best friend."

"No you're not. It's Olivia."

"On the team, I meant."

"It's probably Tucker."

"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."

You closed the laptop.

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"This conversation is not over."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.

"Do not drool on me," you said.

"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.

"Don't be disgusting."

"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."

"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."

He closed his eye again.

The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.

Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.

A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.

"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."

You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.

"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.

"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"

"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"

"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."

You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do."

"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.

"It's a Saturday."

"Content doesn't take weekends off."

"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."

"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."

"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."

You looked up for the first time. "What thing."

"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."

"I am always normal."

"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"

"It was a good play."

"To his face."

"As a professional observation —"

"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."

You turned back to the tripod.

"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."

Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.

"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."

You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.

"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."

He walked away before you could respond.

You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.

You were definitely not going to that party.

The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.

Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.

It had been funny for approximately three weeks.

It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.

It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.

You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.

Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.

"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.

"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."

Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"

"Apparently not," Dean said.

On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.

Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.

"It's painful," Tucker said.

"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.

"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.

After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.

He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.

"You have a face," Garrett said.

"I'm thinking."

"About what."

"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"

"So her name—" Garrett replied.

Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"

"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."

"So tell him to do something about it."

"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."

"A push," Garrett repeated.

"A significant push."

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."

"A financial one," he said.

"Dean —"

"Hear me out."

"I don't think I want to."

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."

Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."

"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."

"By paying him."

"By incentivizing him."

"Those are the same thing."

"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."

Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.

"Noted," Dean said.

He did not change his mind.

Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.

Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.

"What," Logan said.

"I have a proposition," Dean said.

Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.

"What kind of proposition," Logan said.

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."

He didnt't have to specify who the her was.

The locker room was quiet.

Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."

"Logan —"

"No, Dean."

"You like her."

"That's not —"

"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."

Logan said nothing.

"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."

"I was being polite."

"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."

Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.

Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.

He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.

I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.

"Fine," he said.

Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.

Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.

Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.

Logan took it.

He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.

I was going to do it anyway, he thought.

He almost believed it.

The subject of the party was a sore one.

Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.

Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.

"We're going," she said.

"I said I wasn't sure —"

"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"

"Dynamic duo."

"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."

"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."

"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."

You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.

"Obviously," you said.

You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.

The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.

You found him in approximately four seconds.

Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.

You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.

Logan crossed the room.

"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"

"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.

Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.

"You look very pretty," Logan said.

"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.

Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."

"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."

She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.

You looked back at Logan.

"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."

"I had some content to edit," you said.

"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.

"Yeah," you said.

And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.

"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"

Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."

"Oh," you said. "That tracks."

"Does it."

"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."

"I'll tell Tucker you said that."

"Please don't."

Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.

"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"

"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.

"Oh, I like where this is headed."

"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."

You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."

"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.

"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."

"Thank you."

"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."

He disappeared back into the crowd.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.

"He's not subtle," you said.

"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."

The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.

At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.

"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."

Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:

YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —

"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."

Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."

"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.

He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.

You and Logan both looked at Dean.

Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.

"He planned this," you said.

"Obviously," Logan said.

You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.

"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.

"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."

You looked back at him.

"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."

What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.

The first date was a Tuesday.

Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.

He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.

You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.

He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.

You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.

Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.

What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.

You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.

He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.

You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not saying anything," she said.

"You have a face."

"I have my normal face."

"Olivia."

"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.

Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.

Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.

But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.

All of that was true.

The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.

He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.

So he didn't say it.

He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.

He was getting better at believing that.

It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.

This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.

He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.

"Listen to this," you said.

"Mm."

"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."

"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."

"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."

"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.

You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.

"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.

You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.

And then you got to the last one.

"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."

You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.

Logan put his phone down.

He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.

"What would you pick?" he said.

You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."

Logan looked at the ceiling again.

"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.

"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."

"Right," he said.

He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.

Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.

"Good to know," he said.

You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.

You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.

Logan knew.

He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.

Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.

He closed his eyes.

I have to tell her, he thought.

He did not tell her.

Allie had not been looking for information.

She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.

And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.

She glanced at it automatically. Logan.

Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."

Allie went back to her phone.

"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"

Allie looked up.

Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."

A pause. Dean listening.

"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"

Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.

"What," she said.

Dean turned around.

The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.

"Allie —"

"What did you do," she said. Not a question.

Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.

"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."

He told her.

He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.

When he finished she said nothing for a moment.

"She's my friend," she said finally.

"I know —"

"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."

"It wasn't supposed to —"

"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."

"Allie, please just —"

"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"

"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"

"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."

She left.

Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.

He put the phone to his ear.

"She already knows," he said.

You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.

She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.

You stood very still while she talked.

When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.

"Get your keys," you said.

"(Y/N) —"

"Get your keys, Allie."

The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.

The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.

You didn't knock.

You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.

Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.

"Hey —" Logan started.

"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."

The hallway was very quiet.

"Yes," Logan said.

The word landed.

"How much," you said.

"A thousand dollars."

You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."

"It wasn't —"

"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."

"That's not —"

"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."

"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"

"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."

"I was going to —"

"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"

He said nothing.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned to Dean.

Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.

"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."

"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."

"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"

"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."

"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."

You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.

"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.

"I have to go," you said.

"Please just let me —"

"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."

You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.

You opened the door.

"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."

You walked out.

Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.

You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.

And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.

You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.

A thousand dollars.

The house was very quiet after you left.

Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.

Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.

Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:

You had deserved to know.

You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.

Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.

"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.

"I know," Logan said.

"From the beginning. I told you."

"I know, Garrett."

Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.

Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.

I have to fix this, he thought.

He had absolutely no idea how.

The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.

It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.

You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.

Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.

The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.

You started the following Monday.

The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.

You were fine.

You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.

Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.

You did not respond to Logan.

Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.

Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.

Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.

He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.

He had always been paying attention.

That was the thing that made it so much worse.

Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.

Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.

You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.

They were not gone.

You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.

"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.

The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.

You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."

Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.

"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.

"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."

The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.

Dean was looking at the floor.

Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.

"You're actually leaving," Tucker said. "Like permanently."

"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."

"But —" Tucker started.

"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."

Jade smiled again.

"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.

"Tucker —"

"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."

The corridor was very quiet.

"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."

Tucker nodded. Still pained.

"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."

"Thanks," you said.

You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.

"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.

You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.

He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.

You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.

Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:

"I know."

Logan started showing up.

Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.

He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.

He started showing up to the football team's games.

Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.

Olivia told you the second time it happened.

"He was there again," she said carefully.

You said nothing.

"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."

You said nothing.

"I thought you should know," she said.

You knew.

You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.

He texted you after the third game.

logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.

You stared at the message for a long time.

yn: how would you know

logan: i was there

A long pause.

logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.

You put your phone down.

You picked it up.

yn: it's okay

Dean did not sleep the night you found out.

He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.

At four in the morning he picked up his phone.

dean: allie

allie: i'm awake

dean: i know i really messed up

allie: yes

dean: i don't know how to fix it

A long pause.

allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.

dean: i am

allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.

dean: she said never talk to her again

allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.

Dean put his phone down.

He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.

You took your own sweet time.

Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.

On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.

He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.

You stopped when you saw him.

He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."

You looked at him for a long moment.

You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.

"Say what you have to say," you said.

Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.

"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."

The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.

"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."

You looked at him.

You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.

"It's going to take time," you said finally.

Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.

"I know," he said.

"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."

"I know."

"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."

"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"

You looked at him for a long moment.

"It's enough to start with," you said.

The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."

"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."

You looked at the path ahead.

"I have class," you said.

"I know. Go."

You went.

It was a start.

Logan was harder.

Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.

You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.

He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.

You read them all.

You responded to some of them.

Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.

He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.

He was just — there.

Being different.

The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.

You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.

"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.

You went outside.

The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.

You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.

He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.

"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."

Your throat did something inconvenient.

"Logan —"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."

You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.

"You remembered the peonies," you said.

"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."

"You were paying attention," you said.

"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."

You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.

"This isn't enough," you said.

Something flickered in his expression.

"I know," he said.

"I need more than flowers."

"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."

"Okay," he said.

"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."

"I will," he said.

"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."

"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."

You looked at him.

"The texts," you said. "About my work."

"Yeah."

"You were at every game."

"Yeah."

"Third row back. Left side."

He looked at you quietly.

"I know," you said. "I noticed."

Something in his expression shifted.

"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."

"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."

He nodded.

"Give me the peonies," you said.

He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.

"The rest you can take home," you said.

"Okay."

"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."

Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.

"I won't," he said. "I promise."

You looked at him for one more moment.

"Slow," you said.

"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You went back inside.

You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.

You were not okay yet.

But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.

It was enough to start with.

The getting back together did not happen all at once.

It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.

The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.

It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.

You brought your camera.

Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.

You sat third row left side.

The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.

You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.

Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.

You got the shot.

Forty-three seconds of it, actually.

You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.

Briar won.

The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.

You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.

You looked up.

Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.

"You came," he said.

"I came," you confirmed.

"You brought your camera."

"I brought my camera."

He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"

You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.

Forty-three seconds of it.

Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.

"That's —" he started.

"Genuinely cinematic," you said.

He looked at you.

You looked back at him.

And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.

It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.

"So," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."

Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.

"I won't," he said.

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."

"Done," he said immediately.

You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.

Better. Not the same. Better.

Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.

"Called it," Tucker said.

"You called nothing," Garrett said.

"I said they'd get back together —"

"You said that last week —"

"Which was a call —"

"Tucker —"

You and Logan kept walking.

"Do they ever stop?" you said.

"No," Logan said.

"Good," you said. "I missed it."

He looked at you sideways. That expression.

Hunter Davenport.

Oh no.

You knew that look on Dean’s face.

Everyone did.

Garrett noticed a second later, muttering, “Shit.”

Dean was already moving.

You were out of your seat before anyone else reacted.

“Dean.”

He barely glanced at you, still stalking toward Hunter. “Y/N, move.”

His voice was dangerously calm.

“Dean, no.”

“I mean it.” He gently but firmly pushed you aside by your arm without looking away from Hunter. “Hey, Davenport!”

Every head in Malone’s started turning.

Hunter looked up from where he stood with a couple teammates near the bar.

Recognition flashed. Then smug amusement.

Huge mistake.

You saw Dean’s jaw tighten instantly.

“Dean Hayward Di Laurentis,” you snapped sharply, stepping in front of him again, “turn around right now.”

For the first time his eyes actually landed on you.

“What?”

“Turn around.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

Because you knew him. Knew that once Dean got angry enough, common sense disappeared completely beneath loyalty and emotion and impulse.

You could practically see it happening now.

The tunnel vision. The adrenaline. One bad second away from ruining everything.

“Baby,” you said quickly, reaching for his wrist before you even realized the word slipped out, “listen to me. Just turn around, okay? Don’t do this.”

Silence.

Behind you, Logan choked on his drink.

Hannah’s eyes widened.

Garrett looked like he’d just witnessed a magic trick.

Because Dean froze.

Completely.

Not at the command, At the baby.

You saw it hit him in real time.

Saw the anger crack just enough for him to actually look at you properly.

And once he did, you knew you had him.

“Wha…” His voice came out rougher now. Confused. “What?”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist.

“Dean,” you said softly this time, desperate now that you had his attention, “walk away. Babe, we’ll deal with this, okay? But you are not throwing your life away over him.”

His chest rose heavily.

Still angry.

But now he was looking at you instead of Hunter.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

Dean’s eyes locked onto yours immediately.

There he is.

Not hockey Dean.

Not party Dean.

Not angry Dean.

Your Dean.

The one who always listened to you eventually.

“You hit him,” you continued carefully, “and then what? Suspension? Charges? You wanna explain that to your coach? Your family?”

Dean swallowed hard.

Hunter laughed somewhere behind you. “Aw, Di Laurentis needs his ex to calm him down?”

You felt Dean tense all over again.

“Dean,” you warned immediately.

His jaw flexed.

You stepped closer without thinking, both hands against his chest now.

And quieter, “Please.”

That did it.

You literally watched the fight drain out of him.

Not completely but enough.

Dean closed his eyes briefly before exhaling hard through his nose.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Relief hit you so fast your knees almost weakened.

Behind you, Garrett quietly said, “Holy shit.”

Dean looked down at you finally, really looked.

Your worried eyes.

Your grip on his shirt.

The way you were standing between him and a fistfight without hesitation.

“You called me babe,” he said quietly.

Heat flooded your face instantly. Of course that was what he focused on.

“Dean.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything. “You called me babe.”

“You were about to commit aggravated assault.”

“Yeah, but you said babe.”

You stared at him incredulously.

Logan barked out a laugh somewhere behind you.

Even Tucker muttered, “He’s unbelievable.”

Dean finally dragged his eyes away from you long enough to glare over your shoulder at Hunter.

Then back to you.

Then, with visible effort, he stepped backward.

Away from the fight.

The entire bar looked stunned.

Because nobody stopped Dean Di Laurentis when he got like that.

Nobody except you.

By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.

Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.

You hadn’t.

That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.

The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.

You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.

At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.

“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.

You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.

“That line probably works on a lot of people.”

“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.

You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.

Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.

Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.

You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.

He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.

And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.

It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.

Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.

Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.

Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.

Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.

“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”

“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”

At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.

Not until much later.

Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.

It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.

You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.

You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.

The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.

The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.

You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.

Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.

11:42 PM.

You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.

That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.

Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.

Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.

The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.

Then you saw him.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.

Then his eyes landed on you.

And his entire expression changed.

It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.

The exhaustion softened first.

Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.

“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.

Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.

Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.

You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.

Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”

Dean immediately looked offended.

“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”

You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”

“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”

The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.

For a second, Dean just looked at you.

Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.

The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.

The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.

The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.

Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.

“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.

“Not really.”

“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”

You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”

His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.

Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.

What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“You came to every game this month,” he said.

The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.

You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”

“Bullshit, again.”

You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.

“That smile means I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying after wins.”

“I’m annoying all the time.”

“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”

His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.

The contact lasted barely a second.

Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.

Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.

Not the flirting.

Not the confidence.

Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.

The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.

Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.

Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.

Comforting at first.

Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.

And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.

Neither of you talked about it.

Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.

Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.

“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body nearly short-circuited.

You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”

Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.

“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”

You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.

Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”

Den exhaled slowly through his nose.

The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.

“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”

“That sounds more believable.”

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”

Everything inside you seemed to still at once.

Not dramatically.

Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.

Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.

The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.

And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.

Like you had the ability to hurt him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.

Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.

Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.

Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.

Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.

Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.

None of it had been accidental.

None of it had ever been casual.

And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.

“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.

A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.

“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.

The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.

Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.

He meant it.

And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

Across the hockey house living room, you laughed at something the guy beside you said, head tipping back slightly. His hand rested on your knee like he belonged there.

Dean’s stomach twisted violently.

Garrett followed his line of sight and immediately groaned. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

Dean scoffed loudly enough to earn a glance from you across the room. “I’m literally not.”

“You absolutely are,” Garrett laughed. “This is incredible. I’ve never witnessed such a sight.”

Dean ignored them both, taking his beer back before shoving himself off the kitchen counter. He needed another drink. Or maybe twelve.

This was ridiculous.

You were single.

He was single.

That was the whole point.

From the beginning, the two of you had agreed this wasn’t serious. No labels. No exclusivity. No clinginess.

Just sex.

Really good sex.

The kind that had somehow turned into movie nights and late-night drives and you stealing his hoodies and Dean memorising your coffee order without meaning to.

Except now there was some finance major touching your thigh like he’d earned it, and Dean suddenly felt borderline homicidal and violently ill.

“You good, D?” Tucker asked as Dean grabbed vodka this time instead of beer.

“Fantastic.”

Tucker looked toward the couch.

“Oh,” he said carefully. “That bad?”

Dean glared at him. “Shut up.”

The worst part was that you looked good tonight.

Dean knew exactly what your skin felt like under his hands. Knew what you sounded like when he got you alone.

And now some other guy was making you laugh.

You spotted him hovering near the kitchen and smiled automatically.

That smile almost made it worse.

You excused yourself from the couch a few minutes later, weaving through the crowd toward him.

“There you are,” you said easily. “You disappeared.”

Dean leaned back against the counter. “You seemed busy.”

One eyebrow lifted immediately.

Uh oh.

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like an asshole.”

You folded your arms over your chest. “Dean.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been glaring at Evan all night.”

“Evan,” Dean repeated flatly. “Jesus Christ, even his name sucks.”

You stared at him for a second before realisation slowly crossed your face.

“No way…”

Dean took another drink.

“Oh my God,” you laughed quietly. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Because I’m hooking up with someone else?”

The directness it was harder than he expected.

Dean’s jaw tightened. “I just think you could do better.”

You blinked at him slowly. “Dean. You literally sleep with half the female population of Briar.”

“Not anymore.”

The words slipped out too fast.

Your expression shifted slightly.

Dean immediately regretted opening his mouth.

You stepped closer, voice softer now, your fingers grazing softly over his shirt covered abdomen, “What’s going on with you?”

Dean didn’t know when this had happened.

Didn’t know when you’d become the first person he looked for at parties. Or when his bed started feeling empty without you in it. Or when hearing another guy make you laugh started feeling like someone scraping a knife against his ribs.

He was fucking Dean Di Laurentis.

He didn’t do this. Relationships were messy. Feelings complicated things. Casual was supposed to be easy.

But watching another guy touch you all night had made him feel insane. And maybe worse than insane was hurt.

“You said casual,” he said finally.

Your face softened slightly. “Hey, we both did.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Dean laughed once, bitter under his breath. “Because apparently I’m an idiot.”

You went quiet.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw before looking at you directly for the first time all night.

“I didn’t think I’d care.”

There it was.

Ugly and embarrassing and completely unavoidable now.

Your lips parted slightly.

Behind you, the music blasted and people were yelling.

Dean barely noticed any of it.

Because you were just staring at him.

“You care if I hook up with someone else?” you asked carefully.

Dean gave you a look. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

“Fantastic.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth before you shook your head. “You know what the crazy part is?”

“What?”

“I only started talking to Evan because I thought you were losing interest.”

Dean actually frowned. “What?”

“You stopped sleeping with random girls,” you said quietly. “You started acting weirdly domestic with me and then pulling away after. I figured maybe you were getting bored.”

“Bored?” Dean repeated like the word offended him personally.

You shrugged slightly. “You never said anything.”

“Because I was trying not to turn into a psychopath!”

You laughed softly.

Dean stepped closer before he could stop himself.

“You think I liked watching him touch you?”

Your breath caught slightly.

Dean noticed immediately because of course he did. “I almost put him through a wall, baby.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

Silence settled between you both, your fingers gripping his shirt a little tighter. The space between you was closing.

He knew he had no right to feel this way when he’d been the one insisting on casual from the start.

But standing here now, looking down at you with your mouth slightly pink from the drink in your hand and your eyes fixed on his, Dean realized something horrifying.

“You wanna know something pathetic?” he asked quietly.

You looked wary already. “Probably not.”

“I have your coffee order saved in my notes app.”

You blinked.

Dean pushed forward before he could lose his nerve.

“You leave hair ties all over my apartment and I don’t throw them out anymore. Tucker asked why there’s strawberry yogurt in our fridge because I don’t eat strawberry yogurt but you do when you’re studying. Garrett says I smile differently when you text me.” He paused. “And apparently seeing another guy touch you makes me physically ill.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “That’s pretty much how I felt too.”

For a second neither of you moved.

Then quietly, “So what now?”

Dean looked at you for a long moment.

Then his eyes flicked toward the living room where Evan was still sitting on the couch waiting for your return.

“Now,” Dean said calmly, “I’m gonna walk over there and tell him to stop looking at my girl.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Your girl?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth lifted slightly.

You knew the real Garrett. You knew that beneath the arrogant, untouchable exterior there was a guy who harbored a vicious resentment for the expectations his father, Phil Graham, placed on his shoulders.

And you knew exactly how to bite the inside of your cheek and look the other way when a starry-eyed puck bunny did the walk of shame down his stairs.

Garrett had made his boundaries crystal clear long ago: he didn't do relationships. Hockey was his entire life, and casual, no-strings hookups were his only speed. You were the sole exception to his rule about letting girls stick around, but only because you were safely, immovably boxed into the friend category.

Tonight, however, the walls of that box felt like they were shrinking.

The hockey house was currently vibrating with the force of way too many drunk college students, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. You had retreated to the kitchen for a momentary breather, hoisting yourself onto the counter next to the sink.

"Here you go, darlin'." Tucker slid a freshly poured red plastic cup into your hand. He leaned against the counter beside you, watching the chaos of the living room with an amused smirk. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

"I love being shoved into drywall by sweaty frat boys," you replied dryly, taking a sip. "It's my favorite Saturday night activity."

"Hey, Y/N/N," Dean drawled as he wandered into the kitchen. His green eyes scanning the room before locking onto a blonde hovering near the fridge. Dean was an unapologetic slut, and he treated the house like his own personal playground. He shot you a lazy, devastating wink before zeroing in on his target. "Looking good. Try not to let G scare off every guy in a ten-foot radius tonight."

You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your stomach tightened. Dean wasn't wrong.

Speak of the devil.

Garrett pushed through the swinging kitchen door a second later, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the throng of bodies. He was nursing a single Bud Light, strictly adhering to his self-imposed, one-drink limit for the hockey season.

He crossed the room and planted himself right between your knees, boxing you in against the counter. He smelled like his familiar, woodsy aftershave, and the sheer heat radiating off his large frame made your pulse betray you.

"I still don't get why you're insisting on mingling downstairs," Garrett muttered, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "We could be upstairs watching season two right now."

"I wanted to be social," you sighed, trying to ignore how naturally his hand rested on the denim of your thigh. "And I actually wanted to talk to some people tonight."

"Talk to who? That pretentious guy from your psych seminar?" Garrett scoffed, his jaw ticking. "I’m telling you, Y/N, the guy is a walking disaster. I saw him in the quad yesterday and he looks like he showers in liquid arrogance."

"His name is Harry, and he asked me to come find him tonight," you snapped, exhaustion seeping into your bones. "And for the record, you said the exact same bullshit about the last three guys I tried to date."

"Because they were all walking red flags!" Garrett argued.

It was an exhausting, toxic cycle. He didn't want you, but the second you tried to scrape together a dating life of your own, his fiercely protective streak mutated into full-blown sabotage. He actively blocked every attempt you made at moving on, hovering like a giant, muscle-bound guard dog while offering you absolutely nothing but friendship in return.

"Stop fucking hovering, Garrett," you fired back. You hopped off the counter, forcing him to take a step back to avoid a collision. "I'm going to go find Harry. Alone."

You didn't wait for his response, pushing your way out of the kitchen and into the sweaty bodies to escape the heavy weight of his stare. You just wanted five minutes to breathe, five minutes to pretend your chest didn't ache every time he touched you.

But as you stepped into the living room, your night was about to collide with a very different kind of disaster.

You scanned the room, looking for Harry. You had met him in your advanced literature seminar, and he was exactly the kind of guy you should be focusing on—smart, ambitious, and completely disconnected from the hockey ecosystem. He was supposed to be the guy who finally helped you pry Garrett Graham out of your heart.

You finally spotted him near the makeshift beer pong table set up over the dining room table. He was holding a plastic cup, laughing with two guys you recognized from the honors program. 

You took a breath, pasting on a smile, and started to weave your way toward him. But as you closed the distance, the loud thump of the music dipped between songs, and Harry's voice carried over the ambient noise of the crowd.

"...yeah, I told her to come find me tonight," Harry was saying, taking a casual sip of his beer.

"Isn't she in your advanced lit seminar?" one of the other guys asked with a laugh. "I heard that class is brutal."

Harry scoffed, a cruel, dismissive sound that made you freeze in your tracks. "It is, and she is completely drowning in it. Honestly, it's painful to watch her try to keep up with the rest of us. I basically had to explain the entire reading list to her on Tuesday."

"So why'd you tell her to meet you?"

"Are you blind? Look at her," Harry chuckled, a slick, arrogant sound. "She's hot. And she's so desperate for help with her midterm, it’s basically a guaranteed hookup. All I have to do is pretend her thesis isn't completely pathetic, tutor her a little, and she'll be all over me. It's almost too easy."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow.

Your lungs seized. A hot, suffocating wave of humiliation crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. It was your darkest, most deeply buried imposter syndrome dragged out into the open and weaponized. You spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over your writing, terrified you weren't smart enough to be at Briar, and Harry had seen that vulnerability and decided to use it as leverage to get you into bed.

Tears prickled the back of your eyes, hot and sharp. A strangled breath escaped your throat, and before Harry or his friends could turn around and see you standing there, you spun on your heel and bolted.

You veered into the hallway leading to the front door, moving so fast you didn't even see the two silhouettes pressed against the wall until you collided hard with a solid back.

"Whoa, hey—" a familiar voice muttered.

You blinked the tears away just enough to realize you had crashed right into Dean, who was in the middle of hooking up with the blonde from the kitchen. Because of course he was. Dean had a notorious habit of hooking up everywhere but his bedroom. 

"I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking pathetically.

Dean pulled back from the girl, his light-green eyes widening as he registered the tears spilling over your lashes. "Y/N/N? Hey, what's wrong? Wait—" 

"I'm fine, sorry," you gasped out, pushing past him and shoving the heavy front door open.

The crisp October air hit you like a bucket of ice water, but it didn't numb the stinging humiliation. You stumbled down the porch steps and pulled your phone out of your pocket with shaking hands, swiping furiously at your screen to pull up the number for the campus taxi service. 

Before it even began to ring, the front door burst open behind you.

"Y/N!"

Garrett’s voice was sharp with panic. He marched down the porch steps, his heavy black boots thudding against the wood. He grabbed your elbow, spinning you around to face him.

"Dean said you ran out of here crying. What the hell—" Garrett froze, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat as he took in your wet cheeks and trembling bottom lip.

The annoyance that usually shadowed his features when you fought was instantly wiped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying protectiveness. His large hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from your skin.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did he touch you?"

You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut because looking at him only made the shame burn hotter.

"Nothing," you choked out, pulling out of his grip. You wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting a losing battle against your own tears. "I'm not telling you what happened just so you can give me the whole 'I told you so' speech. You were right about him, okay? Can we just leave it at that?"

Garrett stared at you for one long, suffocating second. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, putting two and two together. The silence that stretched between you was terrifying. His eyes darkened to the color of a storm, and the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously. 

He just turned on his heel and stalked back up the porch steps.

"Garrett!" Panic seized your chest. "Garrett, no!"

You scrambled up the steps, chasing him through the front door, but he was moving with the blinding, aggressive speed he usually saved for the ice.

"Garrett!" You yelled his name, pushing past confused partygoers, but he was an unstoppable force. "Garrett, stop!"

He found Harry exactly where you had left him, still leaning against the beer pong table.

Garrett grabbed the back of Harry's shirt, spun him around, and swung.

His fist connected with Harry's face with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. The guy didn't even have time to scream before Garrett hit him again, the sheer force of it lifting Harry off his feet and sending him crashing backward into the beer pong table. Red plastic cups and cheap beer went flying in every direction as the table buckled beneath them.

The crowd erupted into shrieks, scattering backward to form a wide circle.

Harry hit the floor, groaning, but Garrett wasn't finished. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling his fist back to deliver another devastating blow.

"Garrett, stop!" you screamed, finally breaking through the circle of onlookers.

You lunged at him, grabbing his thick bicep and trying to haul him backward. But he was two hundred pounds of pure, sculpted muscle fueled by blind rage. You couldn't even budge him. Your fingernails dug into his arm, but he didn't even flinch. 

"Graham, enough!"

Suddenly, Logan and Tucker burst through the crowd. Logan, a bruiser of a defenseman, wrapped his massive arms around Garrett's chest from behind, hauling him backward. Tucker grabbed Garrett’s other arm, digging his heels into the sticky floor to help drag their captain away from the bleeding guy on the floor. 

"Get the fuck off me!" Garrett roared, thrashing against his teammates, his chest heaving wildly.

"Cool it, man!" Logan shouted, straining to hold him back. 

You planted yourself right in Garrett's line of sight, placing both your hands flat against his chest. His heart was hammering violently against your palms.

"G. Look at me," you commanded, your voice shaking.

His wild, silver eyes finally locked onto yours. The lethal fury in his gaze flickered, the fight slowly draining out of his posture as he registered the sheer panic on your face. He stopped fighting Logan and Tucker, his heavy, ragged breathing filling the tense silence of the room. His knuckles were already turning a vicious shade of purple. 

"We are going upstairs," you said, your tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Now."

You didn't wait for him to agree. You grabbed his wrist and turned, dragging him away from the wreckage, up the narrow staircase, and straight into his master bedroom. 

You slammed the door shut, leaning your back against the heavy wood as if it could keep the rest of the world out. The chaotic bass of the party was instantly muted, leaving only the sound of Garrett’s ragged, heavy breathing.

He stood in the center of the room, staring blindly at his split knuckles. The skin was already swelling and bleeding, identical to the brutal bruises he brought home after playing dirty teams like St. Anthony's.

"Are you insane?" you choked out. Your voice trembled, the adrenaline crash finally hitting you and leaving you hollowed out. "You could get suspended for that! Coach Jensen will bench you, Garrett!"

"I don't give a fuck about Coach Jensen right now," he snarled, spinning around to face you. His gray eyes were stormy, flashing with a volatile, untamed fury. "He was using you, Y/N. He was standing there laughing with his buddies about manipulating you."

"And you think I don't know that?" Your voice broke. "You think I didn't hear him? God, G, you didn't have to throw a punch to prove how pathetic I am. I already knew!"

Garrett flinched as if you'd struck him. "What are you talking about? You aren't pathetic."

"I am!" you yelled, pushing off the door. The humiliation from downstairs was a living, breathing thing inside your chest. "I'm the idiot who thought a guy actually liked me for me. I'm the idiot who's failing her seminar, who trails after you like a lapdog, exactly like he said! And you charging in there to fight my battles like I'm incapable of defending myself only proved him right!"

"He's a piece of shit who felt threatened by you," Garrett argued, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "He knows you're brilliant."

"Stop it!" You shoved both hands against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Stop pitying me! I can handle the fact that you don't want me. I can handle sitting on the sidelines watching you bring home a different girl every weekend. But I cannot handle you treating me like some fragile charity case you have to protect!"

Garrett didn't move. He absorbed your shove, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.

"Pity?" he repeated, the word tearing out of him in a harsh, jagged exhale. "You think I pity you?"

"Garrett—"

"You think I sit up at night, listening to you talk about other guys, watching you dress up for dates with assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, out of pity?" He grabbed your wrists—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull your hands off his chest so he could step directly into your space.

His heat surrounded you, smelling of sweat, adrenaline, and his familiar woodsy aftershave.

"I don't defend you because I pity you, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate rasp. "I do it because I am completely, out of my fucking mind for you."

The air vanished from the room.

You stared up at him, your heart slamming violently against your ribs. "What?"

Garrett released your wrists, bringing his hands up to cup your face. His thumbs gently swept over your wet cheeks, his bruised knuckles resting warm and rough against your skin. The arrogance and swagger he wore like armor were completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.

"I have been in love with you for years," he confessed, the words pouring out of him like a dam breaking. "I told everyone I didn't want a girlfriend because the only girl I wanted was my best friend, and I was too terrified of ruining it. So I kept my mouth shut. I watched you look for someone else, and it tore me apart."

"Garrett," you breathed, a fresh tear slipping down your face.

"You are the smartest, most beautiful person I know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips with heavy, agonizing intent. "And if you want me to back off, I will. I'll walk away right now. But don't you ever, ever think I pity you."

Your brain was short-circuiting. The secret you had buried so deep, the ache you had carried for years, was suddenly reflected right back at you in his intense gray eyes.

"You're the biggest idiot on this entire campus," you whispered, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping your throat.

He froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Y/N—"

"I've been in love with you since high school," you interrupted, sliding your hands up his chest to tangle in his short dark hair.

Garrett’s breath hitched audibly. "Are you serious?"

"You really think I hung around all this time just for the free pizza and your terrible taste in TV?" you asked, a blinding smile breaking through your tears.

A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips, the dimples you loved so much finally making an appearance. "Well, damn," he breathed.

The hesitation vanished. Garrett’s hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his body. He crashed his mouth down on yours, and it was a messy, desperate collision of everything you had both held back for years.

He kissed you like he was starving. His lips were demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a hungry, possessive heat that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine. Your fingers gripped his hair, anchoring him to you as he backed you up against the door, his large frame pressing you into the wood.

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours.

"So," Garrett murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. "I guess this means I don't have to share you anymore."

Driving past Briar University always made YN feel strange. Like she was missing a phase of her life that she’d never gotten to experience.

She had never been a Briar student herself, studying instead at the community college down the road. And it wasn’t that she hadn’t had fun, of course she had, but she’d never had the kind of fun that her friends at Briar had ranted and raved about.

It still felt strange, she thought to herself as she got behind the wheel of her shiny gently used Volkswagen, staring at the parking pass for the office complex that dangled from her rear view mirror, right next to a plastic keychain holding a picture of her and John. Even a year on, going to work still felt like being a little kid dressing up in her mom’s clothes for the day. While other twenty-somethings got to spend their days lounging around campus and going to parties, YN spent her days in a windowless cubicle filing court documents and chasing down clients who hadn’t provided copies of their ID to the lawyers.

Just that day she had missed one of her boyfriend’s games. The game started at 1:30, and her rigid lunch hour was from 12:00 to 1:00, no exceptions.

She missed spending time with people her own age, but also felt as though she could no longer relate to them.

As she pulled into John’s driveway, she exhaled a sigh of relief when she noticed that no other cars were there, just his. After the day that she’d had, she wasn’t sure if she could tolerate a house full of hockey boys.

She got out of the car, reaching idly into the footwell of the passenger seat to grab her mustard yellow leather tote bag, which next to the Passat GT that she drove was the most expensive thing that she owned. By the time she reached the front door, Tucker had already opened it, and the bright smile he gave her was enough to wash away all the stress of her day.

“Hey, handsome.” She grinned, stepping into the front foyer and pulling him in for a kiss. “Sorry I missed the game. If we want to go to Corpus Christie in the summer, I can’t take any more time off.”

Sometimes, she wished she could be a better girlfriend. That she could be the girlfriend who went with John to his parties, and showed up to every single game in a jersey with his last name on it. But vacation time wasn’t free, and somehow she was supposed to survive on only two weeks of it per year. That fact made her a little insecure, and there had been times where she worried that she wouldn’t be enough for Tucker any more.

Little did she know that there were times that John Tucker felt like he couldn’t keep up with a hard working, money-earning twenty something that was far more successful than he was in a much shorter time frame.

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to apologize.” Tucker laughed, taking her purse from her outstretched hand. “Have I told you that you make business casual look obscenely sexy?”

“Kiss ass.” She giggled, kicking off her sling backs. “Where is the rest of the freak parade?”

Tucker grinned. “Partying. We have the place all to ourselves. I’m making gnocchi.”

She didn’t realize how hungry she had been until her boyfriend mentioned food, and she knew there was no way to hide the growl of her stomach. “You’re too good to me.”

“And I bought massage oils!” He chirped, remembering how she had told him that her back consistently hurt due to the subpar desk chair at her work station. After three months of complaints, John had finally convinced her to ask the office manager for a new chair. It had helped, but every now and again the aches and pains came back.

“Now you’re just spoiling me.” She laughed, bare feet cold against the tile on the kitchen floor as she headed to the dining room table. “How was the game? Allie told me you ended up in the penalty box twice.”

Tucker laughed, throwing up the hand that wasn’t stirring the gnocchi sauce. “The referee was biased, I’m telling you. That other guy totally started it! We won though, so Dean and the guys are out celebrating.” He turned to face her, a thoughtful grin on his face. “What about work?”

She groaned, burying her head in her hands. “I’m quitting.” They both knew she wouldn’t. “Wayne is a fucking control freak and I’m so sick of lawyers. He flipped his shit on me today because I told him I couldn’t stay late, even though I skipped my lunch to work through this foreclosure file he has me working on that’s so complicated I don’t even know why he’s given it to me.”

Tucker switched off the stove, plating the gnocchi and sitting down across from her at the dining table. He was in awe of the woman across from him. She was smart and intelligent, and he knew she hated when she couldnt answer a clients question even if she knew the answer because it was treading too close to giving legal advice. Time after time he found himself asking why she had chosen him and not some asshole in a three piece.

“Can’t you ask Irene for help?” Tucker suggested. “She’s been doing this for like thirty years, right? Surely she must have some advice.”

“Irene threatens to quit every twenty minutes and swears at Wayne when he pages her to his office. I wish I could be as unbothered as she is.”

“Well, I know what’s good for stress.” John winked from across the table. “Good food. Good company, and someone who’s very good with his hands.”

Conversation flowed easily after that, once the topic of work was somewhat avoid, instead replaced with joyful anecdotes about coworkers and teammates. She liked spending time with John. She may have missed out on a college romance, but every moment she spent with Tucker reminded her that she was still young. She enjoyed having someone to lean on, to rant about work and share her dreams with. He was a great supporter, and had never once shamed her for not seeking higher education. In fact, twice he had shown up at the office unannounced to bring her lunch, or coffee, or a potted plant for her desk. Some of her coworkers were starting to get jealous of all the attention she was getting.

After dinner, they went upstairs, and she spread out on a Mexican blanket on John’s bed, sighing with pleasure as Tucker’s nimble fingers worked over the tense knots in her shoulders, senses soothed by the smell of eucalyptus in the warm massage oil.

“Fucking hell, Tuck.” She moaned softly “Where did you learn to do that?”

He smiled softly, leaning down to place a kiss on the back of her neck. “I’m an athlete, darlin’. Comes with the territory. Whatever makes you feel good.”

After a while, over ten minutes of Tuckers warm hands working on her aching muscles in her shoulders and lower back, she asked him a question.

“Tuck?”

“Yeah, honey.”

“How come you’ve never asked me why I decided not to go to law school?”

John paused, movements stopping before he tapped her bare shoulder. “Babe, turn over for a second.”

She complied, fanning her long hair out behind her as she shifted beneath Tucker to look up at him.

“Because it’s none of my business. I think you did something really brave. You knew what you wanted out of life and you went for it. Now look at you. You have fantastic job, and you earn good money. Your student loans are paid off. I’m really fucking proud of you, you know that?”

Her heart swelled as she looked up at the man she loved, his dark,curly hair falling into his eyes and bright smile on his face, and her chest filled with love at the sight.

She looped her arms around his neck, smiling as she pulled him in for a deep kiss.

“I love you, John Tucker.”

Waking up at Tuckers on a work morning was difficult. She silenced her phone alarm, not wanting to trade John’s warm embrace for the unforgiving cold office and Wayne’s lectures on ID fraud in real estate. Eventually, she dragged herself out of bed, going for the drawer in his dresser that held some of her work clothes.

Back in the double bed, Tucker stirred, a serene smile on his face as he watched her get ready for work, humming an Alanis Morrisette song under her breath as she brushed her hair.

She looked like an angel.

“Your navy blazer is in my closet. Just behind my playoff suit.” He shifted in bed, sitting up and letting the covers fall away from his bare chest, showing off the faint red scratches she had left on his pecs the night before.

“Thanks.” She smiled softly, flicking through his closet to find the blazer she had left at the house last time she had come over. “If I wasn’t so scared of Wayne catching me coming in late, I’d be pouncing on you right now, I hope you know that.”

Tucker laughed, climbing out of bed to wrap his strong arms around her. “I know.” He laughed, kissing the side of her head. “Go grab some breakfast. I’m going to have a quick shower.”

Gathering her belongings and slinging her purse over her shoulder, she practically skipped down the stairs, still humming ‘Head Over Feet’. She flicked the kettle on, filling up her Stanley with ice water as she waited for the water for her instant oatmeal to boil.

“So this is the person who’s spent more time in Tuck’s bed than he has. Now I get to put a face to the name.”

She jumped, squealing as she turned around to see Garrett Graham sitting at the dining room table, a shit eating grin on his face. John Logan sat next to him, mirroring Garrett’s teasing expression.

“You guys are shit at sneaking around, by the way.” Logan added

Her face fell, guard instantly coming up. “We weren’t trying to sneak around. I’ve just been so busy the last couple of months because I work in real estate law, which is so fucking insane at the moment, and there just hasn’t been time.”

“Calm down, Y/N.” Dean Di Laurentis’ voice carried as he came into the kitchen. “They’re just messing with you. They know you work full time, and they’re totally chill with it.”

“Hi Dean.” She exhaled, smile returning. “Is Tuck out of the shower yet?”

Dean shrugged. “He was singing Pearl Jam songs when I walked past, so who knows.”

“Wait a hot second!” Logan interrupted. “You guys know each other?”

She laughed, shaking her oatmeal packet and determined to move on with her morning. The townhouse was closer to work than her own home was, but she still didn’t want to take any chances. “Dean and Allie were the ones that set me up with Tuck. Allie’s my cousin.”

“Hey, we’ve got a game on Friday.” Garrett started. “It’s a late start, around 6:30. You get off at five, right?”

She nodded, joining Garrett and Logan at the table to finally eat her breakfast.

“Tuck would love it if you could come. Have you ever seen him play? I know you missed today’s game because of work, and I don’t m ow what your mental load is at work, so if you’re too tired to come-“

“I’ll be there.” She smiled. “Can’t wait.”

There was a creaking noise on the stairs, and then Tucker came bounding into the kitchen, his unruly hair tied in a loose bun at the name of his neck, biceps showing off underneath his muscle tank. His face lit up when he saw YN sitting at the kitchen table with his teammates.

“Hi sweetheart! You left your spare charger in my room. I know it’s the one you keep in your car, so I didn’t want you to leave without it.”

“Thanks babe.” She beamed, kissing him softly. “I love you.”

“Love you too, sugar.” Tuck smiled. “Hang on one sec, I made you something.”

Tucker crossed to the fridge rooting around inside for a minute before he came back with a glass container, a laminated sheet of paper stuck to the top.

“I made you lunch. Microwave instructions are on the top. Have a great day at work.”

“Oh, Tuck.” She blushed “you didn’t need to do that.”

“Yes he did.” Dean coughed. “Cooking is the man’s love language.”

“Fuck off, Dean.” Tuck laughed. “Can’t a man dote on his wife without his friends making fun of him for it?”

At the slip of the tongue, YN coughed on her glass of milk. Wife? They had barely been together for six months yet. Although, as she watched her credit score slowly climb each month, she found herself imagining what it would be like to see her name next to his on a mortgage.

“I have to go to work.” She said finally, getting up from the table. “If any of you assholes have boxed me in, your cars are getting keyed.”

“It happened once!” Dean protested. “How was I supposed to know the sports car was yours?”

Still laughing, she turned back to Tucker. “I love you, you big dork. I’ll see you on Friday for your game.”

Tuck’s eyes lit up. “You’re coming?”

“Of course I am!” She pressed up on her toes to kiss him. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“have I told you how much I love you?”

She beamed, mindlessly wrapping a strand of his hair around her finger. “Only about five times since I woke up.”

He kissed her again, ignoring the wolf whistles from his teammates. She grabbed her keys from the counter and threw her purse over her shoulder, waving goodbye to the hockey players as she exited the front door.

One thing you learnt about Hannah Wells, being one of her best friends and all, was that she was normally- a very reasonable person. She was the one to keep electrolyte sachet’s in her bag during a night out, the one to book the uber a day in advance and the one to always text check-ins on the group chat during finals week. 

That was her, normally. 

Unfortunately, ever since she decided to become the first hockey WAG in the group, the captain she shared a bed with had spent their entire relationship testing that theory. The relationship was undoubtedly adorable, some may say to a disgusting, how-to-lose-a-guy-in-10-days level, but sometimes Garrett would feel the need to use Hannah's tightly strung mental stability as a pair of chopsticks.

“Just, tell me again why we’re doing this?” You watched Hannah with a concerned expression, she was aggressively highlighting a sentence that had absolutely nothing to do with the paragraph she'd just read.

The yellow highlighter squeaked angrily across the page,"You know why," She gritted out. 

"No, I know why you're angry,” You pointed at the highlighter.

"I'm asking why that textbook is suffering for it."

The answer never came, but that was attributed to the fact that Hannah was still busy glaring at her notes like they had personally offended her. Beethoven was a bitch. 

The study room had fallen suspiciously quiet about twenty minutes ago, with Allie laying on the sofa in the corner going through a script for class and you and hannah sitting on the large table in the centre of the glass box, you scribbling out statistics equations and Hannah trying to compose a new piece. 

That initial plan went out the window when Hannah began to complain about Garrett, either of you could have stopped her, put a pin in it and dealt with it at home. Instead, Allie and you happily discarded your work and quipped helpful bits of advice during her rant. 

"You know what his problem is?"

You exchanged a glance with Allie, both of you knew it was better if nobody answered- experience had taught you this was a trap.

"He says he'll call me."

Hannah pointed at her phone that she had flung across the table at the beginning of her speech, "then doesn't call me."

You nodded, the man had a habit of saying he’ll call after practice- then take hours in the locker room with the boys. Your own boyfriend had the bad habit, but you made peace with it very early on; assuming it was because the boys were engrossed in some weird, hockey bro hangout while they changed. 

It was nonetheless a reasonable complaint, because the team was AWOL for nearly the entire day, and the three of you were suffering for it. Ever since Garrett returned from the bench, training was 24/7 and you were lucky to get a morning kiss, a small whisper of seeing you later before the door shut and their phones seemed to have fallen off the face of the planet.

So, if Graham had promised he’d “see his girl tonight” because he “missed her so much” and then had the gall to not reply to her messages for half an hour. You were prepared to ride at dawn, and steal his skates to rub against concrete for as long as your drill sergeant ordered. 

However, currently the drill sergeant was pink in the face and grabbing at her phone, stretching herself over her textbook to wave the device angrily. 

"And then when I text him asking where he is-"

You already knew this wasn't going to end well.

"He sends me a thumbs up."

The silence was immediate, you gaped at Allie, she gaped back. It was two fishes staring at each other while Hannah slumped into her chair.

It shouldn't have been shocking, it was exactly the sort of thing Garrett would do. But he was an idiot for deciding to not fight against his nature during this trying time. 

Allie lowered the script she had folded against her legs, flopping it onto her chest as she sat up. Slowly, carefully, as if she’d been told there was a rabid animal that could sense her fear.

"A thumbs up?"

"A thumbs up."

"Oh."

"Exactly."

You shook your head and closed your eyes. This was rough, like Liverpool F.C rough. 

"I know he meant well."

That sentence was somehow worse, because she was trying to be rational. And when Hannah was angry and tried to be rational, it usually resulted in disaster. 

"Did he think?"

Allie's contribution was deeply unhelpful.

Hannah jumped and gave her a thankful clap, "THANK YOU."

"I'm just saying."

You groan and give her a look of deep regret, "You are not helping."

"I wasn't trying to." She grinned at you.

Hannah dropped her head onto the table, face first into her music sheets. The universal sign of academic and emotional defeat. 

You watched her lie there for a moment.

Then another

Then-

"I am going to kill him."

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, there it was. The threat you’d all been waiting for, Allie checked her phone, nodding her head.

"Only ten minutes."

"A personal best." You added.

Hannah stood up immediately, the chair scraped obnoxiously against the floor- as if warning her not to do the thing she was absolutely going to do. Both you and Allie looked up, concerned at the way she blinked quickly, the cogs in her head turning so fast that you were sure smoke would start spilling from her ears. 

You recognised the look on her face, a dangerous determination, masked by an eerie calm. In actuality it was a complete loss of common sense

"Hannah." Allie started, warningly. 

"No."

"You haven't even heard the question."

"I know the question."

The smile spreading across Hannah's face made your stomach drop. It was a Hannah Has An Idea smile and historically speaking, those had a terrible survival rate.

You racked your brain for what she could possibly be plotting. Then your face fell.  Practice had ended approximately fifteen minutes ago. Which meant the boys were currently finishing up at the rink. A fact that should've been irrelevant, so painfully ordinary that it was similar to breathing. Instead, it somehow became the most important detail in the room.

“Hannah, no-”

She had already grabbed her bag and started walking towards the door. Allie scrambled to her feet, shoving her stuff into the tote she randomly picked up when you left that morning. You did the same, not caring that you messily crumpled up your work into your bag, instead more focussed on watching Hannah strut out of the library, stomping through the isles- not paying you any mind. 

You panted when you caught up to her, dragging a hand through your hair,

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"Hannah."

"No."

"Hannah."

The door to the outside world opened and Allie squinted against the golden hour glow, Hannah’s smile widened dangerously, 

"I am going to find my boyfriend."

The first sign this was a terrible idea came when Hannah ignored the boys leisurely walking out of the athletes' building, their hair damp from showers, you recognised a few, some from the calisthenics club, you waved at the girls on the swim team and pointedly flipped off the lewd comments from the lacrosse team. Eugh. 

The second sign came when she didn’t listen to your warnings.

The third came when she barely blinked at the coach giving her a confused greeting.

By that point, frankly, the universe had done everything it reasonably could.

"Hannah."

No response.

"Hannah."

Still nothing.

The woman marched through the arena, stumbling sharply against the chairs. You inched through behind her, holding Allie's hand as she huffed and whipped her bangs out of her eyes, glaring at Hannah, who was already at the bottom of the staircase, about to turn into the back corridor. 

Neither of you were particularly interested in letting your best friend commit relationship homicide without witnesses.

"Hannah."

"What."

The answer arrived instantly. She stilled just before the dim pathway towards the locker room, hands braced on her backpack straps, her shoes tapped on the floor expectantly. 

"You do realise practice literally just ended."

"Correct."

"You do realise hockey players are probably changing."

"Correct."

You looked at Allie, whose eye was twitching at her best friend's unwavering need for vindication. 

"You're concerning me."

She rolled her eyes and dashed down the hallway, you recognised this part of the training facility instantly, it was embarrassing the amount of times you had waited here, leaning against the wall for Logan to emerge, his chain glinting in the yellow lighting as he hauled equipment over one shoulder, the other carried his own gear. 

He would kiss you quickly, mumbling against your lips about missing you, and then dump all the random sticks and bags of pucks into the storage before slinging an arm around your shoulder, slowing to a leisurely stroll as you recounted your day. 

You rounded the corner, and froze. Allie bumped into you, whining as she rubbed her nose. 

The locker room doors sat at the end of the corridor. You stared ahead, and blinked when Hannah barely stopped- charging forward.

"Hannah."

"No."

"Hannah."

You cupped your hands around your mouth and shouted after her, jogging behind. "What exactly is your plan here?"

"I am going to find Garrett."

"Then?"

"Then I am going to explain why sending a thumbs up was stupid."

Allie threw her hands up and blocked her pathway to the door, "Hannah."

"No." She tugged down Allie’s arms, and pushed the girl out of the way. Before either you or Allie could stop her, Hannah grabbed the door handle, and it was like the world slowed.

"HANNAH!"

The door opened and you immediately regretted the day you were born. The silence hit you like the torrential stream of water in a car wash, burning your eyes as a gasp got stuck in your throat. 

Then your brain caught up with what was in front of you- because unfortunately, disastrously, hockey practice had ended, extremely recently. So recently in fact, that half the team were still in the showers hooting and hollering, while the other half were dripping wet in front of their cubbies. Staring straight at you, towels paused mid-dry.

You froze.

Hannah froze.

Allie froze.

The hockey team froze.

Time itself appeared to freeze.

"Oh my God." Allie giggled shrilly, her eyes wide as her hand came up to stifle a mix between a gasp and sob.

It wasn’t the shirtless hockey players that disturbed you. It was the penis’.

Everywhere. 

Anywhere. 

Dicks floor to ceiling, no matter where your troubled eyes would take you, it was phallic body parts all around. A sight that would haunt you until graduation.

The team were the first one to snap out of the trance, some of them barely phased at the intrusion, the other half silently covered their junk and shouted brokenly for the people you were actually looking for. 

“What?” Logan’s voice shouted from beyond the showers, luckily you were far enough away to avoid the sight of your boyfriend and his teammates in the steamy, tiled cheap porno setting. 

You accidentally made eye-contact with one of the freshmen on the team, and he winked at you. The expression on your face must've been unbelievably unimpressed because he rushed to get dressed immediately after his failure. 

That made your survival instincts finally activate.

You spun around immediately, a sensible decision on your part. 

Unfortunately, Allie had chosen the exact same strategy.

The two of you collided at full speed.

"OW."

The yelp escaped simultaneously. One second you were turning around, the next your shoulder crashed into Allie's.

Your foot caught on your other ankle, and suddenly gravity joined the party. The floor rushed upwards, the world tilted and you were convinced this was your rapture. 

Two seconds away from meeting your untimely demise, strong arms caught you before impact.

"Oh my God, babe?" The voice sounded familiar and you braced yourself for his bewildered expression when you squinted your eyes open. Logan’s face was approximately six inches away and you felt the towel he had hurriedly wrapped around himself slip low down his hips against your waist. 

"Nope, don’t ask." You closed your eyes against the water droplets splashing onto your face from his hair. The tickle of his silver chain against your cheek made you wave your hands between the two of you. You could feel him gearing up to ask something, 

A finger wag in his face and a simple, "Nope." made him laugh as he hoisted you up. 

Across from you, Dean had already reached Allie, looking equally concerned and delighted.

"Are you okay?" His arms were bound securely around her, pressing in front of him.

Allie flicked his forehead, "Stop smiling."

"I'm not smiling."

"You absolutely are."

Dean was moments away from framing the incident and hanging it on a wall, it was when Allie had steadied herself and stepped fractionally away from him that you noticed Dean hadn’t managed to grab a towel. And stood naked, right in front of you. As bare as the day he was born. 

You retched loudly and tried to run out the door, forgetting that Logan was still holding you upright, an arm around your waist- hand steadying your shoulder.

Deeply and violently, you groaned- accepting that this was your life right now,  "Please tell me I died."

The laughter around you doubled in volume, a few of the guys chirping at you.

Somewhere behind Logan, Garrett appeared, towel around his waist- completely oblivious to the chaos playing out with his team. 

"What happened?"

The silence that followed was immediate, the boys pursed their lips together, you and Allie were engrossed in anything that didn't involve Hannah. 

She glared at him slowly, dangerously. Garrett took one look at her expression, and his eyes ping ponged around the changing area, the open door, the duo of embarrassed girlfriends- one of them looking at her boyfriend seductively, the other hiding her face in her hands. And finally the boys, Dean who was playing into Allies flirting- butt naked. And Logan who was stifling a laugh against your shoulder as you shook your head silently into your palms.

Understanding dawned, making him rush over to his bag and dig out his phone, his eyes widening at his girlfriend, "Oh."

The idiot actually laughed. Hannah looked ready to gouge his eyes out with his stick.  And somehow, unbelievably, things were about to get worse.

By dinner the same day, everybody knew, not just the team, not just other teams. The entire student population. 

People in your classes, people in the library, people in the campus cafes. Somehow all of them must've collectively received an email.

You still didn't know how, no matter how hard you searched the gossip account, your dm’s, hunted through stories. There was no way to determine how the hell the situation had reached every set of ears at Briar. You'd spent the better part of twelve hours trying to figure it out.

The incident had happened at approximately 9 am that morning.

By six-fifteen, two members of the lacrosse team had smirked at you in passing.

By seven, somebody in a study group asked if you were "recovering."

By eight-thirty, a girl in your dorm-block had winked.

"Tell me again why I haven't transferred,” You dropped your forehead onto the cafeteria table.

Across from you, Hannah looked equally traumatised as she picked at her dinner, Allie looked murderous as another pair of irrelevant students giggled as they passed by. 

The three of you had spent the entire day suffering.

Allie slumped in her chair, "Because we're seniors."

You stabbed aggressively at your salad. "Unfortunately,” mouth half-full of lettuce you continued, "You know what the worst part is?"

Nobody answered, mostly because nobody wanted to encourage you.

"The fact we literally didn't do anything."

"THANK YOU."

Allie pointed dramatically.

"THANK YOU."

The cafeteria table rattled slightly, you winced and gave her an accusing stare. While the passion was appreciated, the volume was not.

"We walked into a room." Hannah shrugged

"Accidentally." Allie added.

"Then left."

"Immediately."

You threw your hands up, "And somehow everyone is acting like we joined an orgy."

The three of you sat in offended silence, completely justified silence. Silence that lasted approximately four seconds.

Then somebody cleared their throat and you closed your eyes, praying to whatever god that put you in that situation this morning, wasn’t just deciding to test your self control.

You swore, if you opened your eyes, and the person who you thought it was, was standing in front of you. There would be a search warrant for your name, and a blown up ice rink in your wake. 

"No."

Across the table, Hannah groaned and Allie made a sound like she was ready to throw something. The answer came before you opened them, pressing your lips to your hands that were held together in a praying position, you shook your head, "No."

Because standing directly behind you was, Dean who was grinning so wide, you’d think Santa Clause gifted him a dildo, Garrett, currently more occupied in flashing his puppy dog eyes at Hannah and Logan, the only useful one, who came bearing gifts with an apologetic yet amused smile on his annoyingly handsome face.

The Three Horsemen of Making Things Worse.

"Oh, come on.” Dean looked genuinely offended, hand on his chest as he pulled out the seat next to you, in front of Allie.

She threw one of Hannah’s chips at his face, which he caught in his mouth, "We came to support our girlfriends! amidst their public cancellation from society."

"You came to laugh at us." You corrected, ignoring the paper container that slid in front of your tray and the weirdly shaped Logan entity that sat on the other side of you. 

The smile on Dean's face widened, "How ‘bout both?"

Hannah dropped her fork and lunged at him, only held back by Garrett- who had two fingers looped into her belt loop. 

During this, you peeked into the container, flicking open the lid to see a slice of your favourite cake- red velvet from the bakery just outside campus.

You glanced at Logan and stuck your tongue out at him in response to his pleading expression. There it was, you thought- your eye twitching, the complete lack of shame astounded you.

You hated the smug bastard. A deep, passionate hate. But you still gave him a quick peck, intertwining your hands beneath the table and placed them on his thigh. He suppressed a grin and leaned back in his chair watching you cut into the pastry with your fork.

"How's recovery going?" Dean rested his chin on his palm, twirling a blonde strand with his finger.

Allie flipped off her boyfriend, "Leave."

Garrett laughed immediately, "You have to admit-"

"No." Hannah interrupted, hands slapping at his wrist which comfortably kept his hand looped into her jeans. 

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It was funny."

"It wasn't."

"It really was."

The idiot looked entirely too pleased with himself, which was particularly annoying because he wasn't even the one receiving the worst of it.

That honour belonged to you and Allie. Specifically because both of your boyfriends had apparently become the main characters of the story. A fact you deeply resented.

"You know what?" You sat up, “How come nobody is talking about Hannah?”

The entire table went quiet.

Hannah blinked.

"Oh my God." Allie said slowly, "You're right."

"I know."

Hannah immediately looked suspicious, "Why aren't they talking about me?"

Then Allie pointed dramatically, "THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN SAYING."

"You haven't said that."

"I've been thinking about it."

Somehow, the entire college manipulated the story into a desperate cliche- that you and Allie were dying to see your boyfriend’s and just. couldn't. wait. for them, so you burst into the changing room, ovulation phase at it's peak and boned down in front of the entire team.

Completely cutting out the bit where you both were trying to stop Hannah from social suicide.

Mission accomplished apparently. The problem now, was that you’d stepped in front of the bullet, and forgot that it meant you’d get shot. 

"You started the whole thing." You whined at her.

"EXACTLY."

Dean and Garrett looked delighted.

"You stormed across campus." You held up one finger.

"Correct." Hannah nodded.

"You opened the door." Another finger.

"Correct."

"You ignored approximately fourteen warnings." A third.

"Correct."

"And somehow everyone else became the main characters." You harrumped and slumped back into your seat, glaring at Logan whose arm came up to rest behind you- but you didn’t pull away when he pecked your forehead.

Hannah looked genuinely aghast at her lack of involvement within the gossip mill, "You know what?" She folded her arms, "That is offensive."

"There she is." Dean blew an exaggerated kiss at her, "The victim complex."

Hannah threw a napkin at him.

The situation somehow got worse, a possibility you never thought could be true.

By Wednesday morning, people had started inventing details, ones that didn’t even make sense. Especially because the original story was already embarrassing enough.

Now there were rumours.

Terrible rumours.

Wild rumours.

Factually incorrect rumours.

"I heard somebody say we were recording."

Hannah looked flabbergasted, the pen in her hand creaked as her first tightened.

Across the corridor, Allie stopped walking, "We weren't?"

"Exactly."

"We were too busy being surrounded by cockfest 2026."

The three of you continued toward class, united by shared trauma- forged entirely through public humiliation. 

The campus buzzed around you, students heading between lectures, athletes carrying equipment bags, people drinking coffee they absolutely couldn't afford. The usual. Until somebody shouted out your name, the voice was gratingly familiar in a way that made you want to spit out your tonsils. 

The guys sitting outside the student centre weren't even subtle about it, the one who called out for you nudged another, the second looked up and smirked.

They were two guys from the lacrosse team. Arguably, you’d think such a fancy sport would produce gentlemen, but the game manufactured slime-balls like the two currently snickering at your deadpan expression. 

"Oh look." The smile spread, "The locker room girls."

You stopped mid-step, and you’d known it was a mistake the minute your foot paused, because now they knew you'd heard. The embarrassment hit instantly, like a slap to the face that reached down your throat, hot in a way that made your body burn. 

Beside you, Hannah looked ready to throw hands, her eyes narrowing at the boys. 

“You got only fans? We’d love to see what happened in the locker room.” 

Allie grit her teeth and just as she was about to bite back, a voice interrupted her.

"Say that again."

The atmosphere chilled behind you, one second the lacrosse pair were giggling like little goblins, the next, their faces were frozen with teetering smiles. 

You felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. Logan stood next to you, his thumb rubbing soothingly on your arm. 

Dean was walking up to Allie, his hands still cupped around his mouth from his interruption. Garrett hung back, but welcomed Hannah into his side when she begrudgingly shuffled up to him. 

They had apparently finished a team strategy session, an unfortunate coincidence for the boys in front of you, who suddenly looked significantly less dick-ish. 

The one with slicked back, blonde hair looked to his friend- who shrugged and patted him on the shoulder, his lip visibly quivered when he spoke, "What?" the question came out weak.

Dean smiled, two hands braced on his girlfriend's frame. Leisurely almost. "Oh, don't do that." He tilted his head with a pout, "You were really confident thirty seconds ago."

Nobody answered.

Garrett called out, still maintaining a generous distance from the situation- probably not wanting to get too involved with another team as the captain, “You seem like the type to be on only fans Jackson. Is that what you do when you lose to Eastwood?” The disappointment in his voice somehow made it worse.

"Seriously,” Dean shook his head, "Dude, if you're going to talk shit about my girlfriend at least be creative." Allie smacked the front of his chest, but nodded in agreement. 

Then Logan spoke, "Find something else to talk about."

Jackson, and the other guy- equally as greasy, dissolved into pitiful excuses and throwaway comments, scoffing as they retreated into the building.

"Holy shit."

Dean grinned, "You're welcome."

"You enjoyed that." Allie poked him accusatorially, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek a few times, leaving lipstick prints against his dimple. 

"I enjoyed that immensely."

Nearby, Garrett wrapped an arm around Hannah's shoulders and joined the rest of you.

"You know," Garrett said thoughtfully, "I feel like people would've stopped talking about it sooner if Dean hadn't told literally everyone."

The silence was beautiful. The three of you slowly turned to look at Dean, who was gritting out threats at Garrett, a horrified expression gracing his features as he timidly caressed Allie's hair. 

"I did not."

Logan punched his shoulder jokingly, like bros talking about whose basketball team won last night, "You absolutely did."

"I told one person."

The universe was finally smiling down on you, since Tucker walked up to the six of you, pushing his curls out of his face.

"You told Tucker." Garrett laughed. 

Tucker blinked between the two, who were now engaged in a heated conversation using their eyes. 

"That's still one person."

"Dean."

"One person."

"You told the biggest gossip on the hockey team that our girlfriends walked into the changing room after practice and saw everyone's dicks. by accident."

Tucker finally nodded his head with an affirmative sound, “Oh yeah, I’m just annoyed I left practice early for a doctor's appointment.” He patted Dean on the shoulder, grinning as he stirred the proverbial pot, “luckily Dean here, my best friend, the person who tells me everything. Recounted it in perfect detail.”

An argument exploded instantly, involving Allie smacking Dean upside the head and she bickered about how the last 48 hours had been a living hell.

Hannah wasn’t letting Garrett off the hook easily, nagging him that if he had just “replied to her goddamn messages” the three of you wouldn’t have been in there, she quietened and blushed when he whispered in her ear.

Tucker had joined Allie in bashing Dean, but the three of them groaned when Dean promised, “mind-blowing orgasms on every surface of the house”. Allie didn’t say anything further, just glared at him when he hooked a hand onto her waist and pulled her in.

They drifted ahead while they bickered. Leaving you slightly behind with Logan, who had somehow presented an iced coffee from behind his back and was watching you sip it. 

"You didn't have to do that." You said mid-sip.

Logan looked over, "What?"

"That."

You gestured vaguely toward the now-empty student centre steps. Logan’s expressions softened slightly as he took your bag from your shoulder and pulled you into him, tucking a hand into your back pocket. 

"Yeah." he paused, "Actually, I kind of did."

Your stomach performed a deeply inconvenient little flip.

"Why?"

Logan looked ahead, then to the ground in an almost bashful kind of way, then he shrugged. Like the answer was obvious, "I don't like people making you feel bad."

You cooed at him, grabbing his face with your free hand and squishing his face between your fingers, “You’re such a softie.” 

Smacking a kiss to his stubbly cheek, you returned to the drink, gulping it down appreciatively.

He snickered to himself and added unhelpfully, “Plus, kind of owed you since you saw Dean’s cock.”

“Logan!”