Natalia

“Probably,” he says, even though he has no idea. He’s been to a lot of places, done a lot of things, but Greek island cat behavior was never in his wheelhouse.

You’re already digging through your bag — the woven one you bought in Naxos two days ago — pulling out the bougatsa you’d grabbed at breakfast. You break off a piece and offer it to the cat, who sniffs it suspiciously before accepting.

“Good girl,” you murmur, stroking her sun-warmed fur. “Such a pretty girl.”

Sidney pulls out his phone and takes a photo, adding it to the collection he’s been building all week. You feeding cats. You laughing at a local taverna. You in that white sundress that makes you look like you belong here, among the whitewashed buildings and endless blue. You looking at him like he hung the moon when he surprised you with this trip.

The plan had been simple: skip the tourist traps, rent a yacht, and island-hop through the Cyclades the way normal people can’t. Santorini and Mykonos were beautiful, sure, but they were also Instagram factories, full of influencers and cruise ship crowds. He wanted something real. Something authentic. Something that felt like it belonged to just the two of you.

So he’d hired a captain and a small crew, and for the past week, you’d been sailing from island to island — Naxos, Paros, Antiparos, Koufonisia, and now Folegandros. Small islands. Quiet islands. Islands where locals still outnumbered tourists, where you could walk through villages and actually hear church bells instead of club music.

And watching you fall in love with each one has been the best part of the trip.

You stand up, brushing off your dress, and loop your arm through his. “Thank you for this,” you say, like you have every day. “This whole trip. It’s perfect.”

“You’ve said that about every island,” he points out, amused.

“Because it’s true about every island,” you counter. “How did you even find these places? I’ve never heard of half of them.”

“Research,” he says, which is true. He’d spent weeks reading travel blogs, watching videos, messaging people who’d been to Greece. He’d wanted to get it right.

“Well, you nailed it,” you say, squeezing his arm. “This is the best vacation I’ve ever been on.”

The ring box feels heavier in his pocket.

Tonight, he thinks. It has to be tonight.

He’d been planning to propose since the beginning of the season. Had the ring custom-made six months ago by a jeweler in New York who specialized in unique pieces. Had it designed specifically for you — a blue diamond, because you’d once mentioned in passing that you loved how unusual they were, set in platinum with cathedral details that the jeweler had called “architectural“ and “distinctive.” The kind of ring you could wear every day but that would still make people stop and stare.

He’d been carrying it for three days, looking for the perfect moment, and somehow every moment had felt both perfect and not perfect enough. Sunset in Naxos? Too crowded. That quiet beach in Antiparos? Too isolated. The yacht deck under the stars? Too predictable.

But tonight. Tonight he has a plan.

“Come on,” he says, tugging you gently down the street. “We should get ready for dinner.”

“Where are we going again?” You ask.

“It’s a surprise,” he says, which makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.

“You’ve been very mysterious about tonight,” you observe.

“Have I?” He asks innocently.

“Very,” you confirm. “Should I be worried?”

“Definitely not,” he assures you. “Just trust me.”

“I always trust you,” you say simply, and the ring box burns hotter.

Back on the yacht, you disappear into the cabin to get ready while Sidney checks in with the captain about timing. Dinner reservations are at seven-thirty — he’d made them weeks ago, calling the restaurant directly, explaining in broken English and hand gestures over video chat what he wanted. The owner, an elderly woman named Yiayia Eleni, had been delighted, conspiratorial, promising him the best table and complete discretion.

He showers and changes into the nice shirt he packed specifically for this — white linen, rolled sleeves, paired with his better shorts and the watch you got him for his birthday. He looks at himself in the mirror and takes a breath.

“You’ve played in the Olympics,” he tells his reflection. “You’ve won Stanley Cups. You can propose to your girlfriend.”

His reflection doesn’t look convinced.

When you emerge from the cabin twenty minutes later, his brain stops working entirely.

You’re wearing a dress he’s never seen before — soft blue, the color of the Aegean, with thin straps and a skirt that moves when you walk. Your hair is down, slightly wavy from the sea air, and you’re wearing the delicate gold necklace he bought you in Paros.

“Is this okay?” You ask, suddenly self-conscious. “You said nice restaurant, but I wasn’t sure how nice-”

“You’re perfect,” he interrupts. “You look perfect.”

You smile, pleased, and do a little spin. “I bought it in Naxos. I was saving it for a special occasion.”

“Good instinct,” he manages, and offers his arm.

The restaurant is a ten-minute walk from where the yacht is docked — a small, family-owned place right on the water with only six tables. Yiayia Eleni greets you at the door with enthusiastic cheek kisses and a flood of Greek that neither of you understand but that clearly means “welcome.”

She leads you to a table on the terrace, right at the edge where the stone meets the sea. It’s the best table, separated slightly from the others, with a view of the harbor and the sunset that’s just beginning to paint the sky pink and gold.

“Sidney, this is beautiful,” you breathe, sitting down. “How did you find this place?”

“I have my ways,” he says mysteriously.

Yiayia Eleni returns with wine — local, she explains in careful English, from her son’s vineyard on the island. She pours you each a glass, winks at Sidney in a way that suggests she knows exactly what’s happening tonight, and disappears back into the kitchen.

“She’s adorable,” you say, watching her go. “I love these family places. They have so much character.”

“Better than the tourist traps,” Sidney agrees.

“So much better,” you say. “I mean, I’m sure Santorini is beautiful, but this-” you gesture at the view, the quiet harbor, the locals walking past, “ — this feels real. Like we’re actually experiencing Greece, not just performing it for Instagram.”

“That’s what I was hoping for,” he admits.

You reach across the table and take his hand. “You did good, Crosby. This whole trip. It’s been incredible.”

“Yeah?” He asks, even though you’ve told him this every day.

“The best,” you confirm. “I don’t want it to end.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he says carefully. “We could come back. Make it a regular thing.”

“I’d like that,” you say, smiling. “Annual Greek island trip. I could get behind that tradition.”

The food arrives in waves — Greek salad, grilled octopus, fresh bread with olive oil, moussaka that Yiayia Eleni insists you try. Everything is perfect, simple and fresh and made with obvious care. You moan over the octopus, declare the moussaka life-changing, and insist on trying to learn the Greek words for “thank you” and “delicious.”

Sidney watches you charm Yiayia Eleni’s husband — Papou Pavlos — when he comes out to check on your meal, sees you light up when you successfully communicate that the food is incredible, and feels the ring box pressing against his leg like a heartbeat.

The sun is setting now, turning the sky into a masterpiece of orange and pink and purple. The other diners are focused on their own meals, their own conversations. Yiayia Eleni catches his eye from the doorway and gives him an encouraging nod.

It’s time.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended.

You look up from your wine, smiling. “Hey yourself.”

“I want to tell you something,” he starts, and watches your expression shift from casual to attentive.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Should I be worried? You look very serious suddenly.”

“Not worried,” he assures you. “Just give me a second. I’ve been planning what to say for weeks and now I’m blanking.”

“Planning what to say about what?” You ask, but there’s something in your eyes now, a dawning realization.

Sidney stands up, his chair scraping against the stone, and your eyes go wide.

“Sidney-” you start.

“Let me say this,” he interrupts gently, moving around the table. “Please. I need to say this.”

He drops to one knee beside your chair, and you make a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I had a whole speech planned,” he admits, pulling the ring box from his pocket. “I’ve been rehearsing it for days. But now I’m looking at you and I can’t remember any of it.”

“That’s okay,” you say, and your eyes are already shining with tears. “You don’t need a speech.”

“I do though,” he insists. “Because you need to understand—you need to know what you mean to me.”

He takes a breath, and the words start coming.

“I’ve been playing hockey since I was three years old,” he says. “My whole life has been about the game. About training and winning and being the best. And I love it. I love hockey. But you-” his voice catches. “You made me realize that there’s more to life than the game.”

You’re crying now, tears streaming down your face, but you’re smiling.

“You made me want things I didn’t think I wanted,” he continues. “A home that’s actually a home, not just a place I sleep between road trips. Lazy mornings and inside jokes and someone who calls me out when I’m being too intense about game film.”

You laugh through your tears. “You are too intense about game film.”

“I know,” he says, smiling. “And you’re the only person who can tell me that and make me actually listen.”

He opens the ring box, and your hand flies to your mouth.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Sidney, that’s-”

“I had it made for you,” he explains. “The blue diamond because you said you loved them. The cathedral setting because you’re always talking about architecture when we travel. I wanted it to be unique. Like you.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you whisper.

“This whole trip,” he continues, “watching you fall in love with these islands, seeing you feed every cat we encounter, listening to you try to learn Greek from the locals — I’ve been falling more in love with you every single day. Which I didn’t think was possible because I was already so gone for you.”

“Sid,” you say, your voice breaking.

“You’re brilliant and funny and kind,” he says. “You’re going to finish your PhD and do incredible things and change the world with your research. And I want to be there for all of it. I want to watch you defend your dissertation and get your first academic job and publish your first book. I want to support you the way you support me.”

“You already do,” you manage.

“I want to come home to you every night,” he continues. “I want to travel the world with you. I want to have babies with you — when you’re ready — and build a family. I want to grow old with you and still be feeding Greek cats when we’re seventy.”

You’re fully sobbing now, and so is Yiayia Eleni, who’s appeared in the doorway with a handkerchief.

“You’re my home,” Sidney says, and his own voice is unsteady now. “You’re my family. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed and everything I can’t imagine living without. And I know I’m older than you, and I’m gone a lot, and my life is complicated, but-”

“Sidney,” you interrupt, your hand on his face. “Ask me. Please just ask me.”

He takes a shaky breath. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, emphatically. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”

He barely gets the ring out of the box before you’re pulling him up, kissing him with tears streaming down both your faces. He manages to slip the ring onto your finger between kisses, and it fits perfectly — of course it does, he had your ring size memorized from that time you tried on rings at a vintage store in Pittsburgh.

When you finally pull back to look at it, you make a sound that’s pure joy.

“Sidney, this is—I can’t even-” You turn your hand, watching the blue diamond catch the last of the sunset. “How did you design this? It’s perfect. The cathedral setting, the way the band has these details — it’s like it was made specifically for me.”

“It was,” he confirms. “Every part of it. I wanted you to have something no one else has.”

“Mission accomplished,” you say, kissing him again. “I can’t believe you did this. Here, on this perfect trip, at this perfect restaurant-”

“I wanted it to be special,” he says.

“It’s perfect,” you assure him. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”

Yiayia Eleni appears with champagne that Sidney definitely didn’t order but that she’s clearly been saving for this exact moment. She’s talking rapidly in Greek, gesturing at the ring, at you, at Sidney, and while you can’t understand the words, the meaning is clear: congratulations, how beautiful, how wonderful.

Papou Pavlos appears with a camera, insisting on taking photos. The other diners are applauding. Someone brings out baklava with a candle in it.

“Did you plan all this?” You ask, laughing through tears.

“I planned the proposal,” Sidney admits. “Yiayia Eleni planned the celebration.”

“I love her,” you declare, and Yiayia Eleni, understanding her name if not the words, beams and kisses both your cheeks.

You insist on taking photos of the ring against the sunset, the ring with the harbor in the background, the ring next to your wine glass. Sidney takes a photo of you wearing the ring, your smile brighter than any sunset, and knows he’s going to frame it.

“Call my parents,” you say suddenly. “And yours. We have to tell them.”

“Right now?” He asks, amused.

“Right now,” you insist. “They need to know. Your parents need to know they’re getting a daughter-in-law. My parents need to know they’re getting Sidney Crosby as a son-in-law, which they’re going to lose their minds about.”

“Your dad’s going to make daddy jokes,” Sidney realizes.

“Oh absolutely,” you confirm. “For the rest of your life. You’ve signed up for this.”

“Worth it,” he says, kissing you again.

You make the calls right there at the table, with the Aegean Sea behind you and the ring catching every light. Your mom cries. Your dad says “I knew it” and then makes exactly the joke Sidney predicted about calling him dad. Sidney’s mom cries too, and his dad gives him a gruff congratulations that sounds suspiciously emotional.

Your brother demands photos of the ring immediately and then sends back a string of all-caps messages about how Sidney BETTER TREAT HIS SISTER RIGHT OR ELSE.

“He’s twenty-one,” you point out, reading the messages. “What’s he going to do?”

“He plays college baseball,” Sidney says. “He could probably do some damage.”

“Fair point,” you concede.

By the time you finish making calls, the sky is fully dark, stars beginning to appear. Yiayia Eleni has brought out more wine, more baklava, and what looks like her entire extended family to congratulate you.

“This is the best day of my life,” you tell Sidney, your hand in his, the ring gleaming in the candlelight.

“Mine too,” he agrees.

“Better than winning the Stanley Cup?” You tease.

“So much better,” he says, and means it. “The Cup doesn’t kiss back.”

You laugh, that sound he loves, and lean your head on his shoulder. “What do we do now?”

“Now,” he says, “we finish our wine, eat more baklava than is advisable, and walk back to the yacht as an engaged couple.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we wake up and you’re still going to be my fiancée,” he says. “And I’m going to make you breakfast and probably stare at you wearing that ring for several hours.”

“Sounds perfect,” you say. “What about after this trip?”

“After this trip, we go home and you finish your PhD,” he says. “And we start planning a wedding. And we build our life together.”

“Our life,” you repeat, testing the words. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” he says.

Yiayia Eleni insists on more photos — of you and Sidney, of the ring, of the whole family together. She makes you promise to send copies, to come back for your anniversary, to name your first daughter Eleni.

“She’s very invested in our future,” you observe as you finally say goodbye.

“She’s been planning this since I called to make the reservation,” Sidney admits. “I think she’s been shopping for your wedding gift.”

“I love her,” you say again. “I love this place. I love this island. I love that this is our story now — how you proposed on a quiet Greek island at a family restaurant while I was still sunburned from feeding cats all day.”

“That’s very on brand for us,” Sidney observes.

“It really is,” you agree.

The walk back to the yacht is quiet, your hand in his, the ring catching the moonlight. Other couples pass by, locals heading home from dinner, and Sidney realizes this is what he wants for the rest of his life. This. You. Quiet walks and shared moments and building something that matters more than hockey ever could.

On the yacht, you insist on modeling the ring in better lighting, taking more photos, sending them to your cohort group chat and watching the messages explode.

The yacht is anchored in the quiet harbor, the island lights twinkling on the shore. You lean against the railing and Sidney wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I can’t believe I get to marry you,” you murmur.

“I can’t believe you said yes,” he counters.

“Of course I said yes,” you say, turning to face him. “You’re Sidney Crosby. You’re brilliant and kind and you make me laugh and you support my career and you planned this entire perfect trip just to propose to me in the most romantic way possible.”

“When you put it that way, I sound pretty good,” he says, smiling.

“You are pretty good,” you confirm. “Even if you are a dirty old man sometimes.”

“I’m your dirty old man now,” he points out.

“Fiancé,” you correct. “You’re my fiancé. My dirty old fiancé.”

“Even better,” he agrees.

You kiss him under the stars, wearing his ring, and Sidney thinks about how far they’ve come from that charity gala where you argued about hockey statistics. How you’ve gone from the girl who challenged him to the woman he can’t imagine living without.

“I love you,” he says against your lips.

“I love you too,” you say back. “Future husband.”

“Future wife,” he replies, and the words feel right in a way that makes his chest tight.

Later, in the cabin, you insist on sleeping with your left hand on his chest so you can see the ring even in the dark.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says fondly.

“I’m engaged,” you counter. “I’m allowed to be ridiculous about my engagement ring.”

“Fair,” he concedes.

“Tell me again,” you say sleepily. “About the ring. How you designed it.”

“I worked with a jeweler in New York,” he explains, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “Told him I wanted something unique. Something that represented you. He suggested the blue diamond because they’re rare and distinctive. The cathedral setting because of the structural elements, the way it frames the stone. We went through probably twenty designs before we found the right one.”

“It’s perfect,” you murmur. “I’m never taking it off.”

“You’re going to have to,” he points out. “For lab work. Research. When you’re washing dishes.”

“Okay, fine, sometimes I’ll take it off,” you concede. “But I’m going to hate every second of it.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I don’t like it,” you correct. “I love it. Just like I love you.”

“Love you too,” he says. “Future Dr. Crosby.”

You make a happy sound. “I didn’t even think about that. I’m going to be Dr. Crosby. That sounds so official.”

“Very official,” he agrees. “Very impressive.”

“Your wife is going to be a doctor,” you say, testing the words. “How does that feel?”

“Like I’m the luckiest man alive,” he says honestly.

You shift to kiss him properly. “We both are. Lucky, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We really are.”

You fall asleep like that, engaged and happy and planning a future that feels bigger and brighter than anything Sidney could have imagined.

The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he’s spent his whole life winning.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.

He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.

He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”

“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”

You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.

Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.

Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.

“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.

“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”

“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.

“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”

“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”

“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”

“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”

He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”

“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”

“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.

“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”

“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”

“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”

“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”

“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.

“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”

“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”

“I do now,” Dean says simply.

“People do not change that fast.”

“Watch me.”

“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.

But Dean is faster.

He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.

“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”

“The conversation isn’t over.”

Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.

You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.

He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”

“I am not scared.”

“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.

“Honest,” he corrects.

He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.

You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.

“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.

“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”

“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.

You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.

He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.

You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.

“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”

“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”

Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.

“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”

He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.

“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”

Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.

“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”

“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”

“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.

“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”

“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”

Your breath hitches.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.

When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.

“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.

“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.

He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.

“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.

Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.

You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”

“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”

“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”

“That’s right.”

Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.

Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”

“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.

Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”

He starts to move.

The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.

You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.

You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.

The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.

“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.

“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.

“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.

“Yes!” You cry out.

“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”

The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.

Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.

“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.

“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.

He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.

“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.

“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”

You shatter.

Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.

Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.

For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.

Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.

You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.

But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.

Let the game begin.

***

The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.

You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.

“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”

“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”

“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”

You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”

“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”

You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”

“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”

“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”

Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.

The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.

“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.

Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.

You turn your head slowly.

Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.

Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.

“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”

“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”

“I am watching a hockey game.”

“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”

It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.

“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”

“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”

“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”

You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”

“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”

Your breath hitches slightly.

Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.

“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”

“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”

“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”

Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.

“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.

“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”

As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.

The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.

Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”

You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.

For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.

When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.

“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”

“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”

“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”

Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”

“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”

You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.

Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.

The game is officially up.

“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”

***

The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.

You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.

“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.

“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.

The heavy double doors swing open.

The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.

Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.

He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.

“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”

Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.

Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.

“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”

“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”

“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”

“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”

Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.

And then, the doors swing open one last time.

Dean steps out into the hallway.

His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.

He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.

A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”

Dean stops.

He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.

Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.

The silence in the hallway is absolute.

Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.

You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.

“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”

Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.

“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”

Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.

He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.

Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.

Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.

“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.

“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”

“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”

“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”

“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”

“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.

“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”

Garrett actually whimpers.

You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.

Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.

“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”

The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.

And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.

“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”

The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.

Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”

“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”

“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”

“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”

“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”

“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”

“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”

As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.

You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.

Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.

They have the exact same posture.

They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.

They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.

You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.

The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.

“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”

“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”

“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”

“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.

But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.

They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.

And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.

“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”

“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”

“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.

They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.

You stand in the hallway, watching them go.

“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”

Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”

“Yes, Garrett?”

“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”

You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”

“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”

“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.

As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.

When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.

Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.

For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.

But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.

Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.

“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”

Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.

One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.

You really are going to need more deadbolts.

***

The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.

“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”

“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”

“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.

The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.

“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”

“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”

You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.

Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.

“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.

“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”

“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”

“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.

A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.

“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”

“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.

Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.

“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”

You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.

Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.

“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”

A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”

“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.

“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.

“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”

Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.

“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.

You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.

Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.

“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.

You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”

“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”

“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”

“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.

“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”

“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”

“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”

The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.

Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”

The transformation is instantaneous.

Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.

“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.

Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”

“Dean,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.

Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.

“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”

You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.

Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”

“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.

You look across the island.

LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.

LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.

“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”

“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”

You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.

***

Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.

Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.

It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.

By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.

You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.

Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.

You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.

“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.

“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”

Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.

“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”

Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”

“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”

“Which is?” Shane asks gently.

“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”

You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.

“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”

“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”

“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”

Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.

“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”

“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.

Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.

“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.

The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.

Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.

“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.

“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”

“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”

Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.

Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”

“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.

Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.

“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.

You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.

“I’m not miserable,” Dean corrects him smoothly. “I’m uninspired.”

Logan snorts from his spot on the ratty couch. “Uninspired? You literally took twins home on Tuesday.”

“That was Tuesday, Logan. It’s Friday. I’m a growing boy. I need fresh stimulation.” Dean sighs, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m going to the kitchen to find something stronger than this watered-down piss.”

“Good luck,” Tucker calls out over the music. “I think the football team raided the liquor cabinet an hour ago.”

Dean navigates the crowded hallway with the effortless grace of a guy who owns the place. He dodges a couple making out against the thermostat and sidesteps a puddle of questionable origin. As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, the noise level shifts. It’s less thumping bass and more rowdy, escalating shouts.

A crowd is gathered around the center island. Specifically, a crowd of massive, tank-like senior football players. And right in the middle of them is you.

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

You are perched on one of the barstools, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in control. Your hair falls over your shoulders in messy waves, and you’re wearing a cropped leather jacket over a tight top that leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination. But it isn’t just the way you look — though you are undeniably, breathtakingly stunning. It’s the way you’re holding court.

“You are slowing down, big guy,” you say, your voice carrying over the chanting. It’s smooth, slightly raspy, and laced with a heavy, unmistakable Russian accent.

You push a brimming shot glass of clear liquid toward a guy Dean recognizes as Meathead Mike, a defensive lineman who weighs close to three hundred pounds.

“I’m not slowing down,” Mike grunts, looking slightly green around the gills. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Pacing,” you repeat, a smirk playing on your lips. It’s a wicked, self-assured smirk. You pick up your own shot glass. “In Moscow, pacing is for the weak. We drink, or we go home to sleep. Which one are you doing, Mishka?”

Dean is instantly fascinated.

“I’m drinking,” Mike growls, snatching the glass.

You tap your glass against his. “Na zdarovye.”

You toss the vodka back effortlessly, not even a flinch crossing your features. You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the granite. Mike follows suit, but he gags halfway down, coughing violently into his elbow. His buddies groan and slap his back.

“Alright, alright, he’s done,” one of the other linebackers laughs. “Jesus, girl. What are you made of?”

“Mostly spite,” you reply, your face deadpan, though your eyes gleam with amusement.

You glance over your shoulder at a blonde girl standing nervously by the fridge. Your roommate, Morgan, the quintessential all-American girl next door whom you dragged here because you were bored.

“Morgan,” you say, snapping your fingers lightly. “Pass the bottle. I think the offense wants a turn.”

Morgan looks terrified. “Um, I think maybe we should stop? That’s, like, a lot of vodka.”

“It is barely a warm-up,” you insist, reaching over to grab the handle of Smirnoff yourself. You look at the bottle with a mix of pity and disgust.

Dean watches you, completely captivated. He knows the type of girls who hang around Briar parties. They giggle, they flirt, they bat their eyelashes at the hockey players. You are doing none of that. You look like you could buy and sell everyone in this room, and honestly? You probably could.

Six years younger than Ilya Rozanov, the infamous, cocky Boston Bruins center, you are practically a miniature version of him. Ilya brought you to the United States the second you turned eighteen, pulling you out of Moscow and away from your emotionally abusive father and older brother. He bought you a luxury apartment just off the Briar campus, filled your bank account, and told you to get an education — mostly because, in Ilya’s words, “hockey players are dumb, and we need at least one brain in the family.” Ilya spoils you rotten and guards you like a dragon hoarding gold. But right now, nobody in this kitchen knows that.

Dean takes a step forward, sliding into the gap left by one of the retreating football players.

“I don’t think you should waste your time with the offense,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the counter right next to you. He flashes you his trademark, million-dollar smile — the one that usually has girls melting into puddles. “They drop the ball when it counts.”

You pause, the vodka bottle hovering over a glass. You turn your head slowly, raking your eyes up and down Dean’s frame. You take in his messy blond hair, his sharp jawline, the casual but expensive fit of his casual sweater.

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t melt. You don’t even blink.

“And who are you?” You ask, your tone bordering on bored. “The waterboy?”

A few of the remaining football players snicker. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Not the usual reaction.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” he says, offering his hand. “I live here. Play hockey.”

You look at his hand, then back up to his face. You don’t shake it. “Congratulations on paying rent, Dean Di Laurentis. But as you can see, I am busy.”

Dean lets his hand drop, entirely unbothered. The chase is the best part, and you just handed him a massive head start.

“Busy giving the entire offensive line alcohol poisoning,” Dean notes, glancing at the bottle. “You know, that’s cheap shit. It’ll eat straight through your stomach lining.”

You snort, pouring yourself another shot anyway. “Please. I am Russian. This,” you tap the bottle of Smirnoff, “is practically flavored water.”

“A Russian,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “That explains the accent. What brings you to a sweaty college basement in Massachusetts? Boston isn’t exactly Moscow.”

“Thank God for that,” you mutter under your breath. You pick up the shot glass, twirling it between your fingers. “I go to school here. First semester. Which means I am currently trying to enjoy a party, but people keep talking to me instead of drinking.”

Dean laughs, a genuine, startled sound. “You’re a freshman? Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding court like a senior.”

“Age is a number,” you say dismissively. “Maturity is knowing when a man is trying to hit on you with terrible opening lines.”

“Terrible?” Dean clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know my opening lines have a very high success rate.”

“Then the women here have very low standards.” You toss the shot back. Again, no chaser. No wince.

Dean shakes his head in amazement. “Okay, color me impressed. You’re completely unbothered by that.”

“I am unbothered by most things,” you reply. You slide off the barstool, landing lightly on your feet. You’re a few inches shorter than Dean, but the way you hold yourself makes you seem taller. You have this undeniable, gravitational pull.

You turn to your roommate. “Morgan. Are we having fun yet, or do you want to go?”

Morgan jumps, startled to be addressed. “Um! I’m having fun! But, uh, maybe no more shots?”

“Fine. No more shots.” You look back at Dean. “See? I am very compromising. A delight to be around.”

“I can tell,” Dean says, his eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. “But you know, you never told me your name.”

“I did not,” you agree.

Dean waits a beat. “Are you going to?”

“No.”

Dean laughs again. He loves this. He is completely, hopelessly intrigued. You are stunning, sharp-tongued, and just the right amount of a bitch. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Come on. Give me something. A fake name? A nickname?”

“You can call me when you have better vodka,” you deadpan. You step around him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down Dean’s spine.

“Hey, wait,” Dean says, turning to follow you as you start walking toward the living room. “At least tell me what you’re studying. Let me guess. Business? Political science?”

You don’t stop walking, but you glance back over your shoulder, a patronizing smile on your lips. “Do I look like I want to wear a pantsuit and argue in a boardroom?”

“You look like you’d win every argument,” Dean fires back effortlessly.

“Obviously. But I don’t need a degree for that.” You weave through the crowd with expert precision.

Dean keeps pace, ignoring the people calling his name. “So what is it then? Art history? Bio?”

“You ask too many questions for a hockey player,” you tell him. “Aren’t you supposed to just grunt and hit things?”

Dean grins, stepping directly into your path to force you to stop. “I can do that too, if you’re into it.”

You look up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. It’s a purely assessing gaze, like you’re weighing his worth on a scale and finding him somewhat lacking, but not entirely useless.

“You are very confident,” you note.

“I have reason to be,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, turning rougher, more intimate. “I’m a good guy to know around here. I throw the best parties. I know the best places to eat. I can get you out of that dorm and into places you actually want to be.”

“I do not live in a dorm,” you say smoothly. “And I go wherever I want to go.”

Dean’s grin widens. “An off-campus freshman. Interesting. Who’s funding that? Rich daddy?”

A shadow crosses your face so fast Dean almost misses it. The mention of your father in Moscow hits a nerve, pulling at the dark memories Ilya dragged you away from. Your jaw tightens.

“Not my father,” you say, your voice suddenly cold enough to freeze hell over. “My brother.”

Dean instantly realizes he stepped on a landmine. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”

“You are making assumptions,” you correct him sharply. You take a step back, the playful banter completely evaporating from your posture. You look at Morgan, who is hovering a few feet away. “We are leaving.”

“Wait,” Dean says, reaching out instinctively. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the warm, soft skin.

You freeze. You look down at his hand on your wrist, and then slowly bring your eyes back up to meet his. The look you give him is so lethally calm it actually makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.

“Remove your hand,” you say softly.

Dean lets go immediately, holding both hands up in surrender. “My bad. I’m sorry. Seriously.”

You brush off your sleeve, even though he barely gripped you. You are Ilya’s sister through and through, you don’t take shit from anyone, especially not pretty-boy athletes who think they own the world.

“Do not touch me again,” you say.

“I won’t,” Dean promises, and he means it. He watches as you turn on your heel and stalk toward the front door, Morgan trailing anxiously behind you.

“Hey!” Dean calls out, unable to help himself. He takes a few steps after you. “Can I at least get your number? To apologize properly?”

You stop at the front door and look back at him. The coldness has receded a bit, replaced by that same haughty, amused superiority from the kitchen.

“You do not need my number, Dean Di Laurentis,” you call back over the thumping bass of the music. “You are clearly used to girls making things easy for you.”

“And you’re not going to?” Dean asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You smile — a full, devastatingly gorgeous smile that hits Dean like a physical blow to the chest.

“I do not make anything easy for anyone,” you say.

With that, you open the front door and step out into the cool September night, pulling it shut behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The party rages on around him, people bumping into his shoulders, girls laughing in his direction, but he doesn’t notice any of it. He is staring at the closed front door, his mind completely blank except for the echo of your heavy Russian accent and the sharp, burning realization that he needs to see you again.

Garrett appears out of the crowd, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey man, who was that? She completely ghosted you.”

“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs, still staring at the door. “But I’m going to find out.”

Garrett laughs. “Looked like she was about to rip your throat out.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, entirely genuine smile spreading across his face. He finally turns to look at his teammate, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce energy. “I think I’m in love.”

***

Outside, the air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin. You pull your leather jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down the sidewalk, the rhythmic click of your boots echoing in the quiet street.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps, rushing to keep up with your long strides. “Are you insane? Do you know who that was?”

“Some guy named Dean,” you say dismissively, checking your phone. A text from Ilya sits on the lock screen: Are you home? Drink water. Lock door. Love you.

“Not just some guy!” Morgan insists, practically vibrating with anxiety and awe. “That’s Dean Di Laurentis! He’s, like, Briar hockey royalty. He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, and he literally never gets turned down. You just rejected the hottest guy on campus!”

“He is arrogant,” you reply, typing a quick reply to Ilya: I am fine. Going home now. Do not be annoying.

“Well, yeah, they all are!” Morgan huffs. “But he was so into you! Why did you blow him off?”

You slide your phone back into your pocket and look at Morgan. You like her — she’s sweet and harmless — but she clearly doesn’t understand how the world works. At least, not your world.

“Because, Morgan,” you say patiently, your Russian accent softening in the quiet night air. “Men like that are used to getting what they want the moment they want it. They think the world is a vending machine. You put in a little charm, and a woman falls out.”

“And you’re not a vending machine,” Morgan finishes, nodding slowly.

“Exactly.” You smile, looking ahead down the dimly lit street toward your luxury apartment building. “I am the prize. If he wants me, he is going to have to work for it. And I am going to make him work very, very hard.”

You know exactly what you’re doing. You saw the look in Dean’s eyes when you walked away. The shock, the frustration, the desperate, clawing hunger. It’s the exact reaction you wanted.

Ilya taught you a long time ago that on the ice, you never let the opponent know your next move. You make them chase you. You make them exhaust themselves trying to figure you out, and then, when they’re completely off balance, you strike.

Dean Di Laurentis thinks he’s a player. He thinks this is a game he knows how to win.

But as you walk back to your apartment, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips, you know one thing for absolute certain.

He has absolutely no idea who he is playing with.

***

The sharp, scraping sound of steel biting into ice is the first thing that actually makes you feel like you can breathe since you landed in America.

You sit in the third row of the arena, the chill of the rink seeping through your designer sweater, and you close your eyes for just a second. The smell of the cold, the faint metallic tang of sweat and Zamboni fumes — it’s universal. It smells like Moscow. It smells like the freezing, dilapidated local rinks where you used to sit huddled in a thick coat next to your mama, her gloved hands wrapped around a paper cup of awful coffee, watching a scrawny, angry little Ilya learn how to check kids twice his size into the boards.

Hockey is in your blood just as much as it is in Ilya’s. Before your mother passed away, the rink was your sanctuary. It was the only place your father didn’t care to go, which meant it was the only place you, Ilya, and your mama were truly safe. Now, there are very few things in this world you genuinely love: Ilya, expensive clothes, fast cars … and this.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Morgan complains loudly over the roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your memories. She is shivering beside you, holding a foam finger she bought at the concession stand. “Why are they hitting each other so much? Isn’t the puck over there?”

“It is a forecheck,” you say, not taking your eyes off the ice. “They are establishing physical dominance to force a turnover in the defensive zone. Keep up.”

“I thought we were just here to look at hot guys,” she mutters, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

“You are here to look at hot guys,” you correct her smoothly. “I am here because I appreciate the sport.”

And you do. But as you watch the Briar Hawks cycle the puck in the offensive zone, your eyes inevitably track back to number sixty-six. Dean Di Laurentis.

You haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. You haven’t texted him, and since you didn’t give him your number, he hasn’t texted you. But on the ice, he is impossible to ignore. For a guy who spends his weekends trying to charm freshmen out of their clothes, he is undeniably lethal on the blue line. He’s a defenseman, playing right side, and his skating is fluid, almost effortless.

“Oh, look,” Morgan gasps, pointing. “It’s Dean! He’s the guy you yelled at!”

“I did not yell at him,” you say calmly. “I simply declined his unsolicited advances. There is a difference.”

“He’s really good, isn’t he?”

You narrow your eyes as Dean receives a pass at the point. He fakes a slap shot, dragging the puck around a sliding defender, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. It clangs hard against the post and deflects out.

“He is decent,” you allow, your voice flat. “But his gap control is inconsistent, and he relies too heavily on his forehand.”

Morgan stares at you blankly. “Is that English?”

“It is hockey,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. “Which is better.”

The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, the scoreboard flashing a 4-3 victory for Briar. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the student section banging on the glass. You offer a polite, golf-clap level of applause. It was a sloppy third period. Briar let up on the gas, allowing two unanswered goals in the final ten minutes. Ilya would have been screaming on the bench if his team played like that.

“Okay, they won! Can we go now?” Morgan begs, teeth chattering. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“We can go,” you agree, standing up and brushing invisible lint off your jeans. “Your toes are weak.”

You navigate the crowded concourse, weaving through the sea of Briar hockey jerseys and drunken college students. You are halfway to the main exit, your mind already jumping ahead to the heated seats in your car, when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey! Moscow!”

You don’t stop walking. You know exactly who it is, but you are not a dog to be called.

“Hey, wait up! Come on, I know you hear me!”

Footsteps jog up behind you, and suddenly Dean is stepping right into your path, forcing you to stop or physically walk into his chest.

You pause, looking up at him slowly.

Dean is slightly out of breath, his chest heaving under a crisp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, pushed back casually, and his tie is already loosened at the collar. He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome, and the smug, triumphant grin on his face tells you he knows it.

“You know,” you say, your accent thick and unbothered, “usually, the players wait until they have left the arena to harass the fans.”

Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I saw you walking out. Had to run to catch up. I didn’t peg you for a hockey fan.”

“I am full of surprises,” you reply dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is freezing to death.”

Morgan, standing a few feet away, gives a tiny, terrified wave. Dean shoots her a dazzling smile that makes her blush furiously, before immediately turning his full attention back to you. The laser-focus in his eyes is intense. It’s the same look he had on the ice.

“So you came to watch me play,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident purr. “I’ve gotta say, I’m flattered. You played hard to get at the party, but you show up to my game? That’s a mixed signal, sweetheart.”

You let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “I came to watch a hockey game, Di Laurentis. You just happened to be on the ice. Do not flatter yourself.”

“Ouch,” Dean says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “You’re killing me here. But hey, we won. You can’t deny we put on a good show.”

“A good show?” You tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You look him up and down, your expression perfectly deadpan. “Is that what you call that third period?”

Dean blinks, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. “Uh. Yeah. We got the win.”

“You got lucky,” you correct him seamlessly. “Your team played a neutral zone trap for the first two periods, which was effective against a slower offensive line. But in the third, they adjusted their breakout, and your defense collapsed. You were scrambling.”

Dean is staring at you now. The playful, flirtatious energy completely drains out of him, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. “Wait. You actually … you know the systems?”

“I know when a team stops moving their feet,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but the hockey analysis is completely taking over. “Your forwards stopped backchecking, which left you and your partner hung out to dry on odd-man rushes. You were playing on your heels for the last ten minutes.”

Dean’s mouth opens slightly. He looks like he’s just been hit by a truck. “I … yeah. Garrett was pissed on the bench. We gave up the blue line way too easily.”

“You specifically,” you point out, tapping a finger lightly against his expensive suit jacket. “You pinched on the boards with four minutes left. It was a stupid risk. If their winger had been half a second faster, that was a breakaway, and the game goes to overtime.”

Dean swallows hard. He’s looking at you like you just sprouted a second head, but more importantly, he’s looking at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his entire life. His eyes track the movement of your finger on his chest, then snap back up to your lips.

“You saw that,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding a lot rougher.

“I have eyes,” you say dismissively. “But the real problem is your transition game. You are fast, I will give you that. But you are predictable.”

“Predictable?” Dean echoes, his competitive streak flaring up. He steps closer, closing the distance between you so that you have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m the leading scoring defenseman in the conference.”

“Because you play against college boys,” you fire back, unimpressed. “But you rely entirely on your forehand. Every time you pick up the puck behind the net, you pivot right. Every single time. You never transition to your backhand to make the breakout pass up the left wing.”

“Because my forehand is stronger,” Dean argues, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “The pass is more accurate.”

“Because your backhand is weak,” you correct him bluntly.

Silence falls between you.

Even the dull roar of the crowd leaving the arena seems to fade into the background. Dean just stares down at you, his green eyes wide, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.

He is completely silent.

For a defenseman who prides himself on his skill, being called out like that should infuriate him. It should make him defensive, angry, or at least dismissive. But you watch as a slow, dark flush creeps up his neck. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth again, heavy and hot.

Holy shit, Dean thinks. His brain has short-circuited.

He’s spent his entire life surrounded by puck bunnies. Girls who wear his jersey, girls who tell him he played great even when he knows he played like garbage, girls who only care about the post-game parties and the status of hooking up with a Briar hockey player.

And then there is you. Standing in the middle of a crowded lobby, ripping apart his blue-line transitions and calling his backhand weak with a heavy Russian accent and an expression that says you couldn’t care less if you bruised his ego.

He has never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. It’s actually a little terrifying. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, a heavy knot of pure lust coiling in his gut.

“My backhand is weak,” Dean repeats slowly, his voice dropping an octave, practically vibrating with tension.

“Very weak,” you confirm, completely oblivious to the internal crisis you are causing him. Or maybe you aren’t oblivious. Maybe you just don’t care. “If you ever make it to the pros, a smart forechecker will notice that in the first period and shut down the right side of the ice. You will be useless in your own zone.”

“Useless,” Dean whispers. He licks his lips, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, lingering smell of his body wash hits you. “God, you are brutal.”

“I am honest,” you reply, though your breath catches slightly as he invades your personal space. You hold your ground, refusing to back up. “Do you want me to stroke your ego and tell you that you are perfect, Di Laurentis?”

“No,” Dean says immediately, and he means it. “I want you to tell me everything else I did wrong.”

You pause, caught off guard for the first time. You expected him to get mad. You expected him to puff up his chest and rattle off his stats. You did not expect him to look at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest broom closet and let you dissect his entire life.

“You missed a wide-open pass to Graham on the power play in the second period,” you say, your voice a fraction softer, the air between you suddenly thick and electric.

“Keep going,” Dean murmurs, his eyes dark, his body angled entirely toward you.

“You … you over-commit on the penalty kill.” You feel a flush rising to your own cheeks now, furious at yourself for losing your composure. Why is he looking at you like that? “You chase the puck instead of holding the box.”

“What else?” Dean asks, his voice practically a gravelly whisper. He reaches out, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you, but he just rests his hand on the wall next to your head, leaning in. “Tell me my gap control is shit again.”

You swallow hard. Ilya warned you about American boys. He did not warn you about this.

“Your gap control is shit,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You lift your chin, meeting his intense gaze head-on. “And if you do not fix it, you are going to cost your team the championship.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head slightly as a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Jesus Christ. Who are you?”

“I am the girl who is leaving,” you say, ducking swiftly under his arm.

The spell breaks. You grab Morgan by the sleeve of her coat, practically dragging her toward the glass doors.

“Wait!” Dean spins around, his dress shoes slipping slightly on the tile. “Seriously! What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Moscow!”

You push through the double doors, the freezing night air hitting you like a physical wall. You don’t stop, but you look over your shoulder one last time. Dean is standing inside the lobby, framed by the bright fluorescent lights, looking after you with a mixture of desperation and awe.

“Fix your backhand, Di Laurentis,” you call back, a smirk finally breaking through your icy exterior. “Maybe then you will earn my name.”

You turn away, letting the doors swing shut behind you.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps as you speed-walk toward the parking lot. “What just happened? What was that? Was that flirting? Because it sounded like you were insulting him, but he looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”

“It was hockey analysis,” you say firmly, though your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sport.

“No, that was … that was aggressive sexual tension disguised as hockey analysis,” Morgan insists, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Y/N, I am not joking. I think you just broke Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reach your car, leaning against the cold metal door as you wait for Morgan to unlock it. You think about the look in Dean’s eyes when you called out his play. The sudden shift from arrogant playboy to entirely, intensely captivated. You didn’t expect him to care about the sport as much as the glory. You didn’t expect him to listen to you.

And you certainly didn’t expect to feel this sudden, terrifying urge to see him again.

“I did not break him,” you say softly, mostly to yourself as you pull open the passenger door. You stare out at the darkened arena one last time, the cold air biting at your cheeks.

“But I think I might.”

***

Inside the arena lobby, Dean is still standing exactly where you left him.

He feels like he’s just been hit by lightning. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. He replays the last five minutes in his head on a loop. The way your eyes flashed when you criticized his transition game. The heavy, intoxicating purr of your Russian accent. The absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating off you.

Garrett walks out of the locker room hallway a minute later, dressed in his own suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He spots Dean standing completely still in the middle of the empty concourse.

“Hey,” Garrett says, walking over and waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. “Earth to Dean. You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Dean slowly turns his head to look at his captain.

“Garrett,” Dean says, his voice totally deadpan.

“Yeah?”

“I need to run drills.”

Garrett frowns, confused. “What? Now? We just played a game, dude. We’re going to Malone’s to celebrate.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. He looks back at the doors you just walked through, that wicked, determined smile returning to his face. He has never wanted a challenge more in his entire life. He has never wanted a girl more in his entire life. “I need ice time. Right now.”

Garrett stares at him. “Are you sick? Are you concussed? What drills do you even need to run?”

Dean adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, his eyes gleaming.

“Backhand passing,” Dean says simply. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

***

The Briar University quad is a rare picture of New England perfection today. The sun is shining, the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and the temperature is hovering right around seventy degrees — an absolute miracle for early October.

Because of this, half the student body has decided that classes are optional. The sprawling green lawns are covered with students lounging on blankets, throwing Frisbees, and pretending to study.

You are one of the people pretending to study.

You sit on a plaid blanket under the shade of a large oak tree, a heavy microeconomics textbook propped open on your lap, and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses resting on your nose. You have a highlighter in one hand, but you haven’t marked a single page in twenty minutes.

It is entirely too loud to focus, mostly because of the pickup soccer game happening fifty yards away.

Normally, you would just pack up and go back to the quiet luxury of your off-campus apartment. But there is a reason you are still sitting here, pretending to read about supply and demand curves.

Dean Di Laurentis is playing soccer.

He is running around the makeshift field with his teammates along with a guy you recognize from a party as Beau, the star quarterback of the Briar football team. They are loud, obnoxious, and taking the game far too seriously for a Thursday afternoon.

“Pass it, Di Laurentis, you puck hog!” Beau shouts, jogging backward as Dean weaves the black-and-white ball between his feet.

“It’s a ball, Beau, not a puck,” Dean fires back, his footwork surprisingly nimble for a guy who spends his life on ice skates. “And maybe I’d pass if you knew how to finish a play!”

“I throw seventy-yard bombs for a living,” Beau laughs, trying to steal the ball. “I finish plenty.”

“Yeah, but your footwork is trash,” Logan calls out from across the grass. “Stick to using your hands, golden boy.”

You watch them over the top of your textbook, hidden safely behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses. Dean is wearing a grey Briar Hockey t-shirt and athletic shorts, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty, messy spikes. He is laughing, completely in his element, shouting trash talk at his friends.

And then, he turns around to jog backward, scanning the perimeter of the quad.

His eyes sweep over the crowds of students, past the girls clustered on a nearby blanket who have been practically drooling over him for the last hour, and land squarely on the oak tree.

He stops. He actually trips over the soccer ball, stumbling forward a few steps before catching his balance.

“Hey, watch it!” Tucker yells as he steals the abandoned ball. “Head in the game, Di Laurentis!”

Dean completely ignores him. He is staring straight at you. Even from fifty yards away, you can see the exact moment the cocky, playful grin melts off his face, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus he had in the arena lobby.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You simply flip a page in your textbook, pretending you haven’t noticed him at all.

“Man, it’s hot out here, isn’t it?” You hear Dean say loudly a moment later.

“It’s seventy-two,” Garrett replies, sounding thoroughly confused.

“Scorching,” Dean insists. “Absolutely boiling.”

You glance up just in time to see Dean grab the hem of his grey t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. He tosses the shirt onto the grass, running a hand through his damp hair, and stands there in the dappled sunlight.

He is built exactly the way a Division I athlete should be built. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a torso lined with sharp, defined abdominal muscles that disappear down into the waistband of his shorts. He looks like a centerfold for a fitness magazine, and he absolutely knows it.

The group of girls on the blanket nearby actually let out a collective gasp.

You, however, slowly raise an eyebrow behind your sunglasses. Really? “What are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. “Put your shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.”

“I’m cooling down,” Dean says easily, though he is looking directly at you. “Gotta let the skin breathe, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Garrett mutters.

Dean ignores them. He leaves the soccer game entirely, jogging across the grass at a slow, deliberate pace. He is making sure you have plenty of time to look. You make sure your eyes are glued firmly to the page about market equilibrium.

“Hey there, Moscow,” a smooth, slightly out-of-breath voice says a minute later.

A shadow falls over your textbook. You wait three full seconds before you slowly tilt your head up. Dean is standing at the edge of your blanket, his chest rising and falling from the run, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his stomach. He has his hands planted on his hips, flashing you that million-dollar, dimpled smile.

“You are blocking my light,” you state plainly.

Dean’s smile widens. He drops down onto the grass, sitting directly across from you on the edge of your blanket, completely uninvited.

“You’re studying,” he observes, leaning back on his elbows. He stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Econ. Boring.”

“It is only boring if you lack the intelligence to understand it,” you reply, picking up your highlighter. “Which, I suppose, explains your opinion.”

Dean barks out a laugh, entirely unoffended. “God, I missed you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the stands at practice every day.”

“I do not hide,” you say smoothly, turning a page. “And I do not attend practices. I have a life.”

“A life that involves sitting on the quad, reading a textbook, and secretly watching me play soccer?”

“I was not watching you.”

“Right. You were just staring intently in my general direction.” Dean shifts closer, the scent of fresh air, grass, and masculine sweat washing over you. It is entirely distracting. “Did you enjoy the show, at least?”

You pause. You look up from the book, sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose so you can look him directly in the eyes. You let your gaze drop down his chest, over his abs, and back up to his face.

“You took your shirt off in seventy-degree weather,” you say dryly. “It was the most obvious display of male ego I have ever witnessed.”

“Did it work, though?” Dean challenges, a teasing spark in his green eyes.

“I am not a fan of theatrics.” You push your sunglasses back up. “Put your shirt on, Di Laurentis. You look ridiculous.”

“You’re lying,” Dean murmurs. His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that he used at the arena, the one that makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up. He leans forward, closing the distance between you. “I saw the way you looked at me just now. You like the theatrics.”

Your breath hitches slightly, but before you can fire back a cutting remark, a sharp, loud ringing cuts through the tension.

Your phone, sitting on the blanket beside your leg, is vibrating. The caller ID flashes brightly in the sunlight.

You let out a soft sigh, breaking eye contact with Dean. “I have to take this.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. His jaw tightens, a flash of genuine territorial annoyance crossing his face.

“None of your business,” you say smoothly. You pick up the phone and swipe to answer, bringing it to your ear.

Dean doesn’t move. He sits right there, completely invading your personal space, watching you intently. He clearly expects you to get up and walk away, or lower your voice.

Instead, you lean back against the trunk of the oak tree and slip effortlessly into your native tongue.

“Hello, Ilyusha,” you say in Russian, your voice softening just a fraction, the sharp consonants and flowing vowels rolling off your tongue perfectly.

Across from you, Dean practically stops breathing.

His eyes widen, locking onto your mouth. He doesn’t understand a single syllable of what you just said, but the sound of it hits him like a physical blow. Your voice is huskier in Russian, deeper, and the cadence is incredibly intimate.

“Y/N. Little bird,” Ilya’s booming voice comes through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “Why did it take you three rings to answer? Are you safe? Is someone bothering you?”

You roll your eyes, though a fond smile touches the corner of your lips. “I am sitting on the grass at school, Ilya. I was reading. Nobody is bothering me.”

You glance at Dean. He is staring at you with an intensity that is bordering on feral.

“Well, except maybe one idiot,” you add, a smirk forming.

Dean shifts his weight, leaning closer. “What did you just say?” He whispers, his voice thick. “Are you talking about me?”

You ignore him.

“An idiot?” Ilya demands, his protective instincts instantly flaring. “What kind of idiot? A boy? Do I need to fly back to Massachusetts and break someone’s kneecaps? Because I have a game in Dallas tomorrow, but I can make the flight tonight.”

“Do not be dramatic,” you sigh, switching your phone to the other ear. “It is just a hockey player. He thinks he is charming.”

“A hockey player?” Ilya groans. “God, Y/N. I told you to stay away from them. They are stupid. They only want one thing. Trust me, I know. I am one.”

“I know you are,” you laugh softly. “I am handling it.”

“You better be,” Ilya grumbles. “But listen to me. You are in college. You are beautiful. You are going to have boys chasing you. I do not like it, but I cannot stop it.”

“You are remarkably self-aware today.”

“Shut up and listen,” Ilya says, though there is warmth in his voice. “I am your brother, so it is my job to threaten to kill them. But I am also realistic. If you find a boy you actually like — which is highly unlikely because your standards are terrifying — you have fun. Do you hear me? Have fun. Use protection. Make him buy you dinner.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Having your older brother give you sex-positive dating advice is always a bizarre experience.

“I am hanging up now,” you tell him, embarrassed.

“Wait, wait! Let me finish,” Ilya laughs. “If he crosses a line, you break his heart. If he makes you cry, I break his legs. It is a very simple system.”

“I understand the system, Ilyusha.”

“Good. Give them hell, little bird.”

“I always do. Good luck with the game tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too. Call me this weekend.”

You hang up the phone, tossing it back onto the blanket. You let out a breath, centering yourself, and then you turn your attention back to Dean.

You fully expect him to have a smug comment ready. You expect him to ask who you were talking to, or tease you about the foreign language.

Instead, Dean is staring at you like a starving man looking at a feast.

His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely swallowing the green of his irises. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there is a dark, heavy flush high on his cheekbones. He is leaning so far forward that his face is only inches from yours.

“Di Laurentis?” You ask, frowning slightly. “Are you having a stroke?”

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, his voice so raw and raspy it barely sounds like him.

“It was a phone call.”

“In Russian.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I am Russian. I speak Russian to my family. This is not a new development.”

“You didn’t sound like that when you spoke English,” Dean breathes, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Your voice … it dropped. It was completely different.”

“It is a different language,” you point out. “The inflection changes.”

“Do it again,” he demands softly.

You raise an eyebrow, your heart suddenly giving a hard, erratic thump against your ribs. The sheer, overwhelming wave of lust rolling off him is palpable. It is thick enough to choke on.

“Do what again?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

“Speak it,” Dean says. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away when his fingers lightly brush against the side of your knee. The touch sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up your thigh. “Say something else. Anything.”

You look at him, really look at him. You see the desperate curiosity, the absolute fascination. But beneath that, you see exactly what he is thinking.

Dean doesn’t just want to hear you speak Russian. He wants to hear you speak it in his bed. He wants to hear you whisper it in his ear when the lights are out. He wants to know what you sound like when you lose that rigid, icy control.

The realization makes the breath catch in your throat. It is intoxicating. The power you hold over this guy right now is absolute, and you both know it.

You lean forward, mirroring his posture. You let your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly, locking eyes with him.

“You are completely out of your mind,” you say in Russian, your voice a soft, husky murmur.

Dean lets out a ragged exhale, his eyes slipping shut for a fraction of a second. “God. I have no idea what you just said, but say it again.”

“No,” you say, slipping back into English. You sit back against the tree, pulling your leg away from his touch. The sudden loss of contact leaves a cold spot on your skin. “The show is over.”

“Come on,” Dean groans, running a hand over his face. He genuinely looks pained. “You can’t do that to a guy and just stop. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I told you at the party,” you remind him, picking up your highlighter and turning back to your textbook. “I do not make things easy for anyone.”

“I don’t want it to be easy,” Dean says. The playfulness is completely gone from his voice. It is replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity that makes you look up again.

He is staring at you, not with the smug arrogance of a playboy, but with the focused, unwavering determination of a D1 athlete who has his eyes on the championship.

“I don’t care how hard you make it,” Dean tells you, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in your ears. Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. If you find a boy you actually like … give them hell.

A slow, wicked smirk curves your lips.

“We will see, Di Laurentis,” you murmur.

“Yo, Dean!” Garrett’s voice echoes across the quad, breaking the heavy tension. “Are you playing or are you just going to sit there and bother the girl all day?”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m busy!” He yells back.

“We’re down a man!” Beau shouts. “Get your ass back over here!”

Dean finally tears his gaze away, looking over his shoulder at his friends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Duty calls. But this isn’t over.”

“It has not even begun,” you correct him.

Dean smiles. It’s a softer smile this time, smaller and much more dangerous. He pushes himself up off the grass, grabbing his discarded t-shirt. He doesn’t put it back on, much to the delight of the girls on the nearby blanket, but simply slings it over his shoulder.

“Have dinner with me,” Dean says, looking down at you.

It isn’t a question. It is a demand.

“I am busy tonight,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I have plans.”

“Saturday.”

“I study on Saturdays.”

“Sunday night,” Dean counters, refusing to back down. “My treat. Any restaurant in the city. You pick.”

You tap your highlighter against the page of your textbook, pretending to consider it. You are pushing him, testing the limits of his patience. Most guys would have walked away by now, their egos bruised.

Dean just stands there, waiting.

“Sunday,” you finally say, your tone conceding an inch. “But I pick the place, and you pay.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, looking like he just won the Stanley Cup. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You do not know where I live.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Dean promises, taking a step backward toward the soccer game. “See you Sunday, Moscow.”

“Do not call me that,” you call after him.

“Then give me your real name!” He shouts back over his shoulder, jogging backward.

You smile, looking back down at your textbook. You wait until he is halfway across the quad before you answer, your voice carrying easily over the grass.

“It’s Y/N.”

Dean stops. He turns around, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He points a finger at you, backing away toward his friends.

“Y/N,” Dean repeats, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He nods slowly. “Sunday, Y/N. Be ready.”

You watch him turn and jog back to the game, immediately tackling Beau to the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.

You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your textbook. Studying is officially impossible now. You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your arms as you watch the group of boys on the grass.

Dean is laughing, shoving Logan out of the way to steal the ball. He looks carefree, happy, and entirely out of your league when it comes to emotional availability. He is exactly the kind of guy Ilya warned you about. A player. A distraction.

But as Dean suddenly looks over his shoulder, catching your eye from across the field and shooting you a quick, blazing wink, you know exactly what is happening.

You are giving him hell.

And you are enjoying every single second of it.

***

The date is, annoyingly, perfect.

You expected Dean to stumble. You picked an upscale, impossibly hard-to-book French-Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of Boston — the kind of place with a six-month waiting list that you only bypassed because Ilya knows the owner. You expected Dean to look out of place, or complain about the portion sizes, or act like the typical, uncouth college athlete he pretends to be.

Instead, he showed up at your apartment building right on time, wearing a tailored black button-down that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his legs in all the right ways. He opened the car door for you. He ordered wine in flawless, unaccented French. He kept up with your sharp, biting banter effortlessly, matching you insult for insult with that constant, devastating smirk on his face.

He didn’t just survive the test. He passed it with flying colors.

“You look annoyed,” Dean observes as he steers his sleek black SUV off the highway, taking the exit back toward the Briar campus.

“I am not annoyed,” you say, looking out the passenger window at the passing streetlights.

“You’re a little annoyed,” he teases, glancing over at you. The dashboard lights cast a warm glow across his sharp jawline. “You thought I was going to embarrass myself. You thought I’d order chicken fingers and ask for ketchup.”

“I thought you would be a hockey player,” you correct him, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Instead, you were surprisingly tolerable.”

Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound that fills the quiet interior of the car. “Tolerable. Wow. I’ll have to add that to my resume right under top scoring defenseman.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Dean reaches across the center console. He doesn’t ask. He just slides his hand over yours where it rests on your thigh, lacing his long, warm fingers through yours.

Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t pull away. His palm is rough with calluses from his hockey stick, a stark contrast to the soft leather of the car seats and the smooth fabric of your slip dress. The casual intimacy of it sends a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core.

“So,” Dean murmurs, his thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “The date is over. I paid. I was charming. I didn’t embarrass you in front of the waiter.”

“Barely.”

“Where to now, Y/N?” He says your name softly, testing the weight of it. “I can take you back to your ivory tower. Or …”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, thick and heavy with implication.

You look at his hand holding yours, and then up at his profile. You can feel the electric tension radiating off him. You know exactly what he’s asking, and you know exactly what the answer is. You made up your mind somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way his eyes darkened when you laughed at one of his jokes.

“Your house is on the way,” you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is suddenly hammering against your ribs. “It would be inefficient to drive all the way to my apartment.”

The SUV actually swerves a fraction of an inch as Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He exhales a harsh, shaky breath.

“My house,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard you correctly.

“Unless you are scared your roommates are awake.”

“I don’t give a fuck if my roommates are awake,” Dean says instantly. He hits the turn signal, taking a sharp left onto the residential street that leads to the off-campus hockey house. “My door has a lock.”

The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The air in the car is so thick with anticipation you can barely breathe. When Dean finally throws the SUV into park in the driveway, he doesn’t wait for you. He is out of the car in a flash, opening your door and offering you his hand.

The house is surprisingly quiet. The usual thumping bass and smell of stale beer are absent. As Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, you see exactly one person.

Logan is sprawled on the ratty living room couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching SportsCenter on low volume.

He looks up as the door clicks shut. He sees Dean. Then he sees you.

Logan’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart between the two of you, taking in Dean’s dark, focused expression and your thoroughly unimpressed, perfectly manicured appearance.

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says slowly, lowering the spoon. “You brought a girl home.”

“Astute observation,” Dean says, not stopping as he guides you toward the stairs by the small of your back.

“No, I mean, you brought a girl home,” Logan insists, sitting up slightly. “Not a puck bunny. Not a sorority girl. You brought an actual woman who looks like she could murder you and hide the body.”

“I will not hide the body,” you tell Logan calmly over your shoulder as you start up the stairs. “I will leave it in the living room for you to clean up.”

Logan’s eyes widen. He looks at Dean with pure, unadulterated respect. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean snaps, though he is smiling as he pushes you gently up the final few steps and down the narrow hallway.

He opens the door at the end of the hall, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut behind him. The heavy click of the lock sliding into place echoes in the quiet room.

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly clean. The bed is large and freshly made, there are no clothes on the floor, and the faint scent of his expensive cedar and citrus cologne lingers in the air.

You barely have a second to take it in before Dean is right in front of you.

The playful banter is completely gone. The energy shifts so fast it gives you whiplash. He crowds you against the heavy wooden door, his hands coming up to bracket your head. He looks down at you, his green eyes completely dilated, dark and hungry.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since you yelled at me in the kitchen,” Dean whispers, his voice rough and vibrating with need.

“I did not yell at you,” you breathe.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

It is a devastating kiss. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about it. It is pure, unfiltered demand. His lips are hot, his tongue immediately parting your lips, tasting the expensive wine and sweeping inside to claim every inch of your mouth.

A sharp, electric shock rips through your body. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his black shirt. He lets out a low, guttural groan, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.

He is hard. Achingly, brutally hard against your stomach.

The realization sends a thrill of pure power straight to your head. Ilya taught you to never let anyone dictate the pace of the game. You pull your mouth away from his, leaving him chasing your lips with a frustrated sigh.

“My turn,” you say smoothly.

Before Dean can process what you mean, you grab the collar of his shirt and push. He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. You advance, pushing him again until the back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls backward onto the bed with a soft thud.

Dean looks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from your hands. He looks completely thoroughly derailed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking control,” you tell him. You step between his spread thighs, looking down at him with a wicked, predatory smile. “You are very used to running the show, Di Laurentis. But you are playing my game now.”

Dean swallows hard. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes. “Okay. Show me your game, Moscow.”

You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. He groans instantly at the friction, his hands twitching at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you. He lets you set the pace.

You reach down, your fingers deliberately slow as you start undoing the buttons of his tailored shirt. You watch his face as you work, taking in the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his jaw tightens with every agonizingly slow brush of your knuckles against his bare skin.

Once the shirt is fully unbuttoned, you push it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the sheets. You run your hands flat over his sculpted chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath his ribs.

“You are impatient,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to the center of his chest.

“I’m dying,” Dean corrects roughly. His hands come up, gripping your hips tightly. “Y/N. Please.”

“Please what?” You ask, your voice dropping into a sultry, teasing purr. You shift your weight, grinding down against his hard length right through his jeans.

Dean’s head throws back, his hips automatically bucking up against you to chase the friction. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Take it off. All of it.”

You smile. You reach down, finding the hem of your slip dress, and pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. You are wearing nothing but a matching set of sheer, black lace lingerie.

Dean stares at you. He actually stops breathing for three full seconds.

“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently. “You are … you are perfect.”

“I know,” you say confidently.

You lean down, capturing his lips again. The kiss is deep, wet, and incredibly hot. You move your hips in a slow, rhythmic grind that has Dean cursing into your mouth. He is letting you ride him, letting you dictate the rhythm, his large hands resting on your waist, guiding your movements but not forcing them.

You reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers completely steady, but before you can even undo the clasp, the dynamic shifts.

Dean’s patience completely snaps.

“Okay. You’ve had your fun,” Dean growls softly against your lips.

Before you can even react, his hands tighten on your waist. He lifts you effortlessly — like you weigh absolutely nothing at all — and in one fluid, powerful motion, he flips you.

You let out a startled gasp as your back hits the mattress. Suddenly, Dean is hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. His eyes are entirely black now, the playful, indulgent boy completely gone, replaced by something dark, dominant, and terrifyingly hot.

“You think you’re the only one who likes control?” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is a breath away from your ear. “You think you can just climb on top of me, grind against me like that, and I’m just going to lay there and take it?”

“You were doing a very good job of it,” you try to say haughtily, but your voice is suddenly a little breathless.

“I was letting you win the first period,” Dean corrects, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “But the game is mine now.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. His hands are everywhere. He unclasps your bra with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, tossing it aside. He takes your mouth again in a bruising, dominant kiss, swallowing your soft gasp as his warm, rough palm cups your breast. His thumb drags firmly over your nipple, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots straight down to your core.

You arch your back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. The icy, untouchable Russian princess act is rapidly melting under the sheer, scorching heat of his attention.

Dean breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. At the same time, his hand slides down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them down your legs.

He steps off the bed for exactly three seconds. The sound of his zipper dragging down, his jeans hitting the floor, and the tear of a foil wrapper are deafening in the quiet room.

When he comes back over you, he is completely bare, beautiful, and completely focused. He settles between your thighs, his knees pressing your legs wider.

He reaches down, his fingers finding your slick, aching center. He strokes you once, two fingers pressing deep inside, and you let out a sharp, genuine cry.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Dean groans, his voice dark with triumph. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want it,” you breathe, your accent heavy. “Do not make me wait, Dean.”

He doesn’t. He grips your hips, aligning himself with your wet heat, and pushes forward.

He fills you completely in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. You gasp, your nails digging half-moons into the hard muscles of his back as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s incredibly deep, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision swim.

Dean freezes, a low shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his body trembling over yours. “You are so tight. So incredibly tight.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hips instinctively arching up to take him deeper.

Dean’s eyes snap open. “Yes, ma’am.”

He starts to move. He pulls back almost completely before driving his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again. The friction is immediate and explosive.

“Oh!” You gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.

Dean sets a brutal, relentless pace. He isn’t rushing, but he isn’t being gentle either. Every thrust is deep, hard, and perfectly angled. He hits the exact spot that makes your toes curl with every single stroke. The skin-on-skin slap of his hips meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room, a dirty, incredibly erotic sound.

“Is this good?” Dean asks, his voice thick, thrusting hard into you. “Is my form okay for you, Moscow?”

“Shut up,” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately.

“You had a lot of opinions about my performance on the ice,” Dean taunts darkly, dropping his head to bite lightly at your neck as he pounds into you. “Critique this.”

“Dean-”

“Say my name again,” he demands, his grip on your hips tightening. He angles his hips differently, grinding hard against your clit with his pelvis as he thrusts deep inside you.

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that your brain completely short-circuits. The English language entirely evaporates from your mind.

“Bozhe moy,” you cry out, your voice fracturing.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, wild with sudden, explosive heat.

“What did you just say?” He breathes, thrusting back into you with sudden, renewed ferocity.

“Da,” you gasp, completely unable to stop yourself. The pleasure is mounting too fast, spiraling out of control. “Da, pozhaluysta.”

“Russian,” Dean groans, the sound completely animalistic. “Fuck, yes. Keep doing that. Talk to me in Russian.”

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming a rapid, punishing rhythm. You are completely lost in it, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world spins around you.

“Sil’neye,” you beg, your nails scratching down his back. Harder. “I don’t know what that means,” Dean rasps, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your collarbone. “But I fucking love it. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me in Russian.”

“Tvoya,” you sob, the word slipping out as the tension in your core finally snaps. “Ya tvoya.”

The climax hits you like a freight train. You cry out loud, your back bowing off the mattress as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure rips through your body. Your inner muscles clamp down hard around his thick length, milking him perfectly.

Dean lets out a loud, raw shout. He drives into you two more times, impossibly deep, and then completely falls apart. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably as he empties himself inside the condom, completely surrendering to you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate sound of both of you fighting to catch your breath.

Dean’s heavy weight is crushing you into the mattress, but you don’t care. You feel thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.

Slowly, the haze begins to clear. Dean shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound, and carefully rolls off to the side to dispose of the condom. When he comes back, he drops onto the mattress beside you, throwing one heavy arm and a leg over your body, pulling you flush against his side.

You rest your head on his bare chest, listening to his heart still hammering against his ribs.

“Wow,” Dean breathes into the quiet room.

“Yes,” you agree softly, your voice still a little raspy.

Dean presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of your hip. “You completely lost your mind there at the end, didn’t you?”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Liar,” Dean laughs softly. “You lost your English entirely. It was the hottest fucking thing I have ever experienced in my entire life.”

You turn your head, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. His eyes are soft now, completely completely devoid of the cocky arrogance he usually wears like armor. He just looks entirely, thoroughly captivated by you.

“You played a good game, Di Laurentis,” you tell him, your accent soft and thick in the quiet room.

Dean smiles, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Good enough for a second round?”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “Do not flatter yourself. Let us see if you can handle the conditioning drills first.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes something warm and completely foreign bloom in the center of your chest. He pulls you up slightly, capturing your lips in a soft, lazy kiss that tastes like contentment and the promise of a very long night.

“Whatever you want, Moscow,” Dean murmurs against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The house living room smells like stale pepperoni, cheap beer, and the distinct, aggressive musk of four college athletes who have been yelling at a television for the past two hours.

Dean is sprawled in the worn armchair, a long-necked bottle of Corona resting on his stomach. On the ratty couch, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes completely glued to the sixty-inch screen mounted on the wall.

It is a Tuesday night, which means the Boston Bruins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, and in this house, an NHL game is basically a religious event.

On the screen, Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins’ star center and arguably the most terrifying, arrogant, and talented player in the league, intercepts a pass at center ice. With a burst of speed that defies the laws of physics for a man of his massive size, he blows past two Toronto defensemen, dekes the goalie out of his crease, and casually roofs the puck on his backhand.

The goal horn blares through the TV speakers, shaking the floorboards of the living room.

“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, leaning forward so fast he almost knocks over his beer. “Did you see that edge work? The guy is an absolute machine.”

“It’s disgusting,” Logan agrees, shaking his head in awe. “He makes NHL defensemen look like Pee-Wee players. It’s physically embarrassing for them.”

“And there are still idiots out there who claim Shane Hollander is a better player,” Tucker snorts, reaching for a slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table. “Hollander is great, sure. He’s got the golden boy reputation. But Rozanov? Rozanov is a killer. He has zero conscience on the ice.”

“Hollander has better defensive metrics,” Garrett points out, ever the captain. “But yeah, offensively, Rozanov is in a league of his own. If I ever meet him, I think I’d actually ask him to sign my chest.”

Dean laughs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You literally have a poster of him in your bedroom, Garrett. It’s creepy. You’re twenty-two years old.”

“It’s not a poster, it’s a framed print,” Garrett corrects defensively. “And it’s about respecting greatness, Di Laurentis. Try it sometime.”

Dean just grins, leaning his head back against the armchair. He feels relaxed. Better than relaxed, actually. He feels completely, terrifyingly anchored. It’s been three weeks since that first date with you, and his life has practically flipped upside down. He spends half his nights sneaking into your luxury apartment, and the other half trying to convince you to stay at his place. You are demanding, brilliant, ruthlessly critical of his defensive zone coverage, and the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He hasn’t looked at another girl since the night you called his backhand weak.

On the TV, the broadcast cuts away from the Bruins’ bench celebrating the goal.

“An unbelievable individual effort from Ilya Rozanov,” the play-by-play commentator announces over the roar of the TD Garden crowd. “His tenth goal of the season already, and we’re not even fully into November.”

“And you know who’s loving it up there?” the color commentator chimes in. “Let’s take a look up at the Bruins’ friends and family suite.”

The camera cuts from the ice to the luxury boxes high above the lower bowl. The shot zooms in on two young women sitting in the plush front-row seats, leaning over the glass barrier to look down at the ice.

Dean’s brain instantly short-circuits.

He stops breathing. The bottle of Corona slips dangerously in his grip.

It’s you.

You are right there on the sixty-inch screen, wearing a flawless black leather jacket over a form-fitting white top. Your hair is styled in perfect waves, and you are currently in the middle of an animated, laughing conversation with the woman sitting next to you.

“Whoa,” Logan says, leaning forward. “Who are they? The one on the left is gorgeous.”

“Shut up, John,” Dean croaks, his voice cracking horribly.

The broadcast graphics flash at the bottom of the screen, highlighting the two of you.

“That’s Svetlana Vetrova on the right,” the commentator explains cheerfully. “Daughter of the legendary Soviet goaltender Sergei Vetrov. She and Rozanov grew up together in Moscow.”

The camera pans slightly, focusing entirely on your face as you laugh at something Svetlana says.

“And with her is Ilya Rozanov’s younger sister,” the broadcaster continues, the words echoing through the dead silent living room like gunshots. “She just moved to Boston this fall to attend university locally. The Rozanov siblings are famously close. Ilya practically raised her, and rumor has it he is incredibly protective.”

The TV screen shows Ilya skating back to the bench. He looks up toward the suite, pointing a gloved finger directly at you. You smile, rolling your eyes affectionately, and give him a small, sarcastic golf clap.

In the house, the silence is so heavy it could shatter glass.

Garrett’s jaw is practically on the floor. He slowly, mechanically turns his head to look at Dean.

Logan and Tucker follow suit, their eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.

Dean is frozen in the armchair. All the blood has rushed out of his face, leaving him pale and dizzy. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.

He thinks about the way he pushed you against his bedroom door. He thinks about the sheer, insane volume of highly explicit texts he has sent to your phone in the last forty-eight hours. He thinks about the massive, bruised hickey he left just below your collarbone two days ago — a hickey that Ilya Rozanov could probably see with his naked eye from center ice.

“Dean,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “Is that …”

“Yes,” Dean says hollowly.

“That’s Moscow,” Tucker confirms, sounding like he’s at a funeral. “That’s your girl.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Dean gasps out, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. “She told me her brother paid for her apartment! She never said her brother was the most dangerous player in the National Hockey League!”

“You’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov’s little sister,” Logan says, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on him. A slow, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Dean. He is going to literally kill you. He is going to break your legs with his bare hands.”

“I have a poster of her brother in my room,” Garrett says, staring blankly at the wall. “I’ve been in the same room as you two while you were making out, and I have a poster of her brother on my wall.”

“What do I do?” Dean demands, panic finally settling in. He drops the beer onto the side table and runs both hands through his hair, gripping the blond strands tightly. “Do I text her? Do I ask why she didn’t tell me? Do I change my name and move to Mexico?”

“You can’t move,” Tucker says solemnly. “Rozanov has Russian mob connections. He will find you.”

“He does not have mob connections!” Dean yells, though his voice pitches up nervously. “Does he?”

“Dude, he led the league in penalty minutes for three consecutive seasons,” Logan points out, highly unhelpful. “He shattered a guy’s jaw last year just for looking at his goalie wrong. If he finds out you — Briar’s biggest, sluttiest defenseman — are hooking up with his baby sister? You’re dead. They’ll never find your body.”

Dean stares at the television screen. The broadcast has moved on, showing a replay of the goal, but Dean can’t see the puck. All he sees is his own impending doom.

He is so incredibly fucked.

***

Two hours later, you are sitting in a private booth at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in Boston.

The post-game adrenaline is still buzzing in the air. Ilya is sitting across from you, casually dressed in a dark designer sweater that stretches tight across his massive shoulders. He has a faint, purpling bruise on his jaw from a high stick in the second period, but his mood is absolutely electric.

“I told you,” Ilya says, cutting into a massive, rare ribeye steak. “Toronto defense is weak this year. They leave the middle of the ice wide open. It is insulting.”

“You showboated on the breakaway,” you point out, sipping your sparkling water. “You did not need to go to the backhand. The five-hole was open.”

“I am an entertainer, Y/N,” Ilya replies smoothly, chewing his steak. “The fans pay a lot of money to see me play. I must give them a show.”

You roll your eyes, picking at your truffle fries. You love him, but his ego takes up ninety percent of any room he walks into. Still, the dinner is nice. Sibling bonding time is rare during the NHL season, and you cherish the moments when it’s just the two of you, speaking Russian and acting entirely normal.

“Sveta looked well,” you say, changing the subject. “I hear she is thinking of taking a job with the Bruins.”

“She is good,” Ilya nods. “She asks about you. She says you are distracted lately.”

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. You lower it back to the plate, keeping your expression completely neutral. “I am not distracted. I am adjusting to a new country and a new curriculum. Economics is demanding.”

Ilya stops chewing. He swallows, rests his forearms on the heavy mahogany table, and pins you with a dark, intensely knowing look.

“Do not lie to me, little bird,” Ilya says softly, his heavy accent wrapping around the Russian words. “You have been living here for months. You were not distracted in September. But the last three weeks? You are checking your phone during the game. You are smiling at your screen.”

“I look at memes,” you lie smoothly.

“You do not understand American memes,” Ilya shoots back without missing a beat. “So, let us skip the part where you insult my intelligence. Who is putting that smirk on your face?”

You let out a slow sigh, leaning back against the leather booth. You knew this conversation was coming. Ilya is overprotective on a good day, and completely tyrannical when it comes to the men in your life. You intentionally haven’t told him about Dean because you wanted to enjoy the early stages without your brother accidentally ending Dean’s hockey career.

“It is nothing serious,” you say carefully, sticking to Russian so the waiter passing by won’t understand. “Just a boy from the university.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly. “A boy. Does this boy play a sport?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It is highly relevant. If he is a hockey player, I need to know immediately so I can arrange an accident on the ice.”

“Ilya.” You give him a sharp, warning look. “I am nineteen years old. I am allowed to have fun. You told me to have fun.”

“I told you to have fun with respectable men,” Ilya argues, jabbing his steak knife in your direction. “Not college athletes. They are animals. They do not know how to treat a woman.”

“He treats me very well, actually,” you fire back, defending Dean instinctively. The memory of Dean’s complete devotion — both in and out of the bedroom — flashes through your mind. “He takes me to nice places. He is polite.”

“Polite,” Ilya snorts, taking a large gulp of his red wine. “Sure. And what does this polite boy think is happening between you two? Does he know it is casual? Because men like that, they get attached. They get possessive.”

“He knows,” you say smoothly, though a tiny flicker of doubt sparks in your chest. Does Dean know it’s casual? He certainly hasn’t been acting casual lately. He acts like he owns you, and worse, you find yourself letting him.

“He knows,” Ilya repeats sarcastically. He shakes his head, cutting another piece of steak. “I worry about you, Y/N. You play these games, but eventually, someone gets hurt. You cannot just keep things casual forever. Eventually, you have to commit or walk away.”

You stare at your brother. The sheer hypocrisy of his statement actually leaves you speechless for a moment.

You slowly pick up your glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid. You look at Ilya over the rim of the glass, a slow, lethal smirk curling the corners of your mouth.

“You are giving me advice on commitment?” You ask, your tone dangerously soft.

Ilya pauses, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “I am your older brother. It is my job to give you advice.”

“Interesting,” you note, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “Because as far as I can tell, you have been in a situationship for the last six years, and you still refuse to put a label on it.”

Ilya’s jaw drops slightly. The smug, overprotective older brother act completely shatters. A dark, furious blush creeps up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya says rigidly.

“Oh, please.” You take a sip of your wine, enjoying the sudden shift in power. “How is Jane?”

Ilya actually chokes on his wine. He coughs, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his mouth, his eyes watering.

You watch him without an ounce of pity. You have known about “Jane” for years. You know exactly who “Jane” is. You know that Jane is not a woman, and you know that Jane happens to be a certain golden boy captain of the Canadian national team who plays in Montreal. You know that Ilya and Shane Hollander have been hooking up in secret hotel rooms across North America for years, wrapped up in a bitter rivalry that is a very thin cover for a desperate, consuming obsession.

Ilya refuses to admit it out loud, but he knows that you know.

“Jane is fine,” Ilya grits out finally, glaring at you across the table.

“Good. Tell her I say hello,” you say pleasantly. “And tell her that if she ever breaks your heart, I will break her legs. That is the system, yes?”

Ilya stares at you. For a long, tense moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken threats and sibling stubbornness.

And then, slowly, the tension breaks.

Ilya lets out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, looking at you with a mixture of immense pride and total defeat. You really are his exact replica.

“You are a menace, Y/N,” Ilya says softly.

“I learned from the best,” you reply smoothly.

Ilya sighs, raising his glass of wine toward you in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I will stop asking about the boy from university. For now. But if he hurts you, Y/N, I am serious. I will end him.”

“He will not hurt me,” you say confidently, clinking your glass against his. “I would never give him the power to do so.”

“Za zdarovye,” Ilya murmurs.

“Za zdarovye.”

You take a sip of the expensive wine, feeling a rush of affection for your brother. You handled him perfectly. He is backed off, your secret is safe, and your casual arrangement with Dean remains uninterrupted.

But as you set your glass down, your phone buzzes in your purse.

You pull it out, glancing at the screen under the table so Ilya can’t see.

It’s a text from Dean.

Actually, it’s six texts from Dean, sent in rapid succession.

Dean: Tell me right now you’re not actually Ilya Rozanov’s sister.

Dean: Holy shit.

Dean: They showed you on the broadcast.

Dean: Garrett is hyperventilating into a paper bag.

Dean: Why didn’t you tell me?

Dean: Are you with him right now? Don’t let him look at your neck.

You stare at the screen. Your carefully constructed, compartmentalized life is suddenly colliding in real-time.

You look up across the table. Ilya is casually cutting into his steak, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening on your phone. He is relaxed, happy, and entirely unaware that his beloved little sister is sleeping with a hockey player.

You look back down at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

A tiny, wicked thrill races down your spine. The game just got a lot more interesting.

You: I am having dinner with him now.

You: Do not panic, Di Laurentis. He does not know about you. Yet.

You hit send, slide the phone back into your purse, and pick up your fork, completely unbothered.

Across town, Dean receives the text.

He stares at his phone screen for a full minute, the words burning into his retinas. The terrifying confidence of your reply does nothing to soothe his racing heart.

“Well?” Logan asks nervously from the couch. “What did she say?”

Dean slowly lowers his phone, looking at his three best friends. His expression is completely haunted.

“She told me not to panic,” Dean whispers.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Tucker nods sagely. “That’s exactly what people say right before they execute you.”

“Can I have your signed Marchand stick when you die?” Garrett asks, entirely serious.

Dean ignores them. He falls back against the armchair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is terrified. He is absolutely, completely terrified of Ilya Rozanov finding out that Dean has had his hands all over his little sister.

But beneath the terror, beneath the very real threat of physical violence, there is another feeling. A feeling that Dean can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.

He thinks about you sitting across from the most intimidating man in the NHL, calmly texting him, completely in control of the situation. He thinks about the way you challenge him, the way you speak Russian against his skin in the dark, the way you make him want to be better, faster, stronger just to earn a shred of your approval.

Dean drops his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling of the hockey house.

He is terrified. But he isn’t going to run.

“I’m keeping her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice quiet but incredibly firm.

The three guys on the couch stop talking. They stare at Dean like he has just lost his mind.

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly. “Did you hear what we just said? Her brother will end your career. He will end your life.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says, sitting forward. The panic is fading, replaced by that fierce, undeniable stubbornness that makes him the best defenseman in the conference. He grabs his beer, taking a long pull. “Let him try. I’m not letting her go.”

Logan sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to need to buy so many deadbolts.”

It’s two PM now, and you haven’t eaten since your six AM piece of toast. Haven’t moved from your desk except to refill your coffee. Haven’t so much as looked at him when he poked his head in an hour ago.

Macklin stands in the doorway now, watching you. You’re hunched over your laptop, one hand in your hair, the other highlighting something in a massive textbook. Your coffee mug is empty. There are dark circles under your eyes.

“Babe,” he says softly.

You don’t respond. You’re fully in the zone, muttering something under your breath about constitutional amendments.

“Y/N.”

Nothing. You flip a page, highlight another passage.

He tries again. “You need to eat something.”

“Not hungry,” you say, not looking up.

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“I’ll eat later.”

“That’s what you said two hours ago.”

“Macklin.” You finally look at him, and there’s exhaustion and stress in your eyes. “I really need to focus. The exam is in three weeks. Three weeks. And I still have so much to cover.”

“I know. But you also need to eat and sleep and take breaks.”

“I will. After I finish this section.”

“You said that about the last three sections.”

You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I can’t afford to take breaks right now. I’m behind schedule.”

“You’re not behind schedule. You’re ahead of schedule. You’ve been studying for months.”

“That doesn’t mean I know everything-”

“You’re going to pass.” He comes into the room, crouching next to your chair. “You’re the smartest person I know. You’re going to pass.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. I know you. And I know that you’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t take a break.”

You look at him for a long moment. Then you turn back to your laptop. “One more hour. Then I’ll take a break.”

He recognizes a dismissal when he hears one. “Okay. One hour. But I’m making you lunch.”

“Thanks.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him. In the kitchen, he makes you a sandwich, cuts up some fruit, refills your water bottle. When he brings it back to your office, you barely glance at it.

“Thank you,” you say absently, eyes still on your screen.

“Will you actually eat it?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When I finish this section.”

The sandwich sits untouched on your desk for the next forty-five minutes. Macklin knows because he checks on you three times.

On the fourth check, he’s had enough.

You’re so focused on your laptop that you don’t notice him slip into the room. Don’t notice him close the door quietly. Don’t notice him drop to his knees.

And you definitely don’t notice him crawl under your desk.

***

Macklin’s perspective from under the desk is limited but effective. He can see your legs — bare, because you’re wearing shorts and you always study barefoot — and the wheels of your office chair.

He can hear you muttering to yourself. “Okay, so for a valid contract you need offer, acceptance, consideration … but what about promissory estoppel as an exception …”

He carefully positions himself, wedging into the space between your legs and the desk. It’s tight, but he fits.

You still haven’t noticed him.

He reaches up, hands gentle on your knees, and slowly — so slowly — pushes them apart.

You startle, your chair rolling back slightly. “What-”

You look down. Your eyes meet his.

“Macklin, what are you doing?”

“Helping you take a break.” His hands slide up your thighs. “You’ve been working too hard.”

“I’m studying-”

“I know. And now you’re taking a break.” His fingers find the hem of your shorts. “Is this okay?”

You stare at him for a moment. He can see you trying to decide between sending him away and letting him stay.

“I really need to study,” you say, but your voice is weaker now.

“So study.” He tugs gently on your shorts. “I’ll just be down here. You won’t even notice me.”

“I’m definitely going to notice-”

“Then try not to.” He grins up at you. “Come on. Let me help you relax.”

You bite your lip, and he knows he’s won.

“Fine. But I’m still studying.”

“Absolutely. You keep studying.” He pulls on your shorts again. “Lift up for a second.”

You do, and he slides your shorts and underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. Then he pulls you forward in the chair, spreading your legs wider.

“Macklin-”

“Keep studying,” he reminds you. “I’m just helping you relax.”

He can see you trying to focus on your laptop, but your breathing has already changed. You’re anticipating.

Good.

He starts slow. Kisses to your inner thighs, gentle and teasing. You’re trying to type, but your fingers fumble on the keys.

“Constitutional law,” you mutter, clearly trying to refocus. “Article Three establishes the judicial branch …”

He kisses higher, closer to where you want him. Your breath hitches.

“Judicial power extends to all cases … all cases in law and …” You trail off as his breath ghosts over your center.

“Keep going,” he encourages. “You’re doing so well.”

“This is impossible-”

“No it’s not. You know this stuff.” He licks a slow stripe up your center, and you gasp. “Tell me about Article Three.”

“I, fuck—I can’t-”

“Yes you can.” He does it again, and your thighs tremble. “Come on, baby. Article Three.”

You’re trying. He can hear you trying to form coherent thoughts while he’s licking at you, tasting you, learning what makes you squirm.

“Article Three—oh god—establishes that judicial power is vested in-” You break off with a moan as he sucks gently on your clit.

“Keep going.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t. Keep going.”

“Judicial power is vested in one Supreme Court and-” Your hand flies to his hair as he works you with his tongue. “Inferior courts that Congress may establish—Macklin-”

“I’m listening.” He’s not, really. He’s too focused on the way you taste, the way you’re getting wetter, the way your hips are starting to move despite yourself.

“I can’t think when you’re doing that-”

“Sure you can. You’re brilliant. Tell me more about the judicial branch.”

“Federal judges serve during—during good behavior, which means—oh fuck, right there-”

He’s found the rhythm you like, the pressure that makes your legs shake. Your fingers tighten in his hair.

“Which means what?” He prompts, not letting up.

“Which means—it’s essentially—life tenure unless they’re impeached or-”

He slides two fingers inside you, and you actually whimper.

“Unless what?” He’s curling his fingers now, finding that spot that makes you see stars.

“Unless they—I don’t fucking know—unless they commit high crimes or—Macklin, I swear to god-”

“You’re doing so well, baby. Keep studying.”

“I am not studying. I am trying not to come on your face.”

“You can do both.”

“I really can’t—oh god-”

He can feel you getting close. Can feel the way you’re clenching around his fingers, the way your thighs are trembling. He doubles down, sucking on your clit while his fingers work inside you.

“Macklin, I’m-”

“I know. Come for me. Then we’ll go back to studying.”

“We are not—oh fuck-”

You come with a cry that you try to muffle with your hand. He works you through it, licking and sucking until you’re pushing him away, oversensitive.

When he pulls back, you’re slumped in your chair, breathing hard. Your laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity.

“Better?” He asks, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you’re more relaxed.”

You look down at him, and despite everything, you’re smiling. “I’m something.”

“Come here.” He stands, pulling you up with him. “Take a real break. Eat your sandwich. Drink some water.”

“I should get back to studying-”

“You will. After you eat. And after you let me hold you for ten minutes.” He guides you out of the office, toward the couch. “Come on. Ten minutes.”

You let him pull you down onto the sectional, curling into his side. He wraps his arms around you, and he can feel some of the tension leaving your body.

“You really do need to take breaks,” he says softly. “You’re going to burn out.”

“I know. I just—I’m scared.” Your voice is small. “What if I don’t pass? What if all this studying isn’t enough?”

“Then you take it again. But you’re going to pass. You know this stuff. You were literally reciting constitutional law while I was going down on you.”

You laugh despite yourself. “That was not reciting. That was incoherent babbling.”

“Still counts.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making me take a break. For taking care of me.”

“Always.” He kisses the top of your head. “Now eat your sandwich before I have to crawl under the desk again.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Depends on whether you eat the sandwich.”

***

You do eat the sandwich. And drink the water. And let him hold you for twenty minutes instead of ten.

When you finally go back to your office, you’re calmer. More focused, but in a healthy way.

Macklin feels like he’s done his job.

For the next few hours, he leaves you alone. Checks on you periodically, makes sure you’re drinking water, but doesn’t disturb you.

At six PM, he makes dinner. At seven, he brings you a plate.

“Dinner time,” he announces.

“Just let me finish this-”

“Nope. Dinner time means you stop studying and eat.”

You sigh but save your work. “Fine.”

You eat at the dining table together, and he asks you about what you’re studying. Lets you explain contract law and constitutional principles and all the things that are swirling in your head.

“You really do know this stuff,” he observes.

“Knowing it and being able to recall it under pressure are different things.”

“You’ll be able to recall it. You’re good under pressure.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen you. In mock trials, in that presentation you did for the Sharks legal team, every time you’re put on the spot. You’re good under pressure, Y/N.”

You look at him, and there’s something soft in your eyes. “Thank you for believing in me.”

“Always. It’s easy when you’re this incredible.”

After dinner, you go back to studying. But this time, you take breaks. Every hour, you come out for water, to stretch, to talk to him for a few minutes.

At ten PM, he makes the executive decision that you’re done for the day.

“Come on,” he says, appearing in your office doorway. “Bedtime.”

“I need to review-”

“You can review tomorrow. Tonight, you need sleep.”

“Macklin-”

“Bed. Now.” He uses his firm voice.

You respond immediately, standing up. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

In the bedroom, he helps you change into pajamas. You’re so tired you’re practically swaying on your feet.

“When’s the last time you slept a full eight hours?” He asks.

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s a problem.”

“I know. After the exam-”

“No. Starting tonight.” He guides you to bed. “You’re going to sleep. Full eight hours.”

“But-”

“No buts. Sleep.”

You curl up under the covers, and he wraps himself around you.

“Macklin?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Now sleep.”

You do, almost immediately. He feels you relax against him, your breathing evening out.

He stays awake a little longer, thinking.

The Bar exam is in three weeks. You’re going to pass — he has no doubt about that. But he also knows the next three weeks are going to be hard. You’re going to push yourself too hard, stress yourself out, forget to take care of yourself.

But he’ll be here. Making sure you eat, making sure you sleep, making sure you take breaks.

Even if it means crawling under your desk.

***

The next day follows a similar pattern. You’re up early, in your office by seven. By noon, you haven’t eaten or taken a break.

Macklin makes you lunch, brings it to your office. You’re so focused you barely acknowledge him.

He sighs. Looks at your desk. Looks at you.

Then he drops to his knees again.

“Macklin-” you start as he crawls under the desk.

“Keep studying,” he says, spreading your legs. “I’m just here for moral support.”

“This is not moral support—oh-”

He’s already pulling down your sleep shorts, already pressing kisses to your thighs.

“Tell me about … what are you studying?”

“Criminal law,” you gasp as his mouth finds you. “Oh god-”

“Tell me about criminal law.”

“There are different—different types of intent-” You break off as he licks at you. “Purposeful, knowing, reckless, negligent-”

“Good. Keep going.”

“Purposeful is when—fuck—when the defendant’s conscious objective is to engage in certain conduct-”

He slides his fingers inside you, and you lose your train of thought entirely.

“And knowing?” He prompts.

“I can’t—you’re evil-”

“I’m helpful. You’re studying.”

“I’m trying to study while you’re—oh god, right there-”

He works you with his mouth and fingers until you’re trembling, until you’re gripping the edge of the desk, until you’re coming with his name on your lips.

And then he does it again the next day. And the next.

It becomes part of your study routine. You work for a few hours, he crawls under the desk, you try to recite legal principles while he makes you come apart.

“This is insane,” you say one afternoon, breathless and flushed. “This is not a normal study method.”

“Is it working?”

“I … yes, actually. Weirdly, yes.”

“Then it’s not insane. It’s effective.”

And it is effective. You’re calmer, more focused. You take breaks without him having to force you. You eat, you sleep, you let him take care of you.

The week before the exam, he makes a rule: no studying after eight PM.

“But-”

“No. You know this material. Cramming at this point is just going to stress you out.”

“Macklin-”

“Do you trust me?”

You pause. “Yes.”

“Then trust me on this. No studying after eight. We’re going to have dinner, watch a movie, go to bed early. You need rest more than you need more practice questions.”

You don’t argue. And he can see the relief in your eyes — like you’ve been waiting for someone to give you permission to stop.

***

The night before the exam, you’re a mess of nerves.

“I’m going to forget everything,” you say, pacing the living room. “I know I am. I’m going to sit down and my brain is going to be completely blank.”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you’ve been studying for months. Because you know this material backwards and forwards. Because you’ve been reciting legal principles while I’ve had my head between your thighs and you haven’t missed a beat.”

That gets a small laugh out of you. “That’s true.”

“So you’re going to be fine.” He pulls you onto the couch, into his lap. “You’re going to walk in there tomorrow, and you’re going to kill it. And then you’re going to come home, and I’m going to take you to that fancy restaurant you like, and we’re going to celebrate.”

“What if I don’t pass?”

“Then we’ll figure it out. But you will pass. I know it.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you’re brilliant. And hardworking. And you don’t give up. Ever.” He kisses you softly. “You’re going to be an incredible lawyer. This exam is just a formality.”

You rest your forehead against his. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now come on. Early bedtime. You need to be well-rested.”

In bed, you can’t sleep. You’re tossing and turning, clearly anxious.

“Hey,” Macklin says softly. “Come here.”

You curl into him, and he can feel how tense you are.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“What if I’m not good enough?”

“You are good enough. You’re more than good enough.”

“What if-”

“No more what-ifs.” He tilts your chin up to look at him. “You’ve done everything you can to prepare. Now you need to trust yourself.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know. And I’m so proud of you. For how hard you’ve worked, for how much you’ve sacrificed. No matter what happens tomorrow, I’m proud of you.”

You’re crying now, quiet tears sliding down your cheeks. He wipes them away gently.

“You’ve got this,” he whispers. “You’ve always had this.”

“Thank you,” you whisper back. “For everything. For taking care of me, for making me take breaks, for believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

You kiss him then, slow and sweet and full of emotion. When you pull back, you’re calmer.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. I can do this.”

“You can definitely do this.”

“Early bedtime?”

“Very early bedtime.”

You settle against him, and this time, you fall asleep within minutes. He holds you, thinking about the past few weeks. About study breaks under the desk and late-night pep talks and making sure you ate and slept and didn’t work yourself to death.

About loving someone enough to take care of them even when they won’t take care of themselves.

You’re going to pass this exam. He knows it with absolute certainty.

And when you do, when you come home celebrating, when you finally let yourself believe that you did it-

He’s going to spend the entire night showing you exactly how proud he is.

But for now, he holds you while you sleep, and he thinks about how lucky he is to love someone so brilliant, so hardworking, so determined.

His brilliant, beautiful, soon-to-be lawyer.

You roll over, burying your face in his pillow. It smells exactly like him — a mix of clean laundry, expensive cologne, and something distinctly male. You let out a soft, contented sigh. For your entire life, your brain has been a chaotic storm of equations, schedules, and unrelenting pressure. But right now, in this bed, your mind is blissfully, entirely quiet.

You sit up, pushing your tangled hair out of your face. You look around the room, expecting Garrett to walk through the door with that lopsided, heart-stopping grin. But the room is silent.

Figuring he must be downstairs, you slide out of bed. Your bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, sending a shiver up your spine. You look down at the black silk slip dress pooled on the floor next to your lace underwear. You definitely aren’t putting that back on for a Saturday morning breakfast.

Instead, you walk over to the chair in the corner of the room, grabbing a faded gray Briar Hockey t-shirt and a pair of black gym shorts that clearly belong to him. You pull the shirt over your head — it completely swallows your frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh. You step into the shorts, having to roll the waistband down three times just to get them to stay on your hips.

You walk out into the hallway, your bare feet padding softly against the wood.

As you approach the top of the stairs, you hear the muffled sounds of a television and the distinct clatter of pans. Then, the loud, booming voices of Garrett’s roommates.

You pause on the top step, a sudden wave of shyness hitting you. You’ve never done the “morning after” thing before. You have no idea what the protocol is. Do you walk into the kitchen and introduce yourself? Do you hide upstairs until Garrett comes to get you?

You take a tentative step down.

“Look who’s alive,” a voice — you think it’s Logan — calls out over the sizzle of bacon. “I was starting to think you suffocated in there, G.”

“Very funny,” Garrett’s voice replies. It sounds rough, sleep-heavy, and it sends a pleasant shiver down your arms.

You take a few more steps down the stairs, hiding just out of sight behind the wall that separates the staircase from the open-plan kitchen and living area. You lean against the plaster, biting your lip to suppress a smile. You’ll just wait a second, let them finish their banter, and then go say good morning.

“I’m making eggs,” Dean announces. “You want eggs, loverboy? Or are you too busy mourning the impending loss of your chest hair?”

You frown slightly, your brow furrowing in confusion. Chest hair?

There’s a beat of silence in the kitchen. Then, Garrett sighs. It’s a heavy, exhausted sound. “I’m not losing any chest hair, Dean. I’ll take three eggs. Scrambled.”

Tucker lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Wait. Wait a minute. Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Garrett says, his tone completely flat.

“You actually did it?” Logan asks, his voice rising in disbelief. “You got her in bed?”

Your heart physically stutters in your chest. Your hand flies up to grip the wooden banister, your knuckles immediately turning white. The smile completely drops from your face.

“Yeah,” Garrett says simply. “I did.”

“No way,” Dean laughs, the sound bouncing off the kitchen walls like a physical slap. “The lamppost girl? The impenetrable fortress of aerospace engineering? You got her to put the textbooks down long enough to sleep with you?”

“I told you guys,” Garrett snaps, his voice suddenly sharp, carrying an edge of defensive irritation. “I told you I could pull any girl on this campus if I wanted to. You’re the ones who didn’t believe me.”

“Man, I should have never doubted the Graham magic,” Logan says, laughing loudly. “I owe you fifty bucks, Dean. The captain retains his crown.”

“A bet is a bet,” Tucker adds, his southern drawl dripping with amusement. “I gotta admit, G, I didn’t think you had the patience for someone that … intense. We gave you until the end of the semester, and you knocked it out before Thanksgiving. Well played.”

“It took some work,” Garrett says. You can hear the scrape of a barstool as he sits down. “But it’s over now. So, the only ones getting a chest wax are the three of you. Book the appointments.”

The air in your lungs turns to pure ash.

You can’t breathe. You literally cannot draw a single breath into your body. The world around you begins to spin, the edges of your vision blurring with dark spots.

A bet.

It was a bet.

Every single moment of the last month flashes through your mind with violent, devastating clarity. The chair pulling out in the library. The astronaut joke. The coffee and muffins. The lunch at Panera where you laid your soul bare about your scholarship and your childhood in Florida.

The zinnias. God, the zinnias.

He didn’t care about the first flower in space. He didn’t care about your dreams, or your fears, or the fact that you finally felt seen by someone. He cared about his ego. He cared about his chest hair. He cared about proving to his frat-boy friends that he could conquer the campus nerd.

And you gave him your virginity.

You practically begged him for it. You apologized to him for being inexperienced. You let him touch you, let him break down every single wall you spent three years building, all so he could walk downstairs and brag to his friends about winning a game.

A wave of nausea hits you so hard you actually have to slap your hand over your mouth to keep from gagging. The humiliation is a living, breathing thing, wrapping its claws around your throat and squeezing until you feel like you’re going to die right there on the stairs.

“Honestly, I feel a little bad for her,” Dean says casually over the sound of a spatula scraping a pan. “Did she even know what hit her?”

“Drop it, Dean,” Garrett says, his voice suddenly dropping an octave, sounding dangerous. “Just shut the fuck up about it. It’s done.”

It’s done.

You don’t think. The flight response in your brain overrides everything else. You don’t turn around to go back to his bedroom. You don’t go back for your black slip dress, or your lace underwear, or your purse, or your shoes. The thought of being in his room for even one more second makes your skin crawl with absolute revulsion.

You pivot on your bare feet. You practically fly down the remaining three steps, your eyes locked onto the front door at the end of the hallway.

You don’t care who sees you. You don’t care what you look like. You reach the heavy wooden door, grab the brass handle, and yank it open.

The hinges let out a loud, obnoxious squeal, and the door slams shut behind you with a deafening crack that echoes through the entire house.

The freezing November air hits your bare legs like a spray of ice water, but you don’t stop. You leap off the porch steps, your bare feet hitting the unforgiving gravel of the driveway. The sharp stones bite into your soles, but the physical pain doesn’t even register against the agonizing, shattering pain in your chest.

You hit the sidewalk and you run.

You run blindly, your vision completely clouded by thick, hot tears. You don’t know where you’re going. You just know you have to get away from that house. Away from the smell of his cologne on the shirt you’re wearing. Away from the memory of his hands on your skin.

You sprint past rows of off-campus houses, the oversized hockey shirt flapping in the biting wind. A few students walking on the sidewalk turn to stare at the girl running barefoot in men’s clothes, tears streaming down her face, but you ignore them. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, pushing your burning lungs to their absolute limit.

You cross two streets, ignoring the blare of a car horn, and duck into the small, wooded park that borders the edge of the campus.

You push through the treeline, your bare feet snapping twigs and crunching over dead autumn leaves, until you reach the tall chain-link fence at the back of the park.

You hit the metal mesh hard. Your hands reach out, curling through the cold metal links, and your knees completely buckle.

You collapse onto the frozen ground, curling in on yourself as the first sob tears its way out of your throat. It’s an ugly, guttural sound. It doesn’t even sound like you. You press your forehead against the cold metal of the fence, wrapping your arms around your stomach as you cry.

You cry for the girl who thought she was finally good enough. You cry for the trust you so foolishly handed over to a boy with a charming smile and a letterman jacket. You cry because, despite everything your logical, mathematical brain told you to do, you let yourself fall for him.

And he played you. He played you flawlessly.

***

Back in the kitchen, the sound of the front door slamming shut sounds like a gunshot.

Garrett freezes. The coffee mug he was lifting to his mouth stops dead in mid-air.

Dean turns away from the stove, spatula in hand, blinking in surprise. “Who the hell just left?”

Garrett’s heart stops. It actually, physically stops beating in his chest. A sickening, icy dread pours down his spine, paralyzing his limbs.

No.

He slams the coffee mug down on the counter so hard the ceramic chips, hot brown liquid sloshing over the edges. He kicks the barstool back, the wood screeching against the floor, and sprints out of the kitchen.

“Whoa, G, what’s-” Logan starts, but Garrett ignores him.

He hits the hallway, his eyes immediately darting to the front door. It’s closed. He spins around, taking the stairs two at a time, his pulse roaring in his ears so loudly it sounds like a freight train.

Please. Please be in the bathroom. Please be asleep.

He bursts into his bedroom.

The bed is empty. The comforter is thrown back, the sheets still bearing the indentation of your body.

His eyes dart frantically around the room. Your black silk dress is still pooled on the floor next to your underwear. Your purse is still sitting on his desk. Your leather ankle boots are neatly placed by his closet.

The only things missing are his gray t-shirt and his gym shorts.

“Fuck,” Garrett breathes, the word a desperate, broken prayer. “Fuck, fuck, no.”

He runs his hands through his hair, gripping the roots hard enough to hurt. He turns around just as Dean, Logan, and Tucker appear in the doorway, all three of them looking incredibly confused.

“Dude, what is going on?” Dean asks, stepping into the room. He looks at the dress on the floor, then to the empty bed. “Did she leave?”

“Did she leave?” Garrett repeats, his voice trembling with a rage that is entirely directed at himself. “Did she leave? She heard you, you fucking idiots!”

Logan’s eyes go wide. “Heard us? What do you mean she heard us?”

“She was on the stairs!” Garrett explodes, pointing a shaking finger toward the hallway. “She heard us talking about the bet! She heard everything!”

The color completely drains from Tucker’s face. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, oh shit!” Garrett yells, kicking the leg of his desk with a violent burst of anger. The heavy wood groans under the impact. “She ran out the front door! She didn’t even take her shoes! She’s running around campus barefoot in the freezing cold because she heard me bragging about a stupid fucking bet!”

“Garrett, man, calm down,” Dean says, raising his hands defensively. “We didn’t know she was listening. And besides, it was just a bet. You won. You’ll find someone else to-”

Garrett crosses the room so fast Dean doesn’t even have time to blink. He grabs the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, slamming him backward into the doorframe.

“Do not say that!” Garrett roars, his face inches from his teammate’s, his eyes blazing with a feral, terrified intensity. “Do not ever fucking say that to me again! She isn’t ‘someone else’! She isn’t a target! She is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I just destroyed it!”

Logan steps forward, grabbing Garrett’s arm and yanking him back. “Hey! Back off! We’re your friends, Garrett. You’re the one who agreed to the bet. You’re the one who confirmed it downstairs. Don’t put this all on us.”

Garrett rips his arm out of Logan’s grip. The fight drains out of him just as quickly as it spiked, leaving behind a hollow, cavernous ache in his chest that threatens to suffocate him.

Logan is right. It’s his fault. It is entirely, one hundred percent his fault.

He didn’t have to confirm it downstairs. He could have told them to shut up. He could have told them the bet was off. He could have walked into the kitchen and told his three best friends that he was falling in love with you.

Instead, he took the easy way out. He let his pride win. He gave them the answer they wanted just to get them off his back.

“It took some work. But it’s over now.”

The echo of his own words plays back in his mind, and he feels physically sick. To you, standing on those stairs, it must have sounded so cold. So calculated. Like you were nothing but a project he finally finished.

He thinks about last night. He thinks about the blood on the condom. He thinks about the shy, incredibly brave look in your eyes when you told him you wanted him to be your first. You trusted him with the most vulnerable part of yourself, and he repaid you by letting you listen to him treat you like a locker room statistic.

“Garrett,” Tucker says quietly, the usual southern drawl gone, replaced by genuine concern. “Look, man. Let’s just go find her. She can’t have gone far without shoes. We’ll get in the Jeep.”

“No,” Garrett says, his voice cracking. He looks at your dress on the floor. It looks so small. So abandoned. “You guys stay here. If you come anywhere near her right now, I swear to God I’ll break your jaws.”

He turns and grabs his keys off the dresser. He doesn’t bother grabbing a jacket. He just runs.

He bolts down the stairs and out the front door, the cold air hitting him like a wall. He jumps into his Jeep, throwing it into reverse and peeling out of the driveway, gravel flying behind his tires.

He drives frantically. He scans the sidewalks, the bus stops, the paths leading to the engineering building. He drives past the library, his eyes scanning every lamppost, every bench.

“Come on, Starshine,” he mutters to himself, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. “Where are you? Please.”

He checks your apartment complex. Your car is parked exactly where you left it last night, but there’s no sign of you on the stairs or near your door. He knows you don’t have a spare key hidden outside — you told him once that it was mathematically illogical to leave access to your home under a flowerpot. You don’t have your keys. You don’t have your phone.

He drives for forty-five minutes. The panic inside him turns into a cold, hard knot of despair.

He would do anything to take it back. He would wax his own chest every single day for the rest of his life. He would quit the team. He would drop out of school. He would do absolutely anything to rewind the clock to last night, to the moment in the car when he held your hand over the center console, so he could look you in the eye and tell you the truth before it ruined everything.

But he can’t.

He pulls the Jeep over onto the shoulder of a quiet street near the edge of campus, throwing the car into park. He rests his forehead against the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut as a single, hot tear escapes and tracks down his cheek.

He curses his pride. He curses his friends. He curses the stupid, fragile ego that made him agree to the bet in the first place.

He lost you.

He finally found someone who saw through the bullshit, someone who challenged him, someone who made him want to be better than the hockey robot his father designed him to be. And he broke your heart.

Garrett sits in the cold, silent car, the weight of what he’s done crushing him completely. He knows you. He knows how you operate. You build walls to survive. You calculate risks to avoid getting hurt.

He just proved every single one of your calculations right.

And he has no idea how he is ever going to fix it.

***

The first week is a blur of complete, suffocating numbness.

You stop going to the library. The thought of walking up to the third floor, sitting at your usual table, and staring at the empty wooden chair across from you makes your throat close up. Instead, you barricade yourself in your apartment. You skip your morning lectures, something you haven’t done once in three years at Briar.

You sit at your small kitchen table, staring at your laptop screen. The cursor blinks rhythmically at the end of a half-finished paragraph for your aerodynamics paper. It’s been blinking for two hours.

You haven’t typed a single word.

“Hey,” a voice says gently, breaking through the silence.

You blink, slowly pulling your eyes away from the screen. Sarah, your roommate, is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She’s wearing her nursing scrubs, holding a takeout bag from the diner down the street. She looks at you with a mixture of pity and deep concern that makes you want to crawl under the table.

“I brought you a turkey club,” Sarah says, walking over and setting a styrofoam box next to your laptop. “With extra bacon. Your favorite.”

“Thanks,” you say, your voice raspy from disuse. “I’m not really hungry right now. I’ll put it in the fridge.”

“Y/N, you said that yesterday about the pasta I made, and the day before that about the pizza.” Sarah pulls out a chair and sits down, crossing her arms. “You look exhausted. There are literal dark circles under your eyes. You need to eat something.”

“I have to finish this paper,” you lie, turning back to the blinking cursor. “It’s thirty percent of my grade.”

“You haven’t moved from that spot since I left for my clinicals at six this morning,” Sarah points out softly. “Talk to me. Please. Did something happen with that hockey guy? Garrett?”

Hearing his name feels like taking a physical blow to the ribs. Your breath hitches, and you immediately squeeze your eyes shut, fighting back the sudden burn of tears. You haven’t told Sarah what happened. You haven’t told anyone. Saying it out loud would make it real. It would mean admitting that you were stupid enough to fall for a prank.

“We just … we aren’t talking anymore,” you manage to say, keeping your eyes glued to the screen. “It’s fine. It was a distraction. I don’t have time for distractions.”

Sarah reaches out, gently placing her hand over yours on the keyboard. “You are allowed to be upset, you know. You don’t have to be a robot all the time.”

“I’m not a robot,” you snap, pulling your hand away faster than you intend to. The sudden flash of anger dies instantly, leaving you feeling hollow and exhausted. “I’m sorry. I just … I need to work.”

Sarah sighs, standing up. “Eat the sandwich, Y/N. Please.”

She leaves the kitchen. You stare at the styrofoam box for a long time. Eventually, you open it. The smell of the turkey and bacon wafts up, but your stomach violently churns in response. You close the box, push it aside, and rest your forehead against the cool edge of the kitchen table.

***

Across campus, Garrett is systematically destroying himself.

It’s 5:00 AM on a Monday. The rink is completely empty, the overhead lights buzzing loudly in the cavernous space.

Garrett is at center ice, completely alone. He’s running bag skates. Goal line to the blue line, back to the goal. Goal line to center ice, back to the goal. Over and over and over again. His lungs are burning, screaming for oxygen, and his legs feel like they’re made of lead, but he refuses to stop.

He hits the boards, the fiberglass rattling under the impact, and immediately pivots, his skates carving violently into the ice as he launches himself forward again.

He needs the burn. He needs the physical agony to drown out the relentless, echoing loop of the front door slamming shut.

“Graham! What the hell are you doing?”

Garrett ignores the voice echoing from the tunnel. He hits the far blue line, turns, and sprints back.

A loud, shrill whistle pierces the air.

Garrett finally slows to a halt, his chest heaving violently, sweat dripping from his nose onto the ice. Coach Jensen is standing by the bench, a heavy winter coat thrown over his pajamas, holding a clipboard.

Dean and Logan are standing right behind him, both looking deeply uncomfortable.

“I asked you a question, Graham,” Coach Jensen barks, stepping onto the rubber matting near the door. “Ice time doesn’t start for another two hours. Why are you out here running yourself into the ground?”

“Just getting some extra reps in, Coach,” Garrett pants, skating slowly toward the boards.

“Extra reps?” Jensen raises an eyebrow, looking Garrett up and down. “You look like you’re about to puke. I appreciate the dedication, Graham, but not if you tear a groin muscle before our series against Harvard this weekend. Get off the ice. Hit the showers.”

“I’m fine,” Garrett argues, his jaw tightening. “I want to run a few more.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Jensen snaps. “Get. Off.”

Garrett glares at the ice, but he complies. He skates to the door, stepping off the rink and pulling his helmet off. He barely looks at Dean and Logan as he walks past them toward the locker room.

Logan reaches out, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Hey, man. You didn’t come home last night. Where were you?”

“I slept in my Jeep,” Garrett mutters, violently shrugging Logan’s hand off. “Don’t touch me.”

“Garrett, come on,” Dean says, stepping into his path. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ve been a ghost for two weeks. You’re barely speaking to us, you’re sleeping in your car, and Tucker said you completely blew off your sports management midterm.”

“I said I’m fine.” Garrett’s voice is a low, dangerous growl. “Worry about your own grades, Dean.”

“We’re worried about you,” Logan says firmly. “Look, we know you’re messed up over the Y/N thing. We feel like shit about it too. We tried to go to her apartment to apologize, but she wouldn’t even open the door.”

Garrett’s head snaps up, pure, unadulterated rage flashing in his eyes. He shoves Logan hard in the chest, sending his teammate stumbling backward into the cinderblock wall.

“I told you to stay away from her!” Garrett roars, the sound echoing through the empty concrete hallway. “I told you not to go near her!”

“Hey! Back off!” Dean yells, stepping between them and shoving Garrett back. “He was just trying to fix it! We’re trying to help you!”

“You want to help me?” Garrett spits, his chest heaving. “Stay the fuck away from her. And stay the fuck away from me.”

He turns and storms into the locker room, slamming the heavy metal door shut behind him. He walks straight to his locker, sits heavily on the wooden bench, and drops his head into his hands.

His ribs are aching from a brutal hit he took in practice yesterday. His legs are trembling from exhaustion. But none of it hurts worse than the silence that greets him every time he checks his phone.

He’s called you twenty times. Left a dozen voicemails. Sent text after text begging for five minutes to explain. Every single one has been met with absolute, punishing silence.

Garrett closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into them until he sees stars. He deserves this. He deserves every second of it.

***

By the third week, your fortress is officially crumbling.

You are sitting in the front row of your fluid dynamics lecture. The professor is writing a complex equation on the massive whiteboard, droning on about viscosity and shear stress. Normally, your hand would be flying across your notebook, capturing every single variable.

Right now, your notebook is completely blank.

You’re staring blankly at the whiteboard, but the numbers look like a foreign language. Your brain feels like it’s packed with cotton. You haven’t slept more than three hours a night in weeks. Every time you close your eyes, you feel his mouth on yours. You hear the way his voice hitched when he called you beautiful. And then, inevitably, you hear the mocking laughter in that kitchen.

“Y/N?”

You blink, slowly turning your head. Ben, your lab partner, is leaning across the aisle, waving a hand in front of your face.

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“Professor Harrison just asked you a question,” Ben whispers back, his eyes wide.

You jerk your head back toward the front of the room. Professor Harrison is standing by his podium, his arms crossed, peering at you over his glasses. The entire lecture hall, all sixty students, are turned in their seats, staring directly at you.

“I … I’m sorry, Professor,” you stammer, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “Could you repeat the question?”

Harrison sighs, a sound of deep disappointment. “I asked what the Reynolds number signifies in this specific flow regime, Y/N. Given your previous performance, I assumed this would be elementary for you.”

You look at the board. You know this. You studied this. But your mind is completely, utterly blank. A terrifying panic seizes your chest.

“I …” You swallow hard. “I don’t know.”

A quiet murmur ripples through the classroom. Y/N Y/L/N, the resident genius, the girl who corrected this exact professor on the first day of class, doesn’t know the answer.

“I see,” Professor Harrison says, turning back to the board. “Perhaps you should review the reading material before our next session. Moving on …“

You sink down in your seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You stare down at your blank notebook, the grid lines blurring as tears prick the corners of your eyes.

After class, you try to slip out quickly, but Ben catches your arm in the hallway.

“Hey,” Ben says, adjusting his backpack. He’s a nice guy. Smart. Safe. The kind of guy you probably should have dated instead of a reckless, arrogant hockey player. “Are you okay? You’ve been totally out of it lately. You didn’t even show up for our study group on Tuesday.”

“I’m fine, Ben,” you say, pulling your arm away gently. “Just … haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Well, look. I was thinking … maybe we could grab coffee? Or lunch? We can go over the Reynolds equations, and, I don’t know, just hang out?”

He’s asking you out. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

You look at him, and all you feel is an overwhelming, crushing wave of exhaustion. You don’t want to get coffee. You don’t want to banter. You don’t want to risk opening yourself up again, ever.

“I can’t,” you say, your voice flat, devoid of any emotion. “I need to study. Alone.”

“Y/N, you can’t just study all the-”

“I said I can’t, Ben.” You step around him, your tone brokering absolutely no argument. “I’ll see you in lab on Thursday.”

You walk away, leaving him standing in the hallway. You head straight for the engineering building exit, stepping out into the cold November air.

As you walk back to your apartment, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, a small, pathetic spark of hope igniting in your chest despite everything.

It’s an email notification. From the financial aid office.

Subject: Scholarship Academic Warning - Immediate Action Required.

You stop walking. You stand frozen on the sidewalk, your eyes scanning the brief, terrifying text. Your GPA has dipped. The fluid dynamics quiz you failed last week, combined with a missed lab report, has triggered an automated warning. If your grades don’t improve by the end of the semester, your full-ride scholarship will be revoked.

The phone slips from your hand, clattering against the concrete sidewalk.

You don’t pick it up. You just stand there, the wind whipping your hair across your face, realizing that you haven’t just lost Garrett. You are losing everything.

***

The buzzer sounds, echoing loudly through the arena.

Garrett skates slowly toward the bench, his entire left side screaming in agony. The game against Harvard is brutal. The score is tied 2-2 in the third period, and the ice is basically a war zone.

He grabs his water bottle, squirting a stream of water into his mouth before spitting it out onto the rubber matting. He tries to take a deep breath, but a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through his ribs.

He took a massive, dirty hit from a Harvard defenseman in the second period. He’s pretty sure at least one rib is cracked, if not broken. Every time he twists, it feels like a knife is being driven into his side.

“Graham!” Coach Jensen barks, walking down the bench. “You’re moving like molasses out there. What’s wrong with your side?”

“Nothing,” Garrett lies immediately, forcing himself to stand up straighter despite the blinding pain. “Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

“Bullshit,” Jensen says, his eyes narrowing. “You’re wincing every time you take a stride. Trainer! Get over here.”

“Coach, I swear I’m fine,” Garrett insists, panic rising in his chest. “Don’t bench me. Put me back in. I can get the game-winner.”

“You’re useless to me if you can’t shoot,” Jensen says coldly. “Sit down.”

The athletic trainer hops over the boards, gesturing for Garrett to follow him down the tunnel. Garrett violently slams his stick against the boards, the composite shaft cracking under the force. He rips his helmet off, throwing it onto the bench, and storms down the tunnel.

In the quiet, sterile medical room, the trainer carefully helps him remove his jersey and shoulder pads.

Garrett looks down at his torso. His entire left ribcage is a horrific patchwork of deep purple, black, and angry yellow bruising.

The trainer whistles low. “Jesus, Graham. How long have you been playing on this?”

“Happened in the second period,” Garrett grits out.

“Don’t lie to me. Bruises don’t look like this after an hour. You’ve been hiding this for at least a week.” The trainer gently presses two fingers against the darkest spot, and Garrett actually sees white spots dance in his vision. He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood, refusing to make a sound.

“You’re done for the night,” the trainer says, stepping back and writing something on a clipboard. “Probably done for the next three weeks. I need to get you an x-ray. Could be a hairline fracture.”

“I can play,” Garrett argues, his voice tight. “Tape it up. Give me some painkillers. I need to be on the ice.”

“You go back out there and take another hit, you could puncture a lung,” the trainer says flatly. “You’re benched, Garrett. Coach’s orders.”

The trainer leaves the room to grab the x-ray requisition forms.

Garrett is left alone in the small room. He sits on the edge of the examination table, shivering slightly in the cold air, staring at the discolored, bruised skin of his chest.

Suddenly, his phone, sitting in his gym bag on the nearby chair, starts buzzing.

Garrett leans over, wincing as his ribs protest, and pulls it out.

Incoming Call: Phil Graham.

Garrett stares at the screen. His father. Calling to berate him for getting benched. Calling to tell him he looked weak out there. Calling to tell him he’s blowing his stock.

Usually, Garrett would answer. He would take the verbal beating, nod, and promise to be more aggressive. He would swallow the pain and be the perfect, emotionless hockey machine his father built.

Garrett looks at the phone. He thinks about the empty look in your eyes when you asked him if he acted like nothing bothered him because he was trained to shut it off. He thinks about the way he held your hand in the car. He thinks about the fact that the only reason he’s destroying his body on the ice right now is because he doesn’t know how to exist in a world where you won’t even look at him.

He hits decline.

He tosses the phone back into the bag.

He doesn’t want to be a machine anymore. He doesn’t care about the scouts, or his father’s approval, or the stupid captain’s patch on his jersey.

He buries his face in his hands, letting out a raw, broken sound that has nothing to do with his fractured ribs.

He needs you. He needs you so badly it feels like he’s suffocating.

***

You unlock the door to your apartment and step inside, numbly tossing your keys onto the kitchen counter.

Sarah is on a 24-hour shift at the hospital, so the apartment is dark and completely silent. You don’t bother turning on the lights. You walk into the kitchen, shedding your heavy winter coat.

Your eyes fall on the counter.

The bouquet of zinnias is still sitting there in a glass vase.

They are completely dead. The bright pinks, oranges, and yellows have withered into a brittle, decaying brown. The water in the vase is murky and smells vaguely of rot.

You have been avoiding looking at them for three weeks. But right now, standing in the dark, with the weight of the academic warning letter pressing down on your chest, you can’t ignore them anymore.

You walk over to the counter. You reach out, your fingertips brushing against one of the dried, dead petals. It crumbles instantly under your touch, falling to the countertop like ash.

A memory hits you, unbidden and sharp.

“I researched the first flower grown in space.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy them for Logan.”

You let out a harsh, bitter laugh that turns into a sob. You pick up the vase. You walk over to the trash can under the sink, step on the pedal, and dump the entire bouquet into the garbage.

You set the empty vase in the sink. You grip the edges of the porcelain counter, leaning your weight on your arms, and you finally break.

The numbness shatters. You cry harder than you did against that chain-link fence. You cry until your knees give out and you slide down the cabinets, hitting the linoleum floor. You pull your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms, sobbing into the quiet, empty kitchen.

You let him in. You broke every rule you had, you took a risk, and it ruined you.

You have to fix this. You have to save your scholarship. You have to get your life back on track.

Tomorrow, you decide. Tomorrow, you will go back to the library. You will build the wall of textbooks higher than ever before. You will shut everything out, and you will survive.

But tonight, sitting on the cold kitchen floor, you just let yourself miss him.

***

“This is officially pathetic,” Logan announces, throwing his hands up in the air.

He paces the length of the off-campus house living room, kicking a stray sock out of his way. Tucker is slouched on the worn leather sofa, tossing a lacrosse ball up and catching it with a rhythmic, irritating thud. Dean is sitting in the armchair, his phone balanced on his knee, while Beau leans against the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal.

“He hasn’t spoken a full sentence to us in three weeks,” Logan continues, gesturing wildly toward the ceiling, where Garrett’s bedroom is located. “He’s benched. His ribs look like they were run over by a freight train. He’s sleeping in his car half the time, and when he is here, he just stares at the wall like a serial killer.”

“He is in mourning,” Tucker says reasonably, not taking his eyes off the lacrosse ball.

“He’s being an idiot,” Dean corrects, looking up from his phone. “And it’s dragging the whole team down. We lost to Harvard, guys. Harvard. If Garrett doesn’t get his head out of his ass, the scouts are going to write him off completely.”

“It’s not just hockey,” Logan says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I actually feel bad for him. I’ve never seen him like this. He looks like he’s physically dying. We caused this. The bet was our idea.”

“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” Beau says, raising his spoon defensively. “I wasn’t there for the bet. I’m just an innocent bystander who came over for free Frosted Flakes.”

“You’re an accessory after the fact,” Dean tells him. “And we need your help.”

Beau pauses mid-bite. “Help with what?”

“An intervention,” Dean says, sitting forward and interlacing his fingers. A wicked, brilliant gleam enters his eyes. It’s the same look he gets right before he suggests something highly illegal or incredibly stupid. Usually both. “Talking hasn’t worked. Apologizing hasn’t worked. We’ve been trying to respect his space, but his space is turning him into a zombie. We need to force the issue.”

Tucker catches the ball and holds it. “Force the issue how?”

“We get them in the same room,” Dean says simply. “We lock them in. We don’t let them out until they kiss and make up.”

Silence descends on the living room.

Logan stares at Dean. “You want to lock them in a room.”

“Yes.”

“Dean, that’s kidnapping,” Beau points out, setting his cereal bowl down. “You’re talking about kidnapping two students. One of whom is a girl. I have an NFL draft next year. I am not going to prison for false imprisonment.”

“It’s not false imprisonment, it’s aggressive matchmaking,” Dean argues smoothly. “Look, she won’t talk to him. He won’t talk to anyone. If we lock them in a confined space, they literally have no choice but to hash it out. It’s foolproof.”

“It’s a felony,” Tucker corrects.

“It’s romantic,” Dean insists. “Come on. Think about it. We grab them, toss them in the supply closet at the athletic facility — the big one near the Zamboni entrance with the heavy deadbolt. We stand outside to make sure nobody interrupts. They scream at each other, they cry, Garrett does that pathetic puppy-dog thing, and boom. They’re back together. Garrett stops being a psycho, and we go back to winning hockey games.”

Logan slowly rubs his chin. “I mean … he’s completely unhinged right now. It might be the only way to get him to actually say what he needs to say.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, standing up. “So, here’s the plan. I will take Y/N. I have a general idea of her schedule, and I can grab her from the science building. Have you guys seen her? I can totally kidnap her alone. Piece of cake.”

“And Garrett?” Tucker asks.

Dean looks at Logan, Tucker, and Beau. “Garrett is two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and currently possesses the temperament of a rabid wolverine. It’s going to take all three of you.”

Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you guys. I really do.”

“Suit up, gentlemen,” Dean grins. “We’re doing this for love.”

***

You are standing in the basement level of the science building, glaring at the vending machine.

Your head is pounding. Your vision is slightly blurry from staring at a spreadsheet for five straight hours. You just need a Diet Coke and a pack of Swedish Fish to survive the next three hours of lab work. You slide your crumpled dollar bill into the machine, and it immediately spits it back out.

“Come on,” you mutter, aggressively smoothing the bill against the edge of the machine. You slide it in again. The machine whirs, accepts the dollar, and then completely ignores the buttons you press.

You let out a heavy sigh, resting your forehead against the cool glass. “I hate my life.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

You freeze. The nickname sends an electric jolt straight down your spine. You spin around, your heart leaping into your throat, expecting to see a faded Briar hockey jacket and piercing gray eyes.

Instead, you see Dean Di Laurentis leaning casually against the cinderblock wall.

The brief, pathetic flare of hope in your chest dies instantly, replaced by a surge of defensive anger. You haven’t spoken to Dean since the morning you ran out of their house. You haven’t spoken to any of them.

“Di Laurentis,” you say coldly, crossing your arms over your chest. “What are you doing down here? Did you get lost on your way to a frat party?”

Dean winces slightly, pushing off the wall. “Ouch. Okay, fair point. Look, Y/N, I know you hate my guts-”

“I don’t hate your guts,” you interrupt, your voice flat. “I don’t think about you at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lab report to write.”

You turn away, gripping the strap of your heavy backpack, prepared to march right past him to the stairs. But as you step forward, Dean quickly sidesteps, blocking your path.

“Move, Dean.”

“I can’t do that,” Dean says, offering a highly apologetic smile. “I’m really sorry about this. Truly. But you’ll thank me later.”

You frown, taking a step back. “Thank you for what?”

Before you can even process his movement, Dean lunges forward. He ducks his head, wrapping one thick arm securely around the backs of your knees, and hoists you straight up into the air.

You let out a startled, highly undignified shriek as the world flips upside down.

“What the hell!” You scream, your hands flying out to catch yourself as your stomach hits Dean’s broad shoulder. You are literally slung over him like a sack of potatoes. “Put me down! Di Laurentis, put me down right now!”

“Keep your voice down, sweetheart, we’re in an academic building,” Dean says calmly, adjusting his grip on your legs and starting to jog toward the rear exit doors.

“I will scream! I will call the police! You are kidnapping me!” You start hammering your fists wildly against his back, your legs kicking in his grip, but it’s entirely useless. Dean is a college athlete, and you are fueled by vending machine coffee and despair. He doesn’t even flinch.

“It’s not kidnapping, it’s an intervention,” Dean calls out cheerfully as he hits the push-bar of the exit doors, bursting out into the cold November afternoon. “Just relax. Enjoy the ride.”

“You are insane!” You yell, completely mortified as a group of students crossing the lawn stop to stare at you. “Help! He’s kidnapping me!”

The students just laugh, probably assuming it’s some weird fraternity hazing ritual or a joke between friends.

Dean jogs all the way to the faculty parking lot, where a massive black SUV is idling. He pulls the back door open, unceremoniously depositing you onto the backseat, and slams the door shut before you can scramble out.

The child locks are engaged.

Dean slides into the driver’s seat, hitting the gas before you can even properly right yourself.

“Where are you taking me?” You demand, your chest heaving as you climb up to grip the back of his seat. “If you don’t let me out right now, I swear I am filing charges.”

“You’ll see when we get there,” Dean says, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. His expression softens just a fraction. “Look, Y/N. I’m an idiot. Logan and Tucker are idiots. We made a stupid bet. But Garrett isn’t an idiot. And he’s falling apart without you.”

You freeze. Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip against your ribs.

“I don’t care,” you lie, your voice trembling. You sit back against the leather seat, crossing your arms tightly to keep yourself from shaking. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“Good thing you won’t have a choice,” Dean says, turning the steering wheel sharply.

***

Meanwhile, on the bottom floor of the athletic facility, the situation is going significantly worse.

Garrett is in the varsity weight room. It’s empty, save for the rhythmic clanking of plates. He’s on the bench press, ignoring the screaming protest of his fractured ribs. He has three hundred pounds on the bar, and he’s pushing it up with a slow, agonizing grind, sweat pouring down his face.

He locks the bar out, racking it with a heavy crash, and sits up, wincing sharply.

“You know, for a guy with a broken chest, you’re really stupid,” a voice says.

Garrett’s head snaps up.

Logan is standing by the door. Tucker is leaning against the squat rack to his left. And Beau is standing by the dumbbell rack to his right.

Garrett narrows his eyes, his breathing heavy. “What is this? A fan club? I told you guys to leave me alone.”

“We tried that,” Logan says, taking a step forward. “It sucked. You’re depressing to be around, the house smells like misery, and Coach is ready to bench you for the rest of the season because you’re acting like a ghost.”

“Get out of my face, Logan,” Garrett warns, his voice low and dangerous. He stands up from the bench, his fists clenching at his sides.

“We aren’t leaving without you, G,” Tucker says smoothly, pushing off the rack.

“Are you trying to fight me?” Garrett asks in disbelief, looking between the three of them. “Because I will drop all of you. Ribs or no ribs.”

“We don’t want to fight,” Beau says, holding his hands up placatingly. “We just want to take a walk down the hall. To a closet.”

“A closet.” Garrett stares at Beau. “You’ve all lost your minds.”

Garrett turns to grab his gym bag, intending to storm out.

The second he turns his back, Beau moves.

The quarterback drops his shoulder and tackles Garrett right around the waist. It’s a flawless, Division-I football form tackle. The impact hits Garrett’s injured ribs, and he lets out a breathless grunt, stumbling forward but managing to stay on his feet.

“What the fuck!” Garrett roars, throwing a sharp elbow back.

Logan lunges, grabbing Garrett’s right arm and pinning it behind his back. Tucker is a second later, grabbing his left arm.

“Hold him!” Logan grunts, struggling as Garrett violently thrashes against them.

“I am going to murder every single one of you!” Garrett yells, twisting his upper body with a feral strength that requires all three men to brace their boots against the rubber floor. “Let me go!”

“Just drag him!” Beau yells, wrapping his arms tighter around Garrett’s waist and practically lifting him off his feet.

The three massive athletes shuffle-drag a cursing, thrashing Garrett Graham out of the weight room and down the long concrete corridor. It’s a ridiculous, chaotic sight. Garrett manages to kick Tucker in the shin, earning a colorful string of southern curses, but he can’t break the combined hold of three guys his own size.

They drag him past the locker rooms, past the medical suite, and down the dark hallway that leads to the Zamboni entrance.

Up ahead, standing in front of a heavy metal door marked MAINTENANCE, is Dean.

And standing right next to him, looking absolutely furious, is you.

Garrett instantly stops fighting.

He goes completely still in their grip. His boots hit the floor, his eyes locking onto you. You are wearing an oversized Briar Engineering sweatshirt, your hair is falling out of a messy clip, and you look so completely, devastatingly beautiful that it physically hurts to look at you.

You stare at him. You take in his sweat-soaked t-shirt, his messy hair, and the three massive guys restraining him like a wild animal. The anger in your eyes falters for a split second, replaced by a flash of shock.

“In you go,” Dean says cheerfully.

Before either of you can react, Dean shoves you forward. Logan, Tucker, and Beau propel Garrett right behind you.

You stumble into the dark, cramped closet, bumping into a mop bucket. Garrett crashes in right behind you.

The heavy metal door slams shut.

The deadbolt slides into place with a loud, final thunk.

The closet is plunged into pitch-black darkness. It smells overwhelmingly of bleach, floor wax, and dust.

“Hey!” You yell, immediately spinning around and slamming your palms against the cold metal door. “Dean! Open this door right now! This isn’t funny!”

“We’ll open it when you two work your shit out!” Dean’s voice is muffled through the thick steel. “Have fun!”

“I am calling the police!” You scream, rattling the doorknob aggressively. It doesn’t budge. You pull your phone out of your pocket, but the screen illuminates to show No Service in the concrete basement.

You let out a sound of pure frustration, dropping your forehead against the door.

Behind you, the silence is deafening.

You slowly turn around. The faint sliver of light coming from beneath the doorframe casts just enough of a glow for you to see Garrett’s silhouette. He is standing a few feet away from you, leaning heavily against a metal shelving unit.

He is breathing hard, the sound raspy in the quiet space.

You immediately cross your arms over your chest, pressing your back flat against the door. The familiar scent of his cologne — the same scent that was embedded in the t-shirt you cried in for three days — washes over you, making your chest ache violently.

“Tell them to open the door,” you say, your voice cold and trembling.

Garrett doesn’t move. “They won’t. You heard them.”

“Garrett, I am not doing this.” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block him out. “I have nothing to say to you. Please, just tell your friends to let me out.”

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers. It’s a broken, raw sound that completely strips away the confident, arrogant captain persona.

He takes a step toward you.

“Don’t,” you snap, holding a hand out in the dark. “Don’t come near me. You’ve done enough.”

Garrett stops instantly.

“I know,” he says, his voice thick. He sinks down. You hear the rustle of his clothes, and as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize he has literally slid down the shelving unit to sit on the cold concrete floor, pulling his knees up, keeping a respectful distance.

“I know I’ve done enough,” he continues, his words rushing out now, like a dam breaking. “I know you hate me. You have every right to hate me. If I were you, I’d never look at me again.”

You stare at his shadow on the floor. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, fighting the immediate, pathetic urge to drop down next to him.

“Then why didn’t you leave me alone?” You ask, your voice cracking despite your best efforts. “Why couldn’t you just take your stupid win and go? Why did you have to pretend to care about my scholarship? Why did you buy me those flowers?”

Garrett lets out a ragged breath. “Because the bet was over the second you opened your mouth in that library.”

You scoff, a harsh, bitter sound. “Right. You told them downstairs, Garrett. You told them you got the target in bed. I heard you.”

“You heard me being a coward!” Garrett suddenly pushes himself off the floor. He ignores your command to stay back. He closes the distance between you, stopping just inches away. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is overwhelming. He boxes you in, placing his hands flat against the door on either side of your head.

You look up at him. In the faint light, you can see the desperate, wild look in his eyes. He looks awful. He looks exactly like you feel.

“I was a coward,” Garrett repeats, his voice shaking with intense emotion. “I went downstairs that morning, and they ambushed me. They brought up the bet, and I panicked. I was terrified of you finding out. I was terrified of losing you. So I gave them the answer they wanted to shut them up. I thought I could just … handle it. I thought I could make them drop it, and you would never know.”

“You shouldn’t have made the bet in the first place,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking hotly down your cheek.

“I know.” Garrett’s forehead drops, resting gently against the door right above your head. “I know. It was an arrogant, disgusting, frat-boy mistake. They challenged my pride, and I was stupid enough to take it. But Y/N … I swear to God. Everything after that first day? It was real.”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. “Don’t do this, Garrett. Please.”

“I’m doing it,” he insists, leaning closer. “You have to listen to me. I need you to know. The lunch at Panera? That wasn’t a strategy. Listening to you talk about space shuttles? It was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard. The date at Osteria? It was the best night of my entire life.”

You let out a sob, turning your face away from him. “You took my virginity for a joke.”

“No.” Garrett’s hands leave the door, gently but firmly catching your face. He forces you to look at him, his thumbs wiping away your tears. His hands are trembling. “No, I didn’t. When I saw the blood, Y/N … it destroyed me. I wanted to tell you right then. I wanted to stop. But I looked at you, and you were so beautiful, and you trusted me, and I was so deeply, madly in love with you that I couldn’t pull away.”

Your breath hitches. The words hit you like a physical shockwave.

“You … what?” You breathe.

“I love you,” Garrett says, the truth tearing out of him with absolute certainty. “I don’t care about hockey. I don’t care about my dad. I don’t care about the scouts. I haven’t slept in weeks. I’ve been letting guys use me as a punching bag on the ice because the physical pain is the only thing that distracts me from the fact that I broke your heart.”

You stare up at him, your chest heaving. The walls you’ve spent the last three weeks frantically trying to rebuild are crumbling to dust.

“I got a warning,” you whisper, the confession slipping out before you can stop it. “About my scholarship. My grades dropped because I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. I can’t do anything because all I think about is you.”

Garrett’s face contorts in pure agony. He steps fully into your space, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. He holds you so tightly you can feel his fractured ribs against your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I am so fucking sorry, baby. I will fix it. I’ll hire you a tutor. I’ll do your laundry. I’ll sit outside your door and make sure no one bothers you. I will grovel every single day for the rest of my life if you just give me one more chance.”

You close your eyes. You feel the heat of his skin, the frantic beat of his heart against yours. The logic in your brain is screaming at you to push him away.

But your heart doesn’t care about logic.

You let out a shaky sigh, your hands slowly coming up to grip the fabric of his t-shirt. You pull him closer, burying your face in his chest.

“You’re an idiot,” you sob quietly into his shirt.

“I know,” Garrett breathes, his arms tightening around you like a vice. “I’m the biggest idiot on the planet.”

“If you ever lie to me again, Garrett Graham, I will calculate the exact trajectory needed to launch you into the sun.”

Garrett lets out a wet, breathless laugh, pulling back just enough to look at your face. “I would gladly take the trip.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He ducks his head, capturing your lips in a desperate, bruising kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s entirely fueled by three weeks of pure misery and desperation. Your mouth opens under his, your hands sliding up into his messy hair, pulling him closer as you kiss him back with everything you have.

The spark is instantaneous. The connection that terrified you so much in the beginning is exactly what grounds you now. He tastes like sweat and tears, but he feels like home.

Garrett backs you against the door, his hips pressing heavily against yours as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming you completely. You let out a soft moan, lost entirely in the feeling of him.

***

Out in the hallway, four massive athleted are crouched awkwardly around the door of the maintenance closet.

Dean has his ear pressed completely flat against the metal.

Logan is biting his thumbnail, looking nervous. “Are they yelling? I don’t hear yelling anymore.”

“Are they killing each other?” Beau asks, squinting at the heavy deadbolt. “Because my fingerprints are on Garrett’s arms, and I really don’t want to be implicated in a murder.”

“Shh!” Dean swats blindly at them with one hand. He presses his ear harder against the steel, his eyes widening as he catches the muffled sounds coming from the other side.

A slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across Dean’s face.

He leans back, dusting off his hands and looking at his friends.

“Definitely not killing each other,” Dean announces proudly. “They’re definitely kissing. I told you. I’m a genius.”

Tucker lets out a long sigh of relief, leaning back against the cinderblock wall. “Thank God. I don’t think I could survive another week of Garrett acting like a depressed gargoyle.”

“So,” Logan says, gesturing toward the door. “Do we let them out?”

Dean checks his watch. “Give them another twenty minutes. Let them really hash it out.”

***

Two years can change a lot of things.

If someone had told you during your junior year at Briar University that you would eventually be standing in a luxury suite at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, wearing a floor-length emerald green silk gown, while the newest center for the Boston Bruins kissed the side of your neck, you would have calculated the mathematical probability of that happening and laughed in their face.

But here you are.

Garrett’s lips press warmly against your bare shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind as you both look into the massive gilded mirror of the hotel bathroom.

“You look incredible,” Garrett murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that sends a familiar shiver down your spine.

You lean back into his solid chest, resting your hands over his. The light catches the stunning, two-carat oval diamond sitting on your left ring finger. It’s been there for exactly three months, and you still catch yourself staring at it when you’re supposed to be running data simulations.

“I look like I’m in a costume,” you say, though a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. “I haven’t worn heels this high since … actually, I don’t think I’ve ever worn heels this high. If I trip on the red carpet and take out Connor McDavid, you’re paying for the PR crisis.”

Garrett laughs, a bright, booming sound that fills the suite. “You’re not going to trip. You have excellent balance. It’s all that physics knowledge. Center of gravity, right?”

“That’s not how gravity works in stilettos, Graham.”

Garrett turns you around so you’re facing him. He looks entirely too handsome for his own good. The Bruins’ custom-tailored black tuxedo fits his broad shoulders perfectly, his dark hair is styled just enough to look effortless, and his dark eyes are looking at you with that same, intense devotion that has been there since the day he dragged you out of a maintenance closet.

Garrett put his head down, worked twice as hard, and let his stats speak for themselves. The Boston Bruins signed him as an undrafted free agent at the end of your senior year. Now, he’s coming off a phenomenal rookie season, and tonight, he is officially nominated for the Calder Memorial Trophy awarded to the NHL’s Rookie of the Year.

“Nervous?” Garrett asks, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“A little,” you admit, reaching up to adjust his crooked bowtie. “I’m used to laboratories and wind tunnels, Garrett. Not flashing cameras and sports reporters asking me who I’m wearing. What if they ask me a hockey question? What if I forget what icing is?”

“If they ask you a hockey question, just tell them the refs are blind and the Bruins are going to win the Cup next year. They’ll love it.” Garrett catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to. Just hold my hand and look pretty. I’ll handle the media.”

“Deal.” You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. “Are you nervous? The Calder is a huge deal, Garrett. You deserve this.”

Garrett shrugs, a genuinely relaxed smile on his face. “If I win, it’s awesome. If I don’t, I still get to go home with the smartest, most beautiful girl in the room. I already won, Starshine.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does the same pathetic, fluttery thing it always does when he looks at you like that. “You are so cheesy. Dean is right. You’ve gone completely soft.”

“Dean is currently blowing up the group chat because he can’t figure out how to stream the red carpet coverage from his phone,” Garrett points out, pulling his phone from his pocket and showing you a screen filled with frantic texts from Logan, Tucker, and Dean. “He has absolutely no room to talk.”

“Come on,” you laugh, grabbing your small clutch from the bathroom counter. “We’re going to be late, and I refuse to be the reason the Calder nominee misses his own red carpet.”

The ride down to the main floor is quick, and the moment the elevator doors open, the chaos of the NHL Awards swallows you whole.

There are security guards, publicists with clipboards, and a sea of incredibly tall men in expensive suits. Garrett places a firm, protective hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowded lobby toward the VIP exit where the black SUVs are waiting.

The heat of the Las Vegas evening hits you the second you step outside, but it’s entirely eclipsed by the blinding flash of cameras.

The red carpet is a literal madhouse. Fans are screaming from behind velvet ropes, reporters are shouting names, and the energy is electric. Garrett keeps you tucked closely against his side as you walk the carpet. He stops to sign a few jerseys for the fans, but his hand never leaves yours.

“Garrett! Garrett Graham! Over here!”

A young woman in a sharp blazer with an NHL microphone stops you halfway down the carpet, flanked by a cameraman.

Garrett smiles, his PR training kicking in effortlessly. He slides his arm around your waist, pulling you against his side as you both stop in front of the camera.

“Garrett, congratulations on the Calder nomination!” The reporter says, her voice bright and enthusiastic. “What a massive rookie season for you in Boston. How does it feel to be here tonight?”

“It’s incredible,” Garrett answers smoothly, his tone charming and professional. “It’s a huge honor just to be nominated alongside these guys. Honestly, I’m just taking it all in and enjoying the ride. The organization has been amazing, the veterans have taken great care of me, and I’m just happy to be representing the Bruins.”

“Well, you’ve definitely earned your spot,” she says, turning her bright smile toward you. “Now, I have to ask. You brought a stunning plus-one tonight. The fans online are already asking — who is this beautiful woman?”

You feel a brief spike of panic, your instinct telling you to step back out of the frame, but Garrett’s arm tightens around your waist, anchoring you exactly where you belong.

“This is Y/N,” Garrett says, his voice projecting clearly over the noise of the carpet. He lifts your left hand, flashing the diamond ring directly at the camera. “She’s my fiancée.”

The reporter’s eyes go wide, a genuine look of surprise crossing her face. “Fiancée! Wow, breaking news on the red carpet! Congratulations to you both. That is a gorgeous ring.”

“Thank you,” you say, offering a polite, slightly shy smile.

“So, Y/N, how do you handle the crazy hockey schedule?” the reporter asks, leaning the microphone toward you. “Are you adjusting to the NHL lifestyle?”

Before you can answer, Garrett leans into the microphone.

“Actually, her schedule is crazier than mine,” Garrett says, looking down at you with a mix of awe and fierce, undeniable pride. “She’s a rocket scientist.”

The reporter lets out a loud, polite laugh, clearly assuming it’s a hockey player joke. “A rocket scientist! That’s a good one. Seriously though, what do you do?”

Garrett doesn’t laugh. His expression remains entirely deadpan. “I’m completely serious. She’s getting her PhD in Aerospace Engineering at MIT right now. She’s currently working on NASA-affiliated research for atmospheric entry vehicle designs. She literally builds spaceships.”

The reporter stops laughing. She looks from Garrett’s completely serious face to your slightly blushing one. Her mouth actually drops open for a split second. “Wait. You’re … you’re actually a rocket scientist? Like, NASA?”

“I’m a researcher,” you correct modestly, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “But yes. My focus is on orbital mechanics and thermal protection systems for spacecraft.”

The reporter stares at you as if you’ve just grown a second head. It’s a look you’ve gotten used to over the last two years whenever Garrett introduces you to his teammates or sports agents. The contrast between the bruising, violent world of professional hockey and the intensely academic halls of MIT is stark, but to you and Garrett, it’s just your normal.

“That is … that is absolutely incredible,” the reporter finally stammers, clearly scrambling to adjust her interview questions. “So, wait. MIT? NASA? How did a rocket scientist end up engaged to a hockey player?”

You look up at Garrett. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles down at you, and you can see the exact memory playing in his head. The library. The blank notebook. The worst, most transparent lie he ever told.

“He told me he wanted to be an astronaut,” you tell the reporter, deadpan.

Garrett bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. “It’s true. I walked up to her in the library and told her I had a deep appreciation for thrust. It was the worst pickup line in the history of the world.”

“It really was,” you agree, turning back to the microphone. “But he brought me coffee and muffins, so I decided to keep him around. He has excellent hand-eye coordination. It’s a good trait for a lab assistant.”

The reporter is eating it up now, laughing genuinely as the cameraman zooms in on the two of you. “Well, you are officially the most intimidating power couple on this red carpet. Garrett, good luck tonight with the Calder, and Y/N, good luck with … space!”

“Thanks,” Garrett grins, guiding you smoothly away from the camera and down the rest of the carpet.

The moment you are out of the immediate glare of the press line, you let out a long breath, leaning your weight against his side.

“You just had to tell her I build spaceships, didn’t you?” You mutter, though you are smiling.

“I will tell anyone who listens,” Garrett says fiercely, pressing a quick, fierce kiss to your temple. “You’re brilliant. I want the whole world to know it. Besides, watching their brains short-circuit when they realize you’re smarter than everyone in this building combined is my favorite hobby.”

You shake your head, walking with him into the grand, dimly lit theater where the awards are being held.

The ceremony is a blur of speeches, highlight reels, and loud applause. You sit at a round table near the front, your hand securely locked in Garrett’s under the white tablecloth. Every time his name is mentioned on stage, his grip tightens just a fraction, the only physical sign that the cool, calm exterior is masking a current of nervous energy.

When it comes time for the Calder Memorial Trophy, the presenter opens the envelope, pausing for dramatic effect.

“And the winner of the Calder Memorial Trophy is … Garrett Graham, Boston Bruins!”

The table erupts. Garrett lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, standing up as the room fills with deafening applause. But before he turns to the stage, he turns to you. He pulls you up by your hand, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck, exactly the way he did in the maintenance closet two years ago.

“I love you,” he whispers fiercely against your skin, totally ignoring the cameras broadcasting them to millions of people.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, tears pricking your eyes. “Go get your trophy, Captain.”

He kisses you — a hard, fast, claiming kiss — before turning and making his way up to the stage.

You watch him stand at the podium, looking out over the crowd of NHL legends and executives. He doesn’t look like the broken, haunted boy who used to run suicide drills at 5:00 AM to escape his father’s voice. He looks like a man completely in control of his own destiny.

He gives his speech. He thanks the Bruins organization, his coaches, and his teammates. He thanks Dean, Logan, and Tucker for keeping him sane.

And then, he looks directly down at you.

“And finally, I have to thank my fiancée, Y/N,” Garrett says, his voice echoing through the silent theater. He isn’t smiling for the cameras anymore. He’s just talking to you. “A few years ago, I was lost. I was playing hockey for all the wrong reasons, and I didn’t really know who I was off the ice. And then I met a girl who ran into a lamppost because she was too busy doing math.”

A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, and you bury your face in your hands, blushing furiously.

“She didn’t care about my stats. She didn’t care about my reputation,” Garrett continues, his voice softening. “She challenged me. She saw right through me. And she taught me that it’s okay to care about things outside the rink. I wouldn’t be standing on this stage right now if she hadn’t given me a second chance when I absolutely didn’t deserve one. You’re my whole world, Starshine. Thank you.”

The applause is thunderous. You wipe a tear from your cheek, smiling so hard your face hurts.

***

Hours later, the chaos is finally over.

You have managed to escape the after-party, retreating back to the quiet sanctuary of your luxury suite at the Bellagio.

Your heels have been abandoned by the front door. Your emerald gown is pooled on the floor of the bedroom. You are currently wearing one of Garrett’s oversized white undershirts and a pair of silk pajama shorts, standing out on the suite’s massive balcony.

The Las Vegas strip is a sea of neon lights below you, flashing and buzzing with life, but up here, it’s peaceful.

You hear the slide of the glass balcony door. Garrett steps out into the warm night air. He has stripped out of his tuxedo, wearing only a pair of dark gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips.

He walks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your back flush against his bare chest. He rests his chin on the top of your head, looking out at the city below.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

“I’m perfect,” you say, resting your hands over his arms. “I am so incredibly proud of you, Garrett. Today was amazing.”

“It was exhausting,” he corrects, letting out a heavy sigh. “I love hockey, but the media circus is brutal. I just want to be right here. With you.”

You turn around in his arms, looking up at him. The Calder Trophy is sitting on the dining table inside, glinting in the dim light of the suite, but Garrett isn’t looking at it. He is looking at you like you are the only thing that matters.

“You know,” you say softly, trailing a finger over the smooth, hard plane of his chest. You trace the faint, silvery scar on his ribs — a permanent reminder of the Harvard game two years ago. “When you walked up to my table in the library, I was convinced you were the most arrogant, irritating person I had ever met.”

Garrett smiles, a slow, lazy smirk that makes your heart skip a beat. “I was. But I had a strategy. I wore your defenses down.”

“You brought me muffins. That’s just bribery.”

“Whatever it takes.” Garrett’s smirk fades, his expression turning entirely serious. He reaches up, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “I meant what I said on that stage today, Y/N. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself, Garrett,” you correct him gently. “I just reminded you that you were worth saving.”

Garrett shakes his head, leaning his forehead against yours. “No. It was you. It’s always been you. From the second you apologized to that lamppost, I was done for. The bet was just a stupid excuse because I didn’t know how to talk to a girl who didn’t immediately fall at my feet.”

You smile against his lips. “Well, for the record … I fell pretty hard.”

“I caught you,” he whispers.

“You did.”

Garrett kisses you, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of his love into the movement of his mouth. It’s a kiss that tastes like victory, like forgiveness, and like the promise of an entire lifetime together.

When he finally pulls back, you are both breathless.

“So,” Garrett says, his eyes glinting with a familiar, playful spark in the neon light of the strip. “Since you’re a rocket scientist now ...”

“I’m getting there,” you laugh.

“Does that mean you can finally explain the physics of thrust to me in a way I’ll understand?”

You roll your eyes, groaning loudly. “Graham, I swear to God-”

Garrett laughs, sweeping you up into his arms effortlessly. You let out a squeal as he carries you off the balcony, kicking the glass door shut behind you.

“Come on, future Dr. Y/L/N,” Garrett teases, carrying you toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the suite. “I am a very physical learner. I’m going to need a hands-on demonstration.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder as you laugh.

He didn’t end up having to wax his chest. And he never became an astronaut.

But as Garrett tosses you onto the soft mattress, following you down and caging your body with his, you know with absolute, mathematical certainty that you wouldn’t change a single variable of your story.

“My equipment is perfectly fine,” Garrett snaps, glaring at his teammate. “I’m focusing on hockey. We have a championship to win this year, in case you forgot. And my grades actually matter if I want to keep my spot on the roster.”

Logan snorts from his spot next to Dean, running a hand through his dark hair. “Please. You’ve been coasting on a B-minus average since freshman year. This sudden dedication to academia is a smoke screen. You’ve lost your touch.”

“I haven’t lost anything.” Garrett sits up, grabbing the water bottle at his side. He takes a long swig, ignoring the way the cold water does nothing to cool his rising irritation. It’s not that they’re completely wrong. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone lately. But it’s not because he can’t. It’s because he doesn’t want to.

Between the pressure of being captain, the scouts watching his every move on the ice, and the lingering, suffocating weight of his father’s relentless phone calls, Garrett just doesn’t have the energy for meaningless hookups. Phil Graham is a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate, a constant reminder of the bruises he used to hide and the mother he couldn’t save. Her battle with lung cancer took the only good thing out of that house, leaving Garrett alone with a man whose fists spoke louder than words. Garrett pushes the thought down, locking it away where he keeps everything else.

“He’s in a slump,” Tucker adds smoothly, his Southern drawl making the insult sound entirely too polite. He’s leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree, arms crossed over his chest. “Happens to the best of us, buddy. No shame in it.”

“I am not in a slump,” Garrett says, his voice dangerously low. “It’s completely voluntary.”

“Voluntary celibacy,” Dean says, nodding solemnly. “Right. Sure. Because the captain of the hockey team, the guy who practically had a waiting list outside his bedroom door last spring, just suddenly decided to become a monk.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“You’re drying up,” Logan counters, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I bet you couldn’t pull a number right now if your life depended on it.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Watch it, Logan.”

“Or what? You’ll glare at me to death?” Logan chuckles. “Admit it. You’ve lost your mojo.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Pride is a dangerous thing, and Garrett has always had too much of it. It’s what makes him a lethal center on the ice, but it’s also what gets him into stupid situations off it. “I could pull any girl on this campus if I wanted to.”

Silence falls over the small group. Dean stops tossing grapes. Tucker raises an eyebrow. Logan’s grin simply widens into something predatory.

“Any girl?” Dean repeats, the words tasting like a challenge.

“Any. Girl.” Garrett enunciates every syllable, crossing his arms. “I just haven’t felt like it. But if I wanted to, I could have anyone.”

Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Those are fighting words, G.”

“It’s the truth,” Garrett insists, though a small voice in the back of his head is already telling him to shut up. He ignores it. “Name a girl. Any girl at Briar. I’ll prove it.”

“Oh, we’re making a bet out of this?” Dean is practically vibrating with excitement. He sits up straight, his eyes scanning the crowded quad. “This is fantastic. I love bets.”

“What are the stakes?” Logan asks, leaning forward.

Garrett shrugs, feigning a nonchalance he doesn’t entirely feel. “You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.”

“The end of the semester?” Dean balks. “That’s in December. It’s September, man. That gives you three whole months.”

“Quality takes time,” Garrett says smoothly. “Besides, if I’m pulling someone out of my usual demographic, I need time to lay the groundwork. I’m not an animal.”

“Fine. End of the semester,” Logan agrees. “But if you fail … you wax your chest.”

Garrett chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“You heard me,” Logan says, his eyes gleaming. “Full chest wax. At that salon down on Main Street. The one with the windows that face the sidewalk.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Garrett says.

“Why? Are you scared?” Tucker asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Thought you could pull anyone, Graham.”

Garrett looks at his three best friends, seeing the collective challenge in their eyes. He’s the captain. He doesn’t back down. “Fine. But if I win, the three of you have to wax yours.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, extending a hand.

Garrett shakes it, sealing his fate. “Alright. Pick the target.”

The three of them immediately turn their attention to the quad, scanning the throngs of students rushing between classes. It’s peak hour. The pathways are packed with girls in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts, girls in sundresses clinging to the last days of summer, and girls huddled over their phones.

“What about her?” Dean points to a blonde sitting on a bench, expertly applying lip gloss.

Logan shakes his head. “Too easy. That’s a puck bunny. She’d jump into Garrett’s bed before he even finished his opening line.”

“Fair point,” Dean concedes.

“How about the brunette by the fountain?” Tucker suggests.

Garrett squints. “We hooked up sophomore year. Doesn’t count.”

“Damn it, Garrett, you’ve slept with half the campus,” Logan complains.

“I have not,” Garrett argues, though he knows it’s a losing battle. “Just pick someone.”

They sit in silence for another three minutes, watching the foot traffic. Garrett is starting to think they’re going to give up when a loud thwack echoes across the pavement, followed by a startled gasp.

All four of them turn their heads toward the sound.

Garrett sees you first.

You’re clutching a thick, leather-bound notebook to your chest, your other hand rubbing the center of your forehead. Your hair is half falling out of a messy bun, and you’re wearing an oversized Briar Engineering hoodie that swallows your frame. You’ve just walked face-first into the cast-iron lamppost near the library steps.

“Oh, my bad,” you say, your voice muffled but completely sincere. “Sorry about that.”

You are apologizing. To a lamppost.

Dean bursts out laughing, a loud, barking sound that makes a few passing students turn and stare.

You don’t notice. You don’t even look around to see if anyone saw you. Instead, you drop your hand from your forehead, adjust your heavy-rimmed glasses, and immediately bury your nose back into the notebook, resuming your frantic scribbling as you continue walking down the path. You narrowly miss colliding with a garbage can.

“Who the hell is that?” Logan asks, staring after you in disbelief.

“I have no idea,” Dean says, wiping a tear from his eye. “But she just apologized to an inanimate object.”

Tucker is grinning. “That’s her.”

Garrett snaps his head toward Tucker. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the girl,” Tucker says, pointing a finger in your direction. You’re halfway down the path now, still completely oblivious to the world around you. “That’s your target.”

Garrett stares at you. He takes in the oversized hoodie, the complete lack of spatial awareness, the way you’re muttering to yourself while you write. He doesn’t know your name, but he knows exactly what you are.

You’re a ghost. One of those hyper-focused academics who live in the library and survive on vending machine coffee and sheer panic.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garrett says, his voice flat.

“He’s absolutely right,” Logan says, catching on immediately. “She’s perfect. Look at her, Garrett. She’s gorgeous.”

Garrett squints. You are turning the corner now, and for a brief second, he catches a glimpse of your profile. Logan isn’t wrong. Underneath the bulky clothes and the distracted demeanor, you are stunning. Striking features, clear skin, and eyes that he can’t quite make out the color of from this distance, but they look intense.

But you are also completely, unequivocally, off the grid.

“She’s an Aerospace major,” Dean says suddenly, snapping his fingers. “I had a general physics elective with her freshman year. She sat in the front row and corrected the professor on day one. She doesn’t go to parties. She doesn’t go to games. I don’t think she even talks to people unless it’s about thermodynamics.”

“You know her name?” Garrett asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Nope. Just remember the professor looking like he wanted to cry when she started talking about orbital mechanics.” Dean claps Garrett on the shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”

“This is insane,” Garrett argues, watching the spot where you disappeared. “She’s not going to talk to me. She probably doesn’t even know what hockey is.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Logan says smugly. “You said any girl. You said you could pull anyone. So … pull her.”

Garrett looks at his friends. They look entirely too pleased with themselves. The trap is perfectly set. If he backs out now, he admits defeat. He admits his slump. He admits that there’s a girl on campus who wouldn’t fall for the Garrett Graham charm.

And then he has to wax his chest.

Garrett exhales a sharp breath, running a hand over his face. He thinks about the playbook. He thinks about the scouts. He thinks about the suffocating pressure of his father’s voice echoing in his head, telling him he’s never quite good enough.

He needs a distraction.

Maybe the girl who apologizes to lampposts is exactly what he needs.

“Fine,” Garrett says, his voice hard with resolve. “Her. I’ll do it.”

“End of the semester,” Logan reminds him, holding up a finger.

“I won’t even need that long,” Garrett lies, leaning back on his elbows. “Consider it done.”

Dean snickers. “I’m booking the wax appointment right now. Just to be safe.”

Garrett ignores him, turning his gaze back to the path where you vanished. He has no idea how he’s going to get your attention. He doesn’t even know where to start. But as he watches the spot where you stood, a strange, unfamiliar flicker of anticipation settles in his chest.

Game on. 

***

It takes Garrett three full days to figure out how to approach you.

Three agonizing days of strategically loitering around the engineering building, looking like an idiot while pretending to check his phone, only to realize he’s hunting in the wrong territory. You don’t hang out on the quad. You don’t grab coffee at the student union. And you definitely don’t go to the campus bars.

He finally accepts the cold, hard truth: you are a creature of the library.

Which is how the captain of the Briar hockey team finds himself on the third floor of the campus library on a Thursday night, navigating a maze of dusty bookshelves and stressed-out undergrads. The air up here smells like old paper, stale espresso, and desperation. It’s entirely foreign territory.

Garrett spots you in the far corner.

You’ve constructed a literal fortress out of textbooks. It’s actually impressive. There’s a towering stack of hardcovers to your left, a barricade of notebooks to your right, and in the center, you’re hunched over a laptop, typing with a furious speed that suggests the fate of the free world depends on your keystrokes. You’re wearing the exact same oversized hoodie you had on when you fought that lamppost, with your hair twisted up in a messy clip.

He stands there for a moment, observing. He’s used to girls noticing him the second he walks into a room. He’s used to the sideways glances, the whispers, the subtle adjustments of hair and posture.

You don’t even blink.

Garrett rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He’s Garrett Graham. He doesn’t get nervous. He thrives under pressure.

He closes the distance between you and pulls out the heavy wooden chair directly across from you. It scrapes against the floor with a loud, obnoxious screech. Several people at nearby tables glare at him.

You don’t. You just keep typing.

Garrett slowly lowers himself into the chair. He props his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge his presence.

A minute passes.

Then two.

He clears his throat.

Nothing. Not a twitch.

“Okay,” Garrett mutters under his breath. He reaches over and lightly taps the back of your laptop screen.

You finally pause. Slowly, you lower the screen about three inches, just enough to peer over the top of it. Your eyes are deep and piercing, framed by thick lashes and currently narrowed in absolute irritation.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is flat, lacking any recognizable trace of awe or interest.

“Is this seat taken?” Garrett flashes his signature smile. The one that usually results in a phone number within thirty seconds.

You look around the library. “There are roughly forty empty chairs on this floor alone. Three of them are at the table right behind you.”

“I like this one,” Garrett says smoothly. “It has a great view.”

He expects a blush. A giggle. Even an eye roll would be something. Instead, you stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before lifting your laptop screen back up, effectively hiding your face again.

“Suit yourself. Just keep it quiet. I have a fluid dynamics midterm on Monday.”

The typing resumes.

Garrett stares at the silver Apple logo on the back of your computer, his jaw slightly slack. He’s been dismissed. Summarily and completely dismissed. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, spikes in his chest. This isn’t going according to plan. You’re not supposed to ignore him. You’re supposed to be flustered.

“Fluid dynamics, huh?” Garrett tries again, raising his voice slightly over the clatter of your keys. “Sounds intense.”

“It is,” you reply, not looking up.

“I’m more of a … physical learner, myself.”

“That’s fascinating.” Your tone is drier than the Sahara.

Garrett rubs the back of his neck. His usual playbook is entirely useless here. Flirting isn’t working. Charm is bouncing right off your textbook fortress. He needs an angle. Fast.

“Actually,” Garrett blurts out, the words leaving his mouth before his brain can filter them. “I’ve always had a really deep appreciation for aerospace.”

The typing stops abruptly.

The laptop screen is lowered again. This time, you don’t just peer over it. You push the laptop back entirely, resting your arms on the table and giving him your full, undivided attention. It’s intense enough to make him want to squirm.

“You,” you say slowly, “have a deep appreciation for aerospace.”

“Yep.” Garrett nods firmly. “Huge fan. Always have been.”

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a particularly confusing equation on a whiteboard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Garrett. Garrett Graham.”

“Well, Garrett Graham. Do you even know what aerospace engineering is?”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs, offended. “It’s … space. And planes. Rockets. Thrust.”

“Thrust,” you repeat, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow shooting upward.

“Yeah. Aerodynamics and all that.” Garrett is fully committed now. He’s digging a hole, but he’s determined to dig it with confidence. “I actually … I want to be an astronaut.”

The moment the word leaves his lips, Garrett wants to punch himself in the face.

An astronaut. Really? He’s a twenty-two-year-old hockey player majoring in history because it requires the least amount of science. He hasn’t taken a STEM class since his junior year of high school, and he only passed that because his lab partner felt sorry for him.

But he can’t take it back now.

You stare at him. The silence stretches between you, heavy and thick. Garrett braces himself for the rejection. For you to pack up your bags and leave.

Instead, a slow, amused expression begins to pull at the corners of your mouth. You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

“An astronaut,” you say, your voice dripping with sweet, lethal sarcasm.

“That’s right.”

“NASA or SpaceX?” You ask, firing the question like a slapshot.

“NASA, obviously,” Garrett counters, leaning into the lie. “Classic. You can’t beat the original.”

“Right. Because nothing says NASA material quite like a Briar University hockey jacket.” You nod toward his chest, where the interlocking BU logo sits over his heart.

Garrett glances down, momentarily cursing his wardrobe choices. “Hey, astronauts need to be in peak physical condition. Hockey is just … cross-training.”

“I see.” You tap a pen against your lower lip, a gesture that immediately draws his attention. “So, let’s look at the facts. You’re Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. You lead the division in scoring, but you also lead the team in penalty minutes.”

Garrett blinks, genuinely surprised. “You follow hockey?”

“I read the campus newspaper,” you correct him. “It’s practically shoved down our throats. So, you spend most of your weekends getting slammed into fiberglass boards by men who weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“It’s a contact sport.”

“It’s a concussion factory,” you deadpan. “You willingly subject yourself to repeated, blunt-force head trauma on a bi-weekly basis. And your GPA … well, considering I’ve never seen you in the science building, I’m going to guess you aren’t exactly pulling straight As in quantum mechanics.”

“My grades are perfectly fine.” It’s a defensive snap, and he hates how quickly you got under his skin.

“I’m sure they are. For history.” You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand. The annoyance from earlier has completely vanished, replaced by a sharp, analytical curiosity. “So, tell me, Garrett. How exactly does your propensity for violence and your complete lack of STEM experience translate to surviving zero gravity and piloting a multi-billion dollar spacecraft?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Closes it. He stares at you, momentarily paralyzed by how effortlessly you just dismantled him.

You aren’t intimidated by him. You aren’t swooning. You’re looking right through the bravado, the captain’s patch, and the reputation, and you’re calling his bluff with ruthless efficiency.

It’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

“I have excellent hand-eye coordination,” Garrett finally says, offering a lopsided grin.

You let out a short, sudden laugh. It’s a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the sterile quiet of the library. It hits Garrett squarely in the chest.

“Hand-eye coordination,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Well, I’m sure NASA will be thrilled to hear that. You can swat away the space debris with your hockey stick.”

“Exactly. See? I bring a unique skill set to the table.”

“You are completely full of shit,” you say, though there’s no real malice in your tone anymore.

“Guilty as charged.” Garrett shrugs, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “I don’t want to be an astronaut. I don’t even like flying on commercial planes. The legroom is terrible.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because you were ignoring me.” Garrett drops the charm, allowing a sliver of honesty to peek through. “And I’m not really used to being ignored.”

You study him for a moment, the amusement fading back into something more cautious. You glance down at the heavy textbook sitting open in front of you, the pages filled with complex equations and diagrams that make Garrett’s head hurt just looking at them.

“I wasn’t ignoring you to be rude,” you say quietly. “I’m just busy. This major isn’t a joke. If I don’t keep my head down, I’ll drown.”

“I get it,” Garrett says, and surprisingly, he does. He knows what pressure feels like. He knows what it’s like to have something you can’t afford to fail at. For you, it’s aerospace. For him, it’s hockey. If he fails, he has to face his father. The thought makes his stomach tighten. “You don’t have time for distractions.”

“No. I don’t.” You look back up at him. “And you, Garrett Graham, look exactly like a distraction.”

“I can be very helpful,” he argues. “I could … quiz you.”

“On fluid dynamics?”

“I can read flashcards. I know the alphabet.”

You smile again, a small, subtle curve of your lips, but it feels like a massive victory. “I don’t use flashcards.”

“Then I’ll just sit here and look pretty while you work.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Instead, you reach out and slowly pull your laptop screen back up.

“You have exactly twenty minutes before I pack up,” you tell him from behind the silver Apple logo. “If you breathe too loudly, I’m throwing a textbook at your head.”

“Deal.”

Garrett leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He spends the next twenty minutes in absolute silence, watching you work. He watches the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re frustrated. He watches the way you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. He watches the sheer, undeniable brilliance radiating from you as you tear through your notes.

When your phone alarm vibrates softly on the table, signaling that your twenty minutes are up, you immediately begin stacking your books.

Garrett sits forward, ready to offer to carry them, to walk you home, to do something, but you’re too fast. You shove everything into a worn-out backpack with practiced efficiency.

You stand up, slinging the heavy bag over one shoulder.

“Goodbye, Garrett,” you say.

“I’ll see you around, astronaut,” he replies.

You pause, looking down at him. “It’s Y/N.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t, actually. He hadn’t bothered to ask Dean if he ever figured it out. But he likes the way your name sounds in his head.

You shake your head, turning away. “Good luck with your thrust.”

Garrett watches you walk away, weaving your way through the tables until you disappear down the stairwell. He remains in the chair for a long time, the silence of the library pressing in around him.

He didn’t get your number. He didn’t secure a date. By Dean and Logan’s standards, this interaction was a complete and utter failure.

But as Garrett finally stands up and pushes his chair in, he can’t help but smile. He got you to look at him. He got you to laugh. He got you to admit that he wasn’t completely repulsive.

It’s a small win.

But Garrett is a competitor. He knows that championships aren’t won in a single game. They’re won shift by shift, battle by battle.

He walks out of the library, the cool night air hitting his face.

You are a fortress. You are heavily guarded, entirely focused, and completely unimpressed by everything he usually relies on.

This isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to take time, patience, and a whole lot of effort.

And for the first time in a very long time, Garrett is actually looking forward to it.

***

“What in the actual hell are you doing?”

Garrett doesn’t take his eyes off the television screen. He reaches blindly into the bowl resting on his stomach, grabs a handful of popcorn, and shoves it into his mouth. “I’m conducting research.”

Dean drops his hockey bag by the front door of the off-campus house they share with a heavy thud. He walks into the living room, staring at the screen in utter bewilderment. Logan and Tucker follow close behind, both stopping dead in their tracks.

On the screen, a laugh track blares as a tall, painfully thin guy in a Flash t-shirt says something about string theory.

“You’re watching The Big Bang Theory,” Logan says, his voice flat.

“Episode four, season one,” Garrett confirms, chewing thoughtfully. “I think I’m starting to pick up on the terminology. Bazinga.”

Tucker lets out a loud, wheezing laugh, doubling over. “Oh, my God. He’s broken. Our captain is broken.”

“I’m not broken,” Garrett snaps, pausing the TV. He turns to glare at his three teammates. “I’m adapting. You guys gave me an impossible target. The girl practically speaks a different language. If I’m going to get close to her, I need to understand her people.”

“Her people,” Dean repeats, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Garrett, she’s an engineering major, not an alien species. And I’m pretty sure watching a ten-year-old sitcom isn’t going to magically teach you thermodynamics.”

“It’s about the culture,” Garrett argues, though he knows he sounds completely ridiculous. He defends his ground anyway. “I need to know how to banter with her. Do you know what a quark is? Because I do now.”

“You are pathetic,” Logan says, walking over and snatching the popcorn bowl right off Garrett’s stomach. “You’re telling me you haven’t even talked to her since the library?”

“I have a strategy.” Garrett sits up, crossing his arms.

“Yeah? What’s the strategy? Quoting Sheldon Cooper until she sleeps with you?” Dean asks, throwing himself onto the adjacent armchair.

“Attrition,” Garrett says, pointing a finger at Dean. “It’s a classic military tactic. You wear the enemy’s defenses down over time. She’s heavily guarded. If I rush in there with cheesy pickup lines, she’s going to shut me down and ignore me until graduation. I have to acclimate her to my presence.”

Tucker snorts, heading for the kitchen. “Acclimate her. Like a feral cat.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, ignoring the insult. “I’m going to just … be there. Until she gets used to me. Until she expects me.”

“Well, good luck, Spock,” Logan says, tossing a piece of popcorn at Garrett’s head. “Just remember, the clock is ticking.”

Garrett brushes the popcorn off his shirt. The clock is ticking, but he isn’t worried. He has a plan.

***

Phase one of Garrett’s master plan begins the very next evening.

He finds you in your usual spot on the third floor of the library, fortified behind a wall of textbooks. He pulls the chair out across from you, the scrape of the wood cutting through the silence.

You slowly lower your laptop screen. The irritation in your eyes is palpable.

“I thought we established that you are not going to be an astronaut,” you say flatly.

“We did,” Garrett agrees, taking a seat and pulling a totally blank notebook out of his backpack. “I’ve moved on to a new dream. I’m thinking of working on a memoir. Requires a lot of writing. So, I’m here to write.”

You stare at the blank notebook. Then you look at him. “You don’t have a pen.”

“I’m a mental writer.”

You let out a heavy sigh, shaking your head before pulling your screen back up. “Don’t breathe too loud, Graham.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N.”

And that’s all he does. He sits there for two hours, pretending to look at his phone, while actually watching you work.

He does it again two days later. This time, you don’t even lower your screen. You just slide a loose piece of notebook paper across the table toward him without looking up. Written on it in neat, precise handwriting are the words: silence is golden.

He writes back: I’m the quietest guy you know. And slides it back.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you tuck the paper away.

By the end of the second week, Garrett notices a pattern. You are a machine, churning through complex equations and drafting endless schematics, but your fatal flaw is your basic human maintenance. Specifically, you forget to eat.

On a Wednesday night, after watching you rub your temples and wince for the fourth time in an hour, Garrett stands up. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks away.

Twenty minutes later, he returns.

You flinch slightly as a large, steaming paper cup and a brown pastry bag are deposited directly onto your open textbook.

You look from the cup, to the bag, and then up to Garrett as he takes his seat across from you.

“What is this?” You ask, your voice a mix of suspicion and exhaustion.

“Black coffee. Two sugars. And a blueberry muffin from the café downstairs,” Garrett says casually, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been staring at that same page for forty-five minutes. Your blood sugar is crashing. You look like a zombie.”

Your eyes narrow. “I do not look like a zombie.”

“You really do. A cute zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.”

The word slips out before he can stop it, but he doesn’t regret it when he sees a faint pink flush creep up your neck. You look down at the coffee cup, wrapping your hands around the warm cardboard.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” you say softly.

“I know,” Garrett replies. “Eat the muffin before I throw it at you.”

You finally open the bag, tearing off a piece of the muffin. You take a bite, and he watches your shoulders physically drop an inch as the sugar hits your system. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Just consider it a peace offering.”

“For what?”

“For taking up your oxygen.”

You take a sip of the coffee, closing your eyes for a brief second. “It’s good coffee.”

“I aim to please.”

The next time he comes to the library, he brings a turkey and swiss sandwich. You protest, but you eat the entire thing in under four minutes. The time after that, it’s a pack of peanut butter crackers and a Gatorade.

Slowly, the fortress starts to lower. You stop glaring when he pulls out his chair. You start greeting him when he sits down. Sometimes, when you take a break to rest your eyes, you actually complain to him about your professors.

Garrett listens. He doesn’t understand a word of the orbital mechanics jargon you vent about, but he listens to the tone of your voice, watches the animated way you wave your hands when you’re annoyed, and realizes, with a slight jolt of panic, that he genuinely enjoys your company.

It’s been three weeks. The acclimation phase is complete. It’s time to make a move.

***

It happens on a Monday.

Garrett tracks you down not in the library, but in a small courtyard outside the engineering building. It’s noon, the sun is shining, and you are sitting on a concrete bench with a terrifyingly thick textbook balanced on your knees.

He walks up, casting a shadow over your pages.

You blink, looking up and squinting against the sunlight. “Graham. What are you doing out here? It’s daylight. You’re usually a nocturnal pest.”

“Very funny,” Garrett says, offering a grin. He gestures toward the street. “Come on. Pack it up.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s lunchtime. You need to eat. And I am starving after morning ice time.”

You immediately shake your head, clutching the textbook tighter. “No way. I can’t. I have a lab report due at four, and I’m only halfway through the data analysis. I’m just going to skip lunch.”

“Skipping lunch is bad for cognitive function,” Garrett counters smoothly. “You told me that yourself two days ago when I tried to skip breakfast.”

“That’s different. You’re an athlete. You need calories to smash people into boards.”

“And you need calories to do math that looks like an ancient alien language.” Garrett steps closer, reaching out and gently tapping the cover of your book. “Come on. Just a quick bite. Thirty minutes. You’ll work twice as fast after you get some real food in you.”

“Garrett, I really can’t-”

“Please.” He drops his voice, leaning in just a fraction. He uses the look. The one that works on everyone. But he tempers it, adding a layer of genuine pleading. “I don’t want to eat alone. My teammates are animals and I need civilized company.”

You stare at him, your resolve visibly wavering. You look from his face, to your textbook, and back again. Finally, you let out a dramatic sigh that he’s coming to recognize as your personal white flag.

“Fine. Thirty minutes. Not a second more.”

“Deal.”

Garrett waits as you shove your massive book into your backpack. You stand up, adjusting the strap over your shoulder, and he falls into step beside you.

“There’s a Panera just off campus,” Garrett suggests. “Fast, decent food, and they have that green tea you like.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You noticed I drink green tea?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says, keeping his tone light.

The walk to the restaurant is surprisingly easy. You don’t talk much, still clearly pre-occupied with your lab report, but it’s a comfortable silence. When you arrive, the lunchtime rush is in full swing, but they manage to find a small booth near the window after ordering.

As the cashier rings them up, you immediately start digging into your backpack for your wallet.

“Don’t bother,” Garrett says, already handing his debit card to the cashier.

Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not. I’m paying for my own food.”

“I asked you out,” Garrett says, stepping smoothly in front of the card reader to block you physically. “I pay.”

“It’s not a date, Graham,” you hiss, trying to reach around his broad shoulder. “It’s a hostage situation you initiated.”

“Call it what you want. I’m paying.” He shoots the cashier a charming smile. “Just put it all on the card, please.”

You huff in annoyance, your arms crossing tightly over your chest as the receipt prints. “I’m paying you back.”

“You can try,” Garrett says, grabbing the pager and turning to you. “But I’m surprisingly fast for my size.”

You roll your eyes, but the fight drains out of you. You follow him to the booth, sliding into the vinyl seat with a heavy sigh.

Garrett sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. In the bright, natural light of the restaurant, away from the dim fluorescent bulbs of the library, he takes a moment to really look at you. The way your hair catches the light, the faint blush spreading across the bridge of your nose that he hadn’t noticed before. The sheer exhaustion pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“So,” Garrett starts, deciding to drop the playful banter for a moment. “Lab report due at four. Midterm on Thursday. Do you ever actually sleep, or do you just power down like a robot?”

You offer a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Six hours a night. Mostly. It’s just … crunch time right now.”

“It’s always crunch time with you,” Garrett observes. “I’ve never seen anyone study as much as you do. Not even the pre-med guys.”

You trace a pattern on the laminate table top with your fingernail. For a moment, he thinks you’re going to brush off the comment with a sarcastic remark. But instead, you let out a slow breath.

“I don’t really have a choice,” you say quietly.

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Not if I want to stay at Briar.” You look up, your eyes meeting his, stripped of their usual defensive walls. “I’m not here on a hockey scholarship, Garrett. I’m here on a full-ride academic scholarship. The only way I could afford this school.”

Garrett pauses, all the teasing immediately evaporating from his system. He leans forward, his full attention focused entirely on you. “Okay.”

“The terms are strict,” you continue, your voice low. “If my GPA drops below a 3.8, I lose the funding. Instantly. No probation, no second chances. I pack my bags and I go home. Aerospace is one of the hardest programs at this university. If I slip up on one lab report, or bomb one midterm, that 3.8 drops. So … I study.”

Garrett feels a sudden, sharp twist in his gut. All this time, he thought you were just a typical overachiever, obsessed with grades for the sake of being top of the class. He had no idea you were constantly walking a tightrope, with your entire future hanging in the balance.

It makes the crushing pressure he feels from his father seem almost … different. He plays hockey to escape his dad. You do math to secure your survival.

“That’s a hell of a lot of pressure,” he says honestly.

“It is what it is.” You shrug, though the tension in your shoulders betrays the casual movement. “It’s worth it. If I make it through, I get to do exactly what I want for the rest of my life.”

The pager on the table buzzes loudly, startling them both. Garrett jumps up quickly. “I’ll grab the food.”

When he returns with their trays, setting your soup and salad in front of you, he sits back down, his mind racing. The bet with the guys suddenly feels incredibly juvenile. Gross, even. You’re sitting here fighting for your academic life, and he’s treating you like a game to stroke his own ego.

He pushes the thought down. He can’t back out now, but he can at least make sure this isn’t a complete joke.

“So,” Garrett says, opening his sandwich wrapper. “Why aerospace? Out of everything you could have chosen. Why rockets and thrust?” He smirks slightly at the callback to your first conversation.

You roll your eyes, taking a spoonful of your soup. But as you swallow, a genuine, completely unguarded smile breaks across your face. It completely transforms you, wiping away the exhaustion and replacing it with pure, radiant passion.

“I grew up in Cocoa Beach,” you tell him, your voice softening.

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Florida?”

“Yeah. Right there on the Space Coast. When you live down there, launches are just a thing that happens in the background, you know? You’re playing in the yard, and suddenly the sky lights up and the windows rattle.” You pause, looking past him, lost in a memory. “But the last space shuttle launch. The final one back in 2011. STS-135 Atlantis.”

“You were there?”

“My dad took me out to the beach to watch it,” you say, your eyes practically glowing now. “I was young, just a teen, but I remember it perfectly. There were thousands of people packed onto the sand. And when the countdown hit zero, you didn’t just hear it. You felt it. The ground literally shook beneath my feet. And then this massive, beautiful machine just tore through the sky, defying gravity, heading for the stars.”

Garrett stops chewing his food. He’s completely captivated. Not by the story, but by the way you’re telling it.

“I looked up at that streak of fire in the sky,” you continue, your hands moving as you speak, “and I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I didn’t just want to watch them anymore. I wanted to build the things that go up there. I wanted to understand the math that makes the impossible, possible.”

You suddenly blink, pulling yourself back to the present. You clear your throat, picking up your spoon again, suddenly looking incredibly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m nerding out. You don’t care about this.”

“Are you kidding me?” Garrett asks, his voice thick with a sincerity that surprises even him. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You look at him, searching his face for any sign of mockery. When you find none, you relax slightly against the back of the booth. “It was pretty incredible.”

“I’ll bet.” Garrett takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, you’re from Florida. That explains why you look like you’re freezing to death every time the wind blows here.”

You let out a loud laugh, the sound bright and warm. “It is so cold here, Garrett. Unreasonably cold. Why do people live in this state?”

“It builds character,” he jokes. “Besides, it makes for good hockey.”

“Right. Hockey.” You tilt your head, studying him with that same analytical gaze from the library, but the edge is completely gone. It’s softer now. Curious. “So, tell me. Why do you do it? And don’t tell me it’s for the character building.”

Garrett hesitates. He doesn’t talk about hockey in a serious way. He talks about the glory, the hits, the stats. He never talks about the fact that the ice is the only place he feels completely in control. The only place where the ghost of his mother’s illness and the reality of his father’s fists can’t reach him.

He looks at you. You just handed him a piece of your soul, wrapped up in a story about a space shuttle.

“It’s quiet,” Garrett says slowly, the truth slipping out before his defenses can catch it.

Your brow furrows. “Quiet? I’ve seen clips on ESPN. It looks like the exact opposite of quiet.”

“The arena is loud,” Garrett clarifies, leaning forward. “The fans, the sirens, the coaches yelling. But when I’m on the ice … when I have the puck on my stick and I’m moving toward the net … everything else just turns off. The noise goes away. It’s just me, the ice, and the goal. It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up.”

You stare at him, your eyes wide, processing his words. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The clatter of the busy restaurant seems to fade away, leaving only the charged space between the two of you.

“I get that,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s how I feel when I finally solve an equation that’s been taking me days. The world just stops for a second.”

Garrett smiles, a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. He realizes, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that Dean, Logan, and Tucker were wrong.

He didn’t just pull a target. He found someone who actually understands him.

“Eat your soup,” he says softly. “You have a lab report to write.”

You smile back, picking up your spoon. “Yes, Captain.”

Garrett eats the rest of his sandwich, his heart beating a slightly different rhythm in his chest. He knows he has to win this bet. But as he watches you wipe your mouth with a napkin, he realizes he wants to win for entirely different reasons now.

He doesn’t just want you in his bed. He wants you in his life.

***

Garrett feels like an absolute idiot.

He is walking across the bustling Briar University quad on a Thursday afternoon, carrying a bouquet of bright, aggressively cheerful flowers wrapped in brown paper. He’s getting stares. A few whispers. Two girls from his sports sociology seminar actually stop in their tracks and giggle as he walks past.

He ignores all of it, adjusting his grip on the stems. He spent two hours on the internet and visited three different florists in town to find these specific flowers. If Logan, Dean, and Tucker could see him right now, he’d never hear the end of it. The captain of the hockey team, reduced to a lovesick errand boy.

But as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the engineering building, Garrett realizes he doesn’t actually care.

He checks the schedule you mentioned offhandedly two days ago. You should be getting out of your aerodynamics lecture right about now. He posts up against the tiled wall near the lecture hall doors, crossing his ankles and waiting.

Ten minutes later, the double doors swing open, and a flood of exhausted-looking students pours into the hallway. Garrett scans the crowd until he spots you. You’re wearing your signature oversized Briar hoodie, your hair clipped up, your nose already buried in a planner as you walk.

Garrett steps right into your path.

You stop short, narrowly avoiding a collision with his chest. You blink, looking up from your planner, the familiar flash of annoyance in your hazel eyes instantly softening when you register who it is.

“Graham,” you say, a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Are you stalking my classes now?”

“Just providing an escort service,” Garrett says casually. He pulls his hand from behind his back and extends the bouquet toward you. “Here.”

You freeze. Your eyes drop to the bright orange, pink, and yellow petals bursting from the paper. You don’t reach for them right away. Instead, you look back up at his face, your expression a mixture of confusion and deep suspicion.

“What is this?” You ask slowly.

“They’re flowers, Y/N. Usually, people give them to other people as a gesture of goodwill.”

“I know they’re flowers,” you say, rolling your eyes, though a faint pink flush is already rising on your cheeks. “But why are you giving them to me? Did you accidentally run over someone’s garden and need to ditch the evidence?”

Garrett laughs, stepping a fraction closer. “Take them.”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take the bouquet. You look down at the blooms, your fingers gently brushing against a bright orange petal. “They’re … really beautiful. What kind are they?”

“Zinnias,” Garrett says.

“Zinnias,” you repeat. You look up at him, waiting for the punchline. “Okay. Is there a joke I’m missing?”

“No joke.” Garrett shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, suddenly feeling entirely too vulnerable. He clears his throat. “I, uh … I read an article online. Well, Wikipedia. But the source cited an actual NASA press release, so I think it checks out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “NASA?”

“Yeah.” Garrett shifts his weight. “In 2016, astronaut Scott Kelly tweeted a picture of a flower from the International Space Station. It was the first flower to ever bloom entirely in space, in zero gravity.” He nods toward the bouquet in your hands. “It was a Zinnia.”

The hallway around them is noisy, filled with the chatter of students rushing to their next classes, but Garrett barely hears any of it. He is entirely focused on your face.

You look down at the flowers again. Your breath hitches, just slightly, but he catches it. When you look back up at him, your eyes are wide, shining with an emotion he can’t quite decipher. It’s a look of total shock.

“You …” you start, your voice barely a whisper. You clear your throat and try again. “You researched the first flower grown in space?”

“I did.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy them for Logan,” Garrett deadpans.

You let out a startled, breathless laugh, clutching the flowers closer to your chest. The walls you constantly keep up — the defenses, the sarcasm, the intense academic focus — seem to crumble right in front of him. You look genuinely touched.

“Garrett,” you say softly. “This is … I don’t even know what to say. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Say you’ll go on a date with me,” he counters smoothly, seizing the opening. “A real date. Friday night. Not Panera. Not the library. An actual dinner.”

You bite your lower lip, a habit he’s quickly becoming obsessed with. “I have a fluid dynamics quiz on Monday.”

“You’ve been studying for it since Tuesday. You know the material.” Garrett pulls one hand from his pocket and gently taps the cover of your planner. “Take one night off. Give your brain a rest. Let me take you out.”

You look from him, to the Zinnias, and then back to him. The hesitation in your eyes dissolves, replaced by a warm, definitive spark.

“Okay,” you say.

Garrett’s chest swells with a massive, undeniable sense of victory. “Okay?”

“Yes, Graham. It’s a date.” You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress nice. I’m taking you somewhere that uses real cloth napkins.”

You laugh again, a sound Garrett wants to bottle up and keep. “I’ll see you at seven.”

***

Friday night arrives, and the energy in the house is chaotic.

Garrett stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the cuffs of a crisp, dark blue button-down shirt. He checks his hair, runs a hand over his jaw to make sure his shave is clean, and grabs his favorite cologne.

The door to his bedroom swings open without a knock.

“Hey, G, are we ordering pizza or-” Dean stops dead in the doorway. His eyes go wide. “Whoa. Look at you.”

Logan and Tucker appear behind Dean a second later, peering into the room.

“Is there a funeral?” Tucker asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Very funny,” Garrett mutters, grabbing his wallet and keys off the dresser. “I’m going out.”

“With the lamppost girl?” Logan asks, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re wearing a collar for the lamppost girl? Damn, the strategy must be working.”

Garrett shoots Logan a dark look. “Her name is Y/N. And yeah, I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Where? The dining hall?” Dean teases.

“Osteria.”

The three guys fall completely silent. Osteria is the nicest Italian place in town. It takes a week to get a reservation, and it definitely isn’t cheap.

“You’re taking the bet to Osteria?” Logan asks, his smirk fading into genuine confusion. “Garrett, you just need to get her in bed. You don’t need to buy her a fifty-dollar steak.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Hearing them call you that suddenly makes his stomach turn. It feels dirty. It feels wrong. The bet was a stupid, arrogant mistake, but the date tonight? The date is real. He wants it to be real.

“I know what I’m doing,” Garrett snaps, pushing past them into the hallway. “Don’t wait up.”

He leaves the house before they can say anything else, his pulse drumming a heavy beat against his ribs.

Twenty minutes later, Garrett pulls his Jeep up to the curb outside your apartment complex. He walks up the exterior stairs to the second floor, his palms actually sweating. He wipes them on his dark jeans before raising a hand to knock on your door.

He waits. He hears footsteps inside, the slide of a deadbolt, and then the door pulls open.

Garrett’s brain instantly flatlines.

You are standing in the doorway, and you look absolutely devastating. The oversized hoodies and messy buns are completely gone. In their place is a sleek, black slip dress that hugs your curves perfectly, the silk material catching the warm porch light. Your hair is down, falling in soft, loose waves over your shoulders. You’re wearing a touch of makeup — dark mascara that makes your eyes pop, and a dark red lip that makes Garrett’s mouth go entirely dry.

You aren’t wearing your glasses.

“Hi,” you say, a nervous, shy smile breaking across your face.

Garrett realizes he hasn’t spoken. He’s just staring. He forces his vocal cords to work. “Hi. Wow. You look … wow.”

You laugh, the sound a little breathless, and step out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind you. “Is that a good thing, or do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“It’s a very, very good thing,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. You look stunning. You look like the kind of girl who stops traffic. “I feel incredibly underdressed.”

“You look great, Garrett,” you say softly, your eyes raking over his button-down and jeans. You step closer, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral washing over him. “Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Garrett clears his throat, finally finding his brain again. He steps to the side, pressing a light hand against the small of your back to guide you toward the stairs. “My car is right down here.”

The drive to the restaurant is easy, filled with light banter about the horrific traffic on campus and a debate over the local sports radio station playing quietly in the background. But the moment they walk into Osteria, the atmosphere shifts into something more intimate.

The restaurant is dimly lit, smelling of garlic, roasting meats, and expensive wine. The maître d’ leads you to a secluded booth in the back corner.

Once they’re seated, Garrett watches you pick up the menu. The candlelight flickers across your face, highlighting the sharp line of your jaw and the soft curve of your lips. He is genuinely captivated.

“Okay, I stand corrected,” you say, scanning the menu. “They do use real cloth napkins here. And the prices don’t actually have dollar signs next to them. That’s how you know it’s fancy.”

“Don’t worry about the prices,” Garrett says immediately. “Order whatever you want.”

You lower the menu, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to bribe me, Graham?”

“I’m trying to impress you,” he admits, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You already gave me space flowers,” you point out, a soft smile playing on your lips. “The bar is pretty high.”

“I like a challenge.”

The waiter arrives, and they order. Garrett asks for a bottle of red wine, and you don’t object, even allowing him to pour you a glass when it arrives.

Once the waiter leaves, the quiet intimacy of the booth settles over them again. You take a sip of the wine, your eyes locking onto his.

“So,” you say, tracing the rim of your glass. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the team. Unlikely future astronaut. You know all about my stress, my scholarship, and my deep, abiding love for rockets. But I feel like I barely know anything real about you.”

Garrett shifts slightly in his seat. He’s used to girls asking him about his stats, his NHL chances, or his workout routine. He isn’t used to anyone asking him to be real.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Start with the basics,” you suggest. “Where are you from?”

“In New York. The city, mostly. But my dad moved us out to the suburbs when I was in middle school so I could play for a better youth hockey program.”

“Ah,” you nod slowly. “A hockey family.”

“Something like that.” Garrett takes a long drink of his wine. The familiar, bitter taste of resentment coats his tongue whenever he thinks about his father. He decides to test the waters, offering a piece of the truth he rarely shares. “My dad played in the NHL. Phil Graham. He had a solid career with the Rangers. Made a lot of money. Won a Norris.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Wow. That’s a huge legacy to follow.”

“Yeah. It is.” Garrett stares into his glass. “He’s … intense. To put it mildly. He thinks second place is just the first loser. If I don’t score a hat trick, the game is a failure. If I don’t get drafted in the first round, my career is a bust.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you say softly.

Garrett looks up. There’s no pity in your eyes. Just a quiet, steady understanding. “It is. But it’s the way he is. He trained me to be a machine. No distractions. No emotions. Just the puck and the net.”

“Is that why you act like nothing ever bothers you?” You ask, your tone completely devoid of judgment. “Because you were trained to shut it off?”

Garrett feels a jolt of shock run through him. You see right through him. You always have, from the very first day in the library. You don’t buy the charming, carefree persona he projects to the rest of the world.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice thick. “I guess it is. If I don’t care, he can’t use it against me.”

You reach across the small table. Your fingers lightly brush against his knuckles, a fleeting, electrifying touch that makes Garrett’s breath catch.

“You’re allowed to care, Garrett,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

He flips his hand over, catching your fingers before you can pull away. He intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand on the table. Your skin is soft, warm, and the connection sends a rush of heat straight to his chest. You don’t pull back. You just look at him, your eyes dark and magnetic in the candlelight.

“I’m starting to care about a lot of things,” he says, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

The waiter returns with their food, forcing you to break apart, but the tension between you only thickens as the meal progresses. The conversation flows effortlessly. You argue playfully about the best sci-fi movies, you mock the pretentious names of the dishes on the menu, and you share stories about their worst college professors.

Garrett realizes, halfway through his steak, that he is having the best night of his life. He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to be the cool, detached captain. He is just Garrett, and you are looking at him like he’s the only person in the room.

By the time the waiter clears their plates and brings out a slice of tiramisu to share, the air between them is practically humming with electricity.

You take a bite of the dessert, groaning softly as the chocolate and espresso hit your tongue. “Oh, my god. That is incredible.”

Garrett watches the movement of your mouth, his mind suddenly going entirely blank of anything but the intense, overwhelming urge to kiss you.

“Glad you like it,” he manages to say, his voice tight.

“You aren’t having any?” You ask, offering him the fork.

“I’m good,” he says, his eyes locked on your lips. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching again. The playful banter fades away, replaced by a heavy, charged silence. You put the fork down, your eyes dropping to his mouth before rising back to his eyes.

Garrett signals for the check, pays quickly, and they step out of the restaurant into the cool, crisp autumn air.

You shiver almost instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Okay, the food was amazing, but I officially hate Massachusetts weather.”

Without a word, Garrett shrugs off his suit jacket and steps behind you, draping it over your bare shoulders. The warmth of his body heat transfers to you, and you lean back slightly into his chest, letting out a soft sigh.

“Better?” He asks, his voice rumbling right by your ear.

“Much,” you whisper.

He rests his hands lightly on your shoulders for just a second longer than necessary before guiding you to the Jeep.

The drive back to campus is quiet, but it’s not the comfortable silence of earlier. It’s heavy. It’s loaded with anticipation. The radio plays softly, but Garrett barely registers the song. His hands grip the steering wheel tight, his mind racing.

He wants to keep you. He wants to drag this night out until the sun comes up.

He pulls up to the intersection where he normally turns right to head to your apartment.

The blinker ticks loudly in the quiet cab of the car.

Garrett doesn’t turn the wheel. He hits the brake, sitting at the red light, and looks over at you. You are already looking at him, buried in his suit jacket, your eyes dark and expectant in the shadows of the car.

“I don’t want to take you home yet,” Garrett says, the words spilling out before he can overthink them. He is laying all his cards on the table. No games. No strategies. Just the raw, honest truth. “I don’t want this night to end.”

You hold his gaze, the silence stretching out between you. Garrett’s heart hammers against his ribs. He waits for the rejection. He waits for you to tell him about the fluid dynamics quiz, or the late hour, or the fact that you need to go to sleep.

Instead, you reach out and place your hand gently over his on the center console.

“I don’t want it to end either,” you say softly.

Garrett turns his hand, threading his fingers through yours once again. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Do you … do you want to come back to my place?”

The light turns green.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” you say. “Take me to your place, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding since he met you. He flips the blinker off, hits the gas, and drives straight through the intersection, heading away from your apartment, and straight toward the house.

***

The drive takes less than ten minutes, but to Garrett, it feels like an eternity. Every time he shifts gears, his knuckles brush against the soft fabric of his suit jacket still draped over your shoulders. The car is completely silent save for the low hum of the engine and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

He pulls into the gravel driveway and cuts the engine. The house is dark. Dean, Logan, and Tucker are out, probably at whatever Friday night mixer is happening on campus. For the first time in his life, Garrett is overwhelmingly grateful for his teammates’ predictable party habits.

“They’re not here,” Garrett says, his voice low in the quiet cab.

“Good,” you murmur, turning your head to look at him. Your eyes catch the faint amber glow of the streetlamp outside. There’s a nervous energy radiating from you, but there’s no hesitation in your voice.

He gets out, walking around the front of the Jeep to open your door. You step down, shivering slightly as the brisk autumn air hits your bare legs, and Garrett instinctively wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your side flush against his chest.

“Let’s get you inside,” he whispers.

He guides you up the porch steps, his keys jingling as he unlocks the front door. The house smells faintly of stale beer and athletic gear, but Garrett barely registers it. He leads you straight past the living room and up the wooden stairs to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

He pushes the door open and reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, bathing the room in a warm, dim light. His room is surprisingly clean — he’d practically scrubbed it top to bottom before the date, just in case.

You step inside, your eyes darting around the space, taking in the framed hockey jerseys, the neatly made bed, the stack of textbooks on his desk. Garrett closes the door behind you, the click of the latch echoing loudly in the quiet room.

The moment the door shuts, the reality of the situation settles over you both. The air is suddenly heavy, thick with anticipation. Garrett stays by the door, his hands in his pockets, watching you. He’s dying to touch you, to close the distance, but he forces himself to stay put.

“Y/N,” he says softly.

You turn to face him, clutching the lapels of his oversized jacket. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his gaze locking onto yours. He needs to know. He needs to hear it. “Because we can just hang out. You can borrow a t-shirt and go to sleep. I don’t want you to feel pressured just because I bought you dinner.”

A small, genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a step toward him. Then another. Until you are standing right in front of him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body.

“I’m sure, Garrett,” you whisper, tilting your head up. “I want to be here.”

That’s all it takes.

Garrett’s hands come out of his pockets, immediately finding your waist. He pulls you against him, ducking his head, and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is explosive. It’s not slow or tentative. It’s exactly what he’s been craving all night. His mouth opens over yours, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting the sweet, dark hint of the tiramisu and the intoxicating flavor that is just you. You let out a soft gasp, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you kiss him back with a fierce, unexpected intensity.

“Fuck,” Garrett groans against your mouth. His hands slide up your back, gripping the jacket and pulling it off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

He steps forward, backing you slowly across the room until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You tumble back onto the comforter, and Garrett follows you down, bracketing your body with his arms.

He takes a second to just look at you. Your dark hair is fanned out across his pillows, your lips are swollen and slick from his mouth, and the black silk slip dress rides dangerously high on your thighs.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw, down the column of your neck. He feels your pulse jumping wildly against his lips.

“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Take this off. Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits up slightly, grabbing the hem of your slip dress. “Lift your arms.”

You comply, and he pulls the silk over your head, tossing it aside. You are left in a matching set of black lace underwear, and Garrett feels his mouth go completely dry. He traces a finger down the center of your stomach, watching the way your muscles jump and quiver under his touch.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, leaning down to press a hot, wet kiss to your stomach.

Garrett takes his time. He wants to memorize every inch of you. He unhooks your bra, peeling it away, and his mouth immediately replaces the fabric. He circles the tight peak of your nipple with his tongue, sucking gently, and you let out a high, sweet moan that sends a surge of blood straight to his groin.

“You like that, Starshine?” He asks, his voice thick and raspy.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips arching up off the mattress involuntarily. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He continues to worship your chest, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your lace panties, slowly dragging them down your legs and tossing them onto the floor.

You instinctively try to cross your legs, a sudden flash of vulnerability crossing your face, but Garrett gently catches your knees, pressing them open.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble. He rests his forearms on your thighs, looking at you. “I want to see you.”

He leans in, pressing his mouth to the soft skin of your inner thigh, right near your center. You jump, your fingers digging into his bedsheets.

“Garrett-”

“Relax,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you first.”

He trails his lips higher, his breath ghosting over your slick, swollen folds. The scent of your arousal fills his senses, sweet and completely intoxicating. He traces the delicate seam with the tip of his nose, and then, slowly, he presses his tongue flat and takes a long, slow drag upward.

You scream his name, your entire body bucking off the bed.

“Shh,” he soothes, though he’s smiling against you. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you higher, tilting your hips exactly where he needs them. “I’ve got you.”

He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. He swirls his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking hard, and then diving two fingers inside you. You are incredibly tight, and so wet his fingers slide in effortlessly. He curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust of his hand, mirroring the flick of his tongue.

“Oh my god,” you sob, thrashing on the pillows. “Garrett. Please. I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, quickening his pace. “Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it.”

You unravel completely. Your thighs clamp down on his head, your nails ripping into the sheets as a violently intense orgasm tears through your body. You cry out, your core pulsing and clenching frantically around his fingers, milking him of every drop of sanity he has left.

Garrett waits until the last of your tremors subside before he pulls away. He crawls back up your body, his chest heaving, and captures your lips in a devastating kiss, letting you taste your own release on his tongue.

You are completely limp, your eyes half-closed, a dazed, blissful smile on your face.

Garrett pulls back, stripping off his button-down shirt and throwing it across the room. He kicks off his shoes, shoves his jeans and boxers down his legs, and stands by the bed, completely bare.

Your eyes drag down his chest, lingering on the hard planes of his stomach, before dropping lower. Your eyes go wide, a flash of something akin to panic crossing your face for a fraction of a second, but you quickly mask it, biting your lower lip.

Garrett turns, opening the drawer of his nightstand and pulling out a foil packet. He tears it open, quickly rolling the condom down his length, before moving to hover over you.

He settles between your legs, his knees sinking into the mattress. He braces his weight on his forearms, looking down into your flushed face.

“You okay?” He checks, his thumb brushing a stray piece of hair off your forehead.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper, reaching up to run your hands over his broad shoulders. “I want you.”

Garrett groans, the sound completely animalistic. He shifts his hips forward, aligning the blunt head of his cock with your slick opening. He pushes forward, letting himself sink into your heat.

But immediately, he feels resistance. It’s tight. Impossibly tight. And as he pushes another fraction of an inch, your breath hitches sharply, your hands flying to his chest to grip his biceps.

“Ouch,” you gasp, your body tensing completely.

Garrett stops instantly.

Every alarm bell in his head goes off. He freezes, pulling back slightly, his eyes snapping to your face. You are biting your lip, your eyes squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.

He pulls out entirely.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice laced with concern. He looks down, and the sight makes his heart completely stop in his chest.

There is a single, vivid streak of crimson blood on his condom.

Garrett stares at it. The room suddenly starts spinning. The air is sucked entirely out of his lungs.

He looks back up at you. You have opened your eyes, and you are staring at the ceiling, your cheeks burning with a fierce, humiliated blush. You look incredibly small, pulling the edge of the comforter over your chest.

“Y/N,” Garrett repeats, his voice trembling now. “Look at me.”

You slowly turn your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Are you … is this your first time?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You pick at a thread on the comforter, your voice incredibly quiet when you finally speak.

“Yes.”

The word hits Garrett like a physical blow to the stomach. A brutal, agonizing hit that leaves him completely winded.

A virgin.

You are a virgin.

And he is about to take your virginity to win a fucking bet.

A wave of nausea washes over him so intensely he actually feels dizzy. The memory of Dean, Logan, and Tucker laughing on the quad violently assaults his brain. You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.

He is a monster. He is worse than his father. His father broke his mother’s body, but Garrett is about to shatter your heart. You, the girl who apologizes to lampposts. The girl who gets starry-eyed talking about space shuttles. The girl who looks at him like he’s actually a good person.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly, your voice cracking. “I should have told you. I just … I know you’re super experienced, and I didn’t want you to think I was a total loser or some kind of prude. I just … I’ve never had the time. Or met anyone I wanted to do this with. Until you.”

Your words twist the knife deeper.

“Hey,” Garrett says immediately, forcing the panic down, forcing the crushing guilt into a dark, locked box in the back of his mind. He has to take care of you right now. He can hate himself later. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “Do not apologize. Are you crazy? Y/N, you’re not a loser.”

“But you stopped,” you whisper, tears shining in your eyes. “I’m ruining it.”

“You are not ruining anything,” he says fiercely. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m just … I’m honored, baby. I just wish I had known so I could have been gentler. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It only hurt for a second,” you assure him, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “I promise. Please, Garrett. I want to. I want it to be you.”

God, he wants to throw up. He wants to pull away, put his clothes on, and run out of the room. But looking at your face, so open, so trusting, so incredibly beautiful — he knows that pulling away now would destroy your confidence. It would humiliate you.

He’s in it. He has to finish this. And he vows right then and there, he is going to make it the best experience you’ve ever had.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “Okay. But you have to tell me if it hurts too much. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Garrett settles back between your legs. He reaches down, sliding a hand between your folds, using the slickness of your earlier orgasm to massage you, stretching you gently with two fingers before he tries again. He leans down, capturing your lips, keeping your mouth busy and distracted as he aligns himself once more.

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You inhale sharply, and as you exhale, Garrett pushes forward.

He goes excruciatingly slow. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to drive deep, to bury himself to the hilt, but he fights it. He pushes through the tight, resistant barrier with agonizing patience. You whimper against his mouth, your nails biting into his shoulders, but you don’t tell him to stop.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he praises you, his voice ragged. “You’re doing so good for me. Just relax. Let me in.”

He pushes the rest of the way, finally seating himself completely inside you. You are so tight it takes his breath away, his cock throbbing from the intense pressure. He stays perfectly still, burying his face in your neck, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him.

“Garrett,” you gasp, your arms wrapping tightly around his back. “Wow.”

“You okay?” he pants, pressing a kiss to the pulse point jumping at your throat.

“Yeah. The pain is gone. It just feels … really full.”

“It feels perfect,” he corrects, pulling back slightly to look at your face. The tension has left your features, replaced by a heavy-lidded, glazed look of arousal.

Slowly, carefully, Garrett pulls back, almost to the tip, and drives forward again.

You let out a soft moan, your hips instinctively tilting up to meet him.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins to move, establishing a slow, steady, grounding rhythm. He makes love to you with a reverence he’s never shown anyone in his entire life. He watches your face, memorizing the way your brow furrows when he hits a certain spot, the way your lips part as he drags himself out and slides back in.

He makes sure every thrust counts. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, and begins to rub in circles, matching the pace of his hips.

“Oh!” You cry out, your eyes flying open. “Garrett-”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing you deeply. “Let it go, baby. Come for me again.”

The combination is too much for you. You don’t last long. Your internal muscles clamp down viciously around his cock, triggering a second, violent orgasm. You scream his name, your body arching like a bowstring.

The feeling of you coming around him snaps Garrett’s control entirely. He lets out a guttural groan, driving into you hard, once, twice, three times, before his own climax rips through him. It is blinding. It is the most intense, earth-shattering release he has ever experienced. He empties himself into the condom, his entire body trembling with the force of it.

He collapses on top of you, burying his face in the pillows next to your head, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

You wrap your arms around him, your hands tracing soothing patterns up and down his sweaty back.

“That was …” you whisper, sounding completely dazed. “That was incredible.”

Garrett closes his eyes, a profound sense of self-loathing pooling in his gut. “Yeah,” he manages to say.

After a few minutes, Garrett forces himself to move. He rolls off you, pulling the condom off and tossing it in the trash, before grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand. He gently cleans you up, his heart breaking all over again when he sees the faint smear of pink on the white tissue.

He climbs back into bed, pulling the thick comforter up over both of you.

You immediately curl into his side. You rest your head on his chest, right over his heart, and drape an arm across his stomach. You are warm, soft, and smelling like vanilla and sex.

“I really like you, Garrett,” you murmur, your voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m really glad you talked to me in the library.”

Garrett stares up at the ceiling. The shadows in the room seem darker now. Menacing.

“I’m glad too,” he lies, his voice barely a whisper.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you tight as your breathing slows and evens out, signaling that you’ve fallen asleep.

Garrett remains wide awake.

The digital clock on the nightstand flips from 1:00 AM to 1:01 AM.

He just won the bet. He secured his victory. His chest is safe from a wax.

And he has never felt like more of a loser in his entire life.

He is in too deep. This hasn’t been a game to him since the second week in the library. He cares about you. He cares about your stupid equations, and your obsession with space, and the way you apologize to inanimate objects.

He’s falling in love with you.

And when you find out how this started — when you find out that your virginity was the punchline to a joke in the campus quad — it is going to destroy you. And you will never forgive him.

Garrett pulls you a little tighter against his chest, staring into the dark. He knows he has to tell you. He has to confess before someone else does.

But as you let out a soft, contented sigh in your sleep, Garrett knows he’s a coward. Because right now, the thought of losing you hurts far more than the guilt.