railings of sorrow

You look up from your phone. “What about it?”

He took a second to answer as he twisted the wrench, his knuckles white against the metal. He didn't look up, focusing intently on the engine. The sweat dripping off his forehead made you grimace in disgust. 

“Are you two a thing?”

“We are dating, yes.” You scratched your wrist suddenly self-conscious of the topic. 

The thing with Dean wasn't at all serious and both of you knew that, but apparently some of your friends didn't buy that you were in a relationship so everyday you had to convince someone. It was a tiring job, but one that was close to its end since your cousin's wedding was coming up next Saturday. 

The whole point was to not show up alone and make everyone in your family who enjoys dealing with your life too much to shut the hell up and leave you alone. 

This is where Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis comes in. Other than being a good kisser — great, actually, but he doesn't have to know that — he was the perfect bait for your plan to work. 

It hadn't really been your plan. Dean was the mastermind behind it all. You had to give it to him, he proposed a good deal. 

“You want to make it worse for him?” 

You felt Mason's eyes glued to your side profile on the other side of the room. You focused your gaze on Dean, raising a brow questioningly.

Dean wasn't stupid. He knew you were using him to make your ex jealous, that much was clear. And he was enjoying it in his own way. He just wanted to do a little more… since he couldn't punch the idiot who broke your heart. 

The two of you weren't close, you just had the same group of friends and you spoke maybe once or twice. 

It's not like Dean hadn't tried that door.

You were attractive and he was extremely interested but Logan gave him The Talk and he backed off. Logan was one of his best friends and he knew you since you were a kid after all. Dean wasn't a complete asshole. 

With a tilt of your head and a little curious smile, you asked, “What do you have in mind?” 

And here you were, two months so far in a fake relationship with Dean Di Laurentis. 

You had rules, of course. Written out on a sticky note.

1. Do not sleep with other people (so we don't look like fools??) 2. Keep PDA to a minimum 3. We break up after Carly's wedding 

Dean wasn't helpful with rule number two. He didn't give a shit to it, actually. Every time you almost ended up in bed with him, you had to remind yourself what was the deal and that you had to follow the plan.

Following the plan also included lying to your best friend. 

“And he's treating you well?” 

“Yeah, Logan. He’s... he’s great.”

Logan grunted, finally standing up and wiping his grease-stained hands on the rag. He didn't look entirely convinced, his gaze flicking toward your phone one last time before he sighed.

“Just making sure he knows what he has,” Logan said, his voice dropping into that familiar, protective tone. 

“Relax, I can take take of my—Who the fuck keeps—” You grumbled, yanking your phone from your bag to check the thousands of messages that were popping up on your notification bar. 

[Dean]: what about this one? I think it matches my eyes. (image attached)  [Dean]: or this one?  (image attached)  [Dean]: wait do I have to match your dress?  [Dean]: what's the color of your maid of honor dress btw?

“Is that him?” 

“Mhm?” You mumbled distractedly. 

Logan rolled his eyes. In order for you to pay attention to him, he dragged a dirty finger against your cheek, causing you to immediately look up from your phone and pull away in indignation.

“I'm gonna kill you, Logan—”

He swerved from your slaps, laughing at the same time. “You get that stupid smile whenever he texts you.”

“I do not.” You pushed him by the shoulder, feeling your cheeks heat up. 

You stood up, shoving your phone in your bag and then fixing your hair. “I gotta head to practice.”

“I guess you two are cool for each other.” Logan's comment made you stop on your way to your bike. He was putting away all of his tools because he was finished with the car. When he noticed you staring at him, he raised a brow questioningly. “What?”

“Where's the catch? You never liked any of my boyfriends.” 

“You only had one boyfriend and he was a crappy one.” Logan loved throwing the truth in your face. That was his specialty. 

Walking up to the front of your bike, he held onto the handles, big brown eyes staring at you as he did when he needed you to listen to him. 

“I think he actually cares, for once. But if he does something, anything…” He poked your forehead and you slapped his hand away. “Just say the word.”

“You won't fight your teammate for me and he won't do that.” You laughed, starting to ride off. “And get to class! Don't be late again, you have that assignment today!”

“Will do!” He said, waving you off though he watched you until you were well out of the garage.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“I think they like me more than they like you.” 

Dean's voice was infuriating close to your neck while you washed the dishes. 

He was already at the apartment you shared with your roommates when you arrived there. Sitting on the couch, grinning with his dimples at display and  your friends completely enamoured by whatever he did or said. 

The guy was charming and everyone knew that but did they have to be that transparent? 

“They have known me for years. They've known you for five seconds.” You gave him another plate so he could dry it off. 

“Exactly and I'm already their favorite. You should get better friends.”

“I should get a better boyfriend.”

Dean rested his hip against the kitchen counter, head tilting to the side, eyes trailed to your every move. “You don't mean that.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I do.” 

He didn't even look at the plate, instead kept his eyes on your face, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Stepping just a fraction closer, invading your personal space in that way that always made your heart stutter, he made you pause on your way of putting the cutlery away.

“You're constantly ignoring my texts. I sent you photos of two perfectly good suits, and you left me on read for three hours.” Dean pursed his lips into a pout. “I should get a better girlfriend.”

“Aw, are you gonna cry because I didn't answer you as fast as your puck bunnies?”

Dean let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound vibrating in the small kitchen. He didn't pull back; instead, he leaned in further, his chest now mere inches from yours, forcing you to crane your neck to keep looking at him.

“Okay.” He breathed out, fingers lingering on your jawline for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he pulled a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Can you at least answer me which color your dress will b— I got it.” ​He anticipated your move before you could even shift your weight, reaching over you to place the plates from the top shelf as you rose on your tiptoes. That proximity was dizzying, his arm acting as a barrier that made the kitchen feel impossibly small. It was already small!

“Thanks… it's baby blue.” you replied, your voice coming out steadier than you felt as you handed him the last of the clean plates. You kept your gaze fixed on the task, but your pulse was racing. “But you should wear the black one.” 

“You think I look hotter in it?”

“Yeah.” The smirk dropped from Dean’s face. He clearly hadn't expected you to be so blunt. You felt a twitch of amusement at his surprise. A rare sight but a good one nonetheless. 

For a moment, everything else slipped away from your mind. His light blue eyes stared right into yours as he closed your distance, hands dropping to your waist like a magnet and lowered his head to capture your lips.

When you finally pulled back, you could hear the faint, suppressed squeals of your roommates from the living room.

They had been watching the whole time.

You suddenly remembered you had an audience.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across your face. You leaned in, your voice lowering to a whisper against his ear. “There. They totally bought it.” You stepped back, patting his chest firmly before smoothing down your shirt.

You turned and walked toward the living room, heart hammering against your ribs, leaving him in the silence of the kitchen.

Dean didn't follow immediately. He stood by the counter, his hands still feeling the warmth of your waist, his eyes tracking every movement of your retreating figure. A slow realization settled over him, settling deep in his chest like an itch he couldn't stop.

It’s all about convincing, Dean thought, watching you walk away. I’m doing a fucking great job at it, apparently.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Your cousin's wedding was going to be in Ipswich. It was about a forty five hour drive but traffic was a little tricky. 

For most of the time it was a fucking annoying road trip. Through half of it,  Dean and Logan's singing competition and your complaint about the cold AC kept you entertained. 

Dean’s hand moved from the wheel to cover yours on the center console at some point, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You squeezed his hand before he lifted it again toward the wheel. 

Once the car was parked, you pushed your door open and stepped out into the crisp evening air, your joints popping as you let out a long and satisfied stretch. 

Behind you, the heavy thud of the trunk closing signaled that Logan and Dean had finished offloading the luggage.

The three of you had enough time to go up to your hotel rooms, take a shower and change clothes. You met Carly and her soon-to-be-husband, Mark, in the hotel’s private dining room. Logan was already inserted in the crowd as you and Dean arrived there. His hand sliding from your waist to firmly tuck into the small of your back. 

“You look beautiful.” He whispered right before Carly and Mark found you and started to approach. 

“You already said that.” 

“And I'll say it ten times more.” The blonde kissed below your ear, making you straighten up. He loved that reaction. 

Carly’s voice was bright and melodic as she reached you, her face lighting up. She bypassed the formal introduction entirely and pulled you into a tight hug, followed quickly by Mark, who clapped a welcoming hand on your shoulder.

“We were starting to think you got lost in the hotel corridors,” Mark joked, his eyes shifting to the man standing at your side.

You stepped back, keeping your hand resting lightly on Dean’s forearm. “Carly, Mark, this is Dean, my boyfriend. Dean, this is my cousin Carly and her fiancé, Mark.”

Dean extended his hand, his posture shifting into that practiced, charming ease he reserved for people he needed to impress. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, his smile turning disarming and polite.

Carly looked him up and down, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She glanced at you, then back to Dean, her grin widening. “Well, look at you. When she said you were a hockey player, I didn't buy it, but I do now.”

Mark rolled his eyes, a small, amused smile playing on his lips as he shook his head at his fiancée. “Carly, behave yourself. It’s nice to meet you, Dean. She’s told us a lot about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Dean replied smoothly, his hand moving to the small of your back. He steered you forward gently toward your table as Carly and Mark showed you to it. 

The dinner had the kind of atmosphere that usually made you want to retreat into your own head, but tonight, you found yourself entirely unable to look away from Dean.

He was sitting to your left, shoulder brushing against yours every time he shifted in his seat. He was effortlessly navigating the table, charming Carly’s mother with jokes and answering Mark’s questions about his team. You watched the way his jaw worked when he laughed, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, and the way he constantly checked in with you, his hand dropping to your knee under the table just to make sure you were okay.

What was happening with your body? It was like it had a mind of its own. You had to squeeze your thighs in a few moments whenever his lips got too close or his hand caressed your thigh. 

You were just… hyper-aware. Every time you tried to focus on the conversation, your gaze drifted back to him. You were captivated by the contrast between his public persona and the subtle, private gestures he directed only at you.

“You're not drinking,” you whispered, leaning in close enough that your breath ghosted against his temple.

He shrugged. “Not in the mood tonight.” 

“But you won't drive.” You quipped, finishing your fourth glass of wine. 

“No, baby, but I will have to carry you back if you keep that up.” A smirk stretched into his lips. His thumb reaching the corner of your mouth. “Lipstick stain.” 

Baby.

“Probably cause you kissed me.” You murmured with your voice dropping, the flirtation hanging heavy in the space between you.

Dean let his thumb linger on your lower lip, gaze dropping to your mouth before flickering back up to your eyes. He looked back toward the rest of the guests, shifting slightly on his chair. 

The walk back to your shared room felt like a fever dream. Dean did place at least five glasses of water before the two of you retracted back to the room, making sure you were sober enough to not have a killer headache in the morning. 

It seemed like getting sober was the biggest liquid courage for you to act on your desires. As soon as you stepped onto your floor, you pulled him by the jacket and crashed your lips to his.

Dean let out a surprised, muffled sound, but he recovered in an instant, his hands flying to your waist to anchor you in place. 

He didn't give you a chance to breathe, pushing you backward, your heels catching the edge of the mattress as you tumbled toward the bed. “Shit—” you laughed, the sound breathless and giddy as you landed in a heap of tangled limbs and soft fabric.

Before you could even fully orient yourself, Dean was over you. Propping himself up on his forearms to not put his weight on you, he looked down at you, dimples making themselves known when his grin widened. 

“Hi.” 

You giggled. “Hi.”

He moved one hand from your waist to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple.

“Are you sure you want this?”

You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips, and nodded. “Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Really?” 

“Oh my god, kiss me, you idiot.” 

A low, rumbling laugh escaped his throat—a sound of pure surrender—before he closed the distance.

His kiss was deliberate, slow, and devastatingly delicious, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. His hands moved from your temple, his fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your head back, deepening the angle.

His lips traveled from yours to the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath hot against your pulse point, and you felt your entire body relax, the tension of the last few months finally being dealt with.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The morning light in Ipswich was unforgiving, cutting through the thin gap in the hotel curtains to land directly on your face. You groaned, your limbs feeling heavy, weighted down by a peaceful exhaustion you hadn't experienced in years.

Then, you felt a solid, radiating warmth of something anchoring you to the soft mattress.

Memories of the previous night came flooding back and that might have been worse than a hangover. Panic, sharp and sudden pricked at your chest. The fuck did I do? You were supposed to be playing a part, sticking to the arrangement, rules were there for a reason!

Your heartbeat was so fast as you carefully began to lift his arm from your waist, holding your breath as he stirred. You were so close to the edge of the mattress, foot already searching for the cool carpet, when his deep sleepy voice asked where you were going. 

You quickly covered yourself with the blanket because you were naked. He had seen it all last night but the embarrassment was still there. 

When he noticed your distance, he immediately woke up, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in bed. “Are you okay?” 

You stared at the curtains, the sunlight filtering through in golden streaks. “I'm fine,” you repeated, though the lie felt thin. “I just... I think I need a minute.”

Dean let you put your clothes back, walking to the bathroom. When he got out, you were on your phone, brows furrowed in concentration. He stopped a few feet away, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead with a rough swipe of his hand. The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick, until he finally broke it.

“Do you regret it?”

It wasn't an accusation or anything but his tone carried an edge of vulnerability that begged for your attention. 

You stopped scrolling, your thumb hovering over the screen. “We had rules for a reason.” 

Dean let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, pacing a short circle before stopping in front of you. “For what reason, exactly, can you tell me? Because that was never clear.”

“Excuse me?” You felt your blood pressure spike with anger. “That was never clear—it was your idea! The fake relationship, the pretending in front of our friends? When all I wanted was a date to a wedding!”

“You wanted to make your ex jealous,” Dean shot back, his tone biting, “and you think you could do that by taking me to a wedding while he didn't even see us together in the same college he goes to? Yeah, that's really smart.”

You stood up, the movement abrupt, and stepped into his space. “And you're so smart, right, Dean? Always the expert on how to manage my reputation? Just be real for a second here.”

“I am trying to be!” he hissed, the volume of his voice didn't raise because he was holding it down. 

“Then what do you want? Why do you care if I regret it or not?”

“Because I didn't regret it.” Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I didn't.” 

The room became so small you stopped breathing for a second. That means something. You thought to yourself but sent it to the back of your brain, burying the realization so damn deep it got lost in the pile of ignored problems. That means something. The hurt in his eyes could be read as a reaction to rejection but were you really rejecting him if you didn't have a real relationship? 

That means something. 

What does it mean?

“I don't want to fake it anymore. I wasn't faking it when I got here, when I met your family, when I was there in your practices—fuck, I'm not faking it now. Can you look at me—”

“I'm not doing this with you.” You told him, shaking your head. “No. You're tricking me into… into… whatever, Dean.”

He almost flinched. “I'm tricking you? You really think that little of me?” he asked, his voice low, vibrating with pain. “You think I spent all that time, went through all that effort, just to ‘trick’ you into… what? Getting you into bed? This isn't a game for me! I care about you.”

“Then stop caring cause that wasn't the deal!” 

He looked at you, really looked at you, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of resignation there. His broad shoulders slumping under the weight of everything.

He turned away from you then, moving toward the chair to grab his jacket. It made your heart twist in a way you refused to acknowledge. He didn't look back as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, his movements sharp and impatient.

“If that’s what you want,” he said, reaching for the door handle without turning around, “then the deal is complete. Consider the fake relationship over. I’m done.”

The wedding itself was a blur of forced smiles. You barely looked at each other, but your skin felt him—every time he walked into a room, every time he stood just on the periphery of your vision, you were hyper-aware of his presence. He was just there by your side after all.

You missed him every fucking time after that night.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Things can go downhill when you least expect it. 

It had been one week since the wedding, one week of absolute, suffocating silence between you and Dean. Avoiding him had become a full-time job, which was ironic considering how much effort you’d put into pretending to be inseparable just days before. The weekend away — meaning: successfully convincing everyone else at the wedding you were dating after being cheated on by your ex which lead to → staying in the same hotel room, which then, lead to → sleeping together for the first time — had effectively buried any chance of going back to the way things were.

Your head was everything and nowhere at once. You stepped onto the ice for your final practice before tomorrow's performance and you couldn't clear your head enough to do well. Every time you pushed off, your edges felt dull, your timing was off, and your center of gravity seemed to have completely vanished.

“You're not here,” your partner hissed, his voice sharp with frustration as he skated past you to reset for your lift. “If you’re going to be a liability, just tell me now so I can prepare to drop you.” 

You didn't even have the energy to snap back. You just nodded, your lungs burning, your limbs feeling like lead weights.

​From the boards, your coach, Elena, was a whirlwind of irritation. She was pacing the length of the rink when you looked over and she wanted to murder you. 

“Again!” she barked, her voice booming off the cold, hollow rafters, making you flinch. “That spin was pathetic. Your footwork is lazy, and your posture looks terrible. What happened to you?!”

You wanted to pull out your hair and scream. It was one day before a really important performance. One day and you sucked when you had been good enough before. Not great. Not outstanding. But good enough that your coach didn't look at you like you were a total failure. 

Your whole problem was the lack of his entire presence. 

Dean walked into your life and he became one of the vital pieces of the puzzle in two months. He went to some of your practices, he was there for your performances as you were for his games… Yet, it was all an act. But that never stopped you from enjoying being around him and learning about him. You had let him fill the quiet spaces in your life, and now that he was gone, the silence was deafening. Every time you laced up your skates, you found yourself glancing at the boards, waiting for him to wave back. That never happened.

You drove home in a fog, the cold of the rink still settled deep in your bones. You spent the night staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of that wedding weekend.

The Hawk's have a game tonight. It was your first thought when you stepped back on the ice at the time of your presentation with your partner. 

You knew that because Dean mentioned it a week before, saying some of the new players on the team he was helping get the gist were gonna play. 

Your hand was sweating, despite the cold. Anxiety ready to take over your whole body when you heard it. A familiar, raucous cheer that cut through any noise—a sound so unapologetically loud that it could only belong to one group. Your friends. 

Logan was whistling and he waved when you looked over, grinning. Hannah, Allie, Tucker, Garrett, Beau, and your roommates. They were all there. 

Your whole world stopped when you checked who was beside Garrett.

Dean's here. He's here.

You stepped onto the ice and you felt at ease, moving with a fluidity you hadn't been able to find in practice. Your blades carving deep onto the ice. You hit every spin, every turn of the choreography you had practiced. When you finished, breathless and shaking, the roar of the crowd was loud and you laughed. Oh that was so good. 

You had barely made it out of the presentation in time to change, and now, as you scrambled into the stands of the hockey rink, you noticed had missed the opening puck drop entirely.

​By the time you navigated the crowded stands and slipped into your seat, the game was already twenty minutes deep.

The air in the rink was electric with the sound of colliding bodies and the frantic thud of sticks against the ice. You scanned the area, heart hammering against your ribs, as you searched for 66.

“Came to watch him lose?”

The voice was a familiar scrape against your nerves. You didn't even have to turn your head to know exactly who had slid into the seat next to you.

“I'd tell my own girlfriend to stay home to spare the embarrassment.”

It was in that moment, looking him straight in the eye, that you realized he  was now a ghost from a past you had already outgrown. You barely paid attention or his presence at the wedding.

Leaning back with your legs crossed over, you let a small, unbothered smile touch your lips. “It’s a good thing, then, that I’m not your girlfriend. She was with you at the wedding, by the way, unless she saw it wasn't worth it?” you said, your voice steady. 

Your ex’s smirk faltered, his jaw tightening as he realized his usual tactics of making you feel small weren't landing. 

The sound that came after that was sickening. A sharp crack of a player's impact against the plexiglass. 

You were on your feet before your brain even registered what had happened, your breath hitching in your throat. Dean lay crumpled on the ice. The room seemed to go deathly silent. 

“What the fuck happened?” Beau asked, following you down to the glass upon seeing his best friend laid down and the game paused. 

“They're putting him on a gurney. Oh.” Hannah's shoulders dropped. “Oh my god, I think—where are you going?” 

“You can't get in there, you have to… wait. And she's gone.” Beau threw his arms in exasperation. “They're not gonna let her through.” 

“You underestimate her.” Allie said, arms crossed as she watched you fight with the staff, facing them head on. There was a proud smile on her lips.

Once you ran past the staff and got to the medical room and finally saw Dean, relief made your whole body relax. It felt like your heart was being taken out of the ice for a second and you didn't know what to do, you just had to find him. 

His blonde strands were still glued to his forehead with sweat but all his gear was piled up on the bench. The doctor was telling him something but he didn't seem to listen, insisting against it. 

“....It's not up to you, Di Laurentis. If you play with an ankle like that, you will get a permanent injury and you will make it worse. This means months of recovery and you'll be back on the ice, but not for the next games.”

​He lashed out, his foot shooting forward in a jagged kick of pure, unadulterated anger. The movement was instant and he immediately regretted it, letting out a sharp hiss of agony escaping him as his injured ankle jarred, the pain clearly radiating all the way up his leg.

“Fuck!” he choked out, his voice cracking with the effort of holding back a scream. He grabbed the edge of the exam table, his knuckles turning white, his eyes squeezed shut against the misery.

You didn't think. You moved before the doctor could react, crossing the room in two strides. 

You reached him just as his breathing was beginning to even out into shallow, painful gasps. You didn't ask for permission; you just knelt beside him, placing your hands firmly on his uninjured knee to steady him.

“Dean, calm down,” you breathed, your voice finally cutting through the sterile silence of the room. “Hey, breathe, okay?” As your fingers pressed gently against the rise and fall of his shirt, he finally forced himself to look at you.

​The raw vulnerability in his gaze shattered the last of your defenses. 

“I'm out for the rest of the season.” His voice cracked. “They can't do that, they can't—” He choked on the words, shaking his head in disbelief of what just happened to him. 

“You'll be back though. It's not forever, yeah? Look at me.” You placed a hand on his cheek, brushing his hair back with your fingers. “It's not forever. You will heal and you will be back there, where you belong, okay?”

He let out a shaky breath, gazing down at his hands and nodding. Dean looked like a little kid being stripped away from everything he knew how to do. 

At some point, his face ended up on your neck and you held him until he was able to breathe evenly again. 

Dean sat on the edge of the exam table, his body tense, his gaze fixed on the sterile floor tiles. He didn’t look up as he spoke, his voice barely audible over the hum of the overhead lights.

​“I didn't think you'd come.”

You stood close, your hand now resting on your lap, instead of touching him. 

“I wouldn't miss your game,” you replied softly, brows furrowing at the path the conversation was taking. He shifted his shoulders, trying to create distance between you.

Dean let out a dry, humorless chuckle, his eyes finally flickering up to meet yours. His eyes were swollen from crying, tip of the nose pink. There was a desperate apprehension to his stance, a lingering ghost of the insecurity that had been haunting him since the doctor left. For the first time in his life he wasn't able to look over something and plaster a smile on his face. “The deal was that after the wedding we were pretty much done so I didn't see a reason for you to come.”

You traced the line of his jaw with your thumb, feeling the faint stubble against your skin, and saw the flicker of doubt in his expression. “But you came to my presentation earlier,” you said, studying his eyes. 

He shrugged, as if he didn't think it through before going to your performance. He'd blame himself for the rest of his life if he wasn't there to watch you.

“I came here because I realized that if I was anywhere else, I’d be wondering if you were okay. And that,” you continued, “has nothing to do with a deal we made.” 

“That wasn't what you said on the weekend.” 

​You took a deep breath in, creating some space between the two of you to speak, needing to look at him properly to make sure he understood. “I know. I freaked out. Dean, I didn't know what to do after waking up next to you.”

​He rested back against the pillow, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, still trailing every micro-expression on your face. 

“Was it that bad?”

​“What? No.” Your denial was immediate, sharp, and entirely honest.

His lips twitched in a sudden, familiar smile, and your face fell in exasperation.

“You idiot, I'm being serious!”

“So am I.” His smug smile quickly died down. “I thought you were relieved. It's fine if you were, I didn't mean to put you on the spot I just needed… fuck, I needed a hint if that night meant to you as much as it meant to me.”

“I didn't regret it.” You said firmly, answering his question that you left hanging a week ago. “I, um, I got confused? Turns out I enjoyed being around you too much.” 

His nose scrunched up, brows furrowing in confusion. “And that's bad?”

“I wasn't supposed to get attached. It was a fake relationship, or did that get lost on you?” 

“It didn't get lost, you made me remember it every fucking day.” Dean rolled his eyes. “I mean, you couldn't just enjoy it, you were always on.” 

You hummed softly, leaning closer to him. “And you were just enjoying it, right?”

He stared down at your lips for a brief second, his gaze lingering with a weight that made your pulse jump. “Isn't it obvious? I thought I made it obvious. Logan called me ridiculous.”

A laugh escaped you, light and breathy. “You made what obvious? That you wanted to take me to bed?”

“That I like you.”

Your playful demeanor shifted, the air leaving the room as his tone dropped to something startlingly sincere.

“So I let the fake part of the relationship go. Way before than I like to admit.” He cleared his throat, looking away and shifting nervously at the same time he tried not to show how that whole thing affected him. “I liked being your boyfriend.”

You didn't give him another second to overthink or retreat into his own head.

You leaned in, cupping his face in both your hands, and pressed your lips to his. When you pulled back just an inch, you found his eyes wide, his breath hitching in his chest. 

“That was a very good argument, you can go on.” He leaned over to bite your lower lip, earning a grin from you. 

You let out a soft, huffed laugh, shaking your head, but you didn't pull away. You slid closer, carefully settling yourself so you wouldn't put any pressure on his leg. You pressed your lips to his, earning a hum of satisfaction as he almost melted. 

“I like you too, Di Laurentis.” You said between kisses.

He let out a shaky sigh and leaned into your touch, his hand finally coming up to rest firmly at the small of your back, pulling you to sit beside him.

“Dean, your ankle—”

“I don't care,” he murmured, hands enveloping your waist to bring you closer. “I’m a slow learner, apparently. So you can kiss me some more to prove you really like me.”

​“Wait,” he said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours with that same intensity that had been there that morning in the hotel room.

​“Are we—are we on the same page now?” he asked, his voice rough. “No more faking it? I want to be with you, for real this time. But do you want to be in a relationship with me? Like, an actual one?”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from grinning like a mad woman. “Yes. An actual one. I think we… we had a lot of practice to do well this time, right?”

He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated between you, before his hand slid down to settle on your waist, pulling your closer. “The odds are in our favor, I'd say,” he whispered into your lips before his mouth split into a shit eating grin.

“Oh, you're so eager to call me your girlfriend for real.”

“Shut up.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Unfortunately. It's the only day available.”

He nodded slowly but you could see the way disappointment flashed in his eyes before he said it was okay.

“I'll make it up to you after the game, I promise, okay?” You mumbled with your lips glued to his cheek. “You'll play great, I'm sure.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was an unspoken agreement that you'd go to every hockey game you were able to to support your boyfriend. It wasn't at all something difficult because you happen to be very interested in it. 

Logan visibly brightened whenever he would see you from the ice. You'd wave back and that was the interaction you'd share until the match was over. 

You weren't a couple big on PDA. You guys liked to keep things private and enjoyed being in your own little world whenever you had the chance. 

So you had never worn his jersey that displayed his number during a game before. 

But your plan had worked and he bought the exam thing really quick. You felt guilty seeing his face turn sad but it would be for a good cause. You wanted to see his reaction when he saw you were wearing his number; you wanted it to be a boost for him to win.

“Did he see you?” Hannah asked you, a giddy smile on her face. 

“Not yet.” You chuckled at her excitement. 

A twinge of that guilt flared up again in your chest. Remembering how his eyes had dropped, trying to hide his disappointment when you told him you couldn't make the biggest game of the season, made you want to run down to the sidelines and hug him right then. He had tried so hard to be supportive, telling you to ”go crush it” and that he'd play his heart out for you anyway.

You pulled the oversized fabric tighter around yourself, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent offering a little comfort. 

“Go, Logan!” You yelled at the top of your lungs and quickly felt your face warm up in embarrassment. 

The shout left your throat before you could overthink it, sounding incredibly loud even against the ambient roar of the stadium crowd.

For a split second, you wanted the stadium steps to open up and swallow you whole. Hannah let out a delighted giggle next to you, watching the field with wide eyes.

At the sound of his name, Logan’s head snapped up. His eyes scanned the front rows of the bleachers, looking a little dazed, until they locked squarely on you.

He thought he was imagining things. That couldn't be your voice, right? You were doing an important test. You wouldn't come tonight—No. No, that was definitely you. 

What?

His brain trying to process why you were standing in the stands instead of trapped in a lecture hall taking an exam. Then, his eyes dropped to the oversized jersey engulfing your torso, recognizing the bright, bold numbers stretched across your chest.

His entire posture changed. The serious stance was replaced by a large, breathtaking smile that crinkled the corners of his big brown eyes. 

“Oh, man.” Dean whistled when he saw Logan almost willingly to leave the rink. 

Garrett and Tucker nudged Logan with playful grins in their faces. 

“An exam, huh?” Logan called up over the noise of the arena, stopping right at the boards. He looked up at you, his large brown eyes bright with a mixture of sheer disbelief and pure affection. "You completely played me!” 

“Love you!” You yelled back and sat back down beside Hannah, practically hiding your whole body behind her as she laughed. 

When you finally looked down at the rink again, your eyes meeting his, Logan raised his hand and tapped his fingers right over the Briar crest on his own jersey—right where his heart was beating a mile a minute.

I love you too. 

By the third period, the game was grueling. Everyone was sharing the same feeling, at the edge of their seats expecting a win for Briar Hawks. 

With less than two minutes left on the clock, the match was tied. But Logan was Logan and he was the element of surprise. With a brilliant move, he dragged the puck between his own legs, leaving the defenseman stumbling through thin air. The goalie’s instincts weren't sharp enough. With a brutal, flick-of-the-wrist snap shot, he made the puck go straight into the net.

The crowd went absolutely wild. Thousands of people jumped into the air, screaming and spilling drinks. The student section went completely feral, banging frantically against the glass.

Tucker, Garrett, and Dean swarmed him in a group hug, lifting him nearly off his skates. But he didn't stay long with them to celebrate. Logan broke away from the celebration just long enough to look directly at you, chest heaving as he breathed heavily, his strands dripping with sweat on his forehead. 

Once he finally caught your eye, he smiled and you thought his lips would split at some point. He ran toward the glass and jumped on the boards, calling out for you. You threw yourself down the steps to the very front row, leaning over the cold metal railing.

Your boyfriend dropped his stick onto the ice, his chest heaving as he stood on the ledge of the boards, hauling himself up just high enough to bridge the gap between the rink and the stands. 

“You came,” he breathed out against your ear, his voice rough and full of emotion. “You're really here.”

When you pulled back just enough to look at him, that massive, brilliant smile was still splitting his face, his big brown eyes shining with pure happiness. 

Before he could say another word, you leaned down and kissed him.

“I wouldn't miss it for anything, less alone for a stupid test.” 

One of his heavy hockey gloves came up to gently cup the back of your neck, deepening the kiss, entirely uncaring that his teammates were down on the ice wolf-whistling and catcalling them at the top of their lungs.