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c/w ᝰ.ᐟ backward hat!garrett (purr), unprotected p in v, riding, semi-public sex (empty arena/penalty box), risk of getting caught, pet names (baby, pretty + no y/n), nhl rookie!garrett, older!garrett, swearing, praise kink (both), teasing, begging, rozanov captain agenda + one very down bad rookie
You know this is a terrible idea the second Garrett grabs your hand after the post-game press conference.
The grin on his face tells you everything you need to know. He’s already made up his mind.
“Garrett Graham, you’re insane,” you laugh as he drags you down the hallway. The arena is almost eerily quiet now, the crowds and reporters long gone.
Your sneakers scuff against the concrete as he shoulders open the heavy door leading toward the ice, cold air immediately spilling into the hallway.
The arena stands are empty now, quiet beneath the fading lights. A few hours ago, the place had been roaring with thousands of people.
“C’mon, baby,” Garrett smiles, turning around, walking backwards in front of you as he heads toward the door to center ice.
“This isn’t smart,” you sigh.
“This is the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Be serious.”
“Garrett…”
“What?” He asks, catching your hand and tugging you forward again.
“This is The Garden,” you remind him, glancing around the empty arena. “We just got here and you’re already trying to get us banned for life—”
“First of all, dramatic.” Garrett points at you. “Second of all, they can’t ban me. I work here now.”
He looks down at you with a smile. The smile.
“Stop smiling at me like that.”
“Can’t.”
“Don’t,” you breathe.
“What?”
“I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Wanted to see it when it was quiet,” he mumbles, rocking back on his heels with his hand stuffed in his pocket, the other locked in yours.
“Mhmm,” you huff, rolling your eyes but your smile never fades.
“I mean...” He gestures toward the empty arena. “Seems a shame to waste all this.”
“You’re unbelievable—”
“Whole arena to ourselves.” He shrugs, eyes sliding away like you’re being irrational. “Seems irresponsible not to.”
“Baby…”
“For me?” He pouts, lifting your hand to kiss the top, but he already knows you’re down.
“For you—” Before you can get another word out, he’s got his arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.
He laughs, warm and breathless against your mouth before kissing you, stealing whatever rational thoughts you had left about how badly this could end.
Because for Garrett Graham, there’s not much you wouldn’t do.
You knew him before any of this. Before the draft. Before reporters crowded around his locker after games. Before kids started showing up to the rink wearing his jersey and asking for autographs.
You knew the version of Garrett that stayed at the rink until the lights turned off. The version of him that called you after losses, only to spend forty-five minutes talking himself in circles until you talked him down.
And somehow, standing here now in an empty arena after the biggest night of his life, he still looks at you exactly the way he always has.
Your hands slip into his hair and you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You made it, Garrett Graham.”
For a second he just stands there holding you, letting those words sink in.
“You’re here too. We made it.” He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Couldn’t have gotten through half of it without you,” he says, his voice breaking a little. His forehead bumps gently against yours as he breathes you in. “Best night of my life. Wouldn’t wanna share it with anyone else.”
“You happy?” You whisper, and the corners of his lips curl into a smile.
“The happiest,” he hums, tilting in for a kiss. Your back bumps lightly against the glass as his fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you there.
“What if we’re super quiet?” He mumbles. “Like super… fucking… quiet.” Garrett’s voice lowers, peppering words between kisses.
“What if we get caught?” The question sounds more like a challenge than a warning, and Garrett knows it.
“We’ve done this before—”
“In college,” you giggle.
“Just a few more seats, pretty. Ice in the middle. Practically the same thing.” His body presses into you, pulling out a sound from you that has him groaning against your lips. “You know,” he adds, “for someone who keeps telling me this is a bad idea, you sure haven’t tried very hard to leave.”
Your fingers release from his hair and the back of his shirt, your kiss softening just enough to disprove his point but it’s too late.
“Nah, keep going, baby,” he teases, pulling you off the wall and toward the side door of the penalty box before he slides in with you, gripping the handle and pushing it shut until it clicks. The sound echoes across the empty arena, making both of you flinch before dissolving into quiet laughter.
He drops onto the bench like he owns it. “C’mere, pretty girl,” he murmurs, pulling you onto his lap, your knees pressing into the metal bench.
Your hands come up, wrapping around his shoulders, settling on top like you’ve probably done too many times before if you’re being honest.
He tilts forward, pressing a lingering kiss against your neck. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you. The arena is silent around you, the ice glowing faintly beyond the glass.
His hands drift along the waistband of your skirt. “This okay?” He whispers.
And you nod in reply as his hands drag over your thighs, slipping in between, your breath catching when he drags his palm back up your panties.
“Holy shit.” The words rush out of him as he grabs the waistband of his sweats and tugs them down just enough, the gold chain around his neck swinging free.
“So good to me,” he mumbles, licking his lips as his rough fingers shift the soft material to the side.
He groans softly when the air hits him, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes roll back when your hand wraps around his dick, the tension between you thick as you start to stroke. Garrett’s fingers push inside you, making your brows furrow.
His lips fall open as the two of you settle into a rhythm, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when you throw your head back, his long fingers curving just right.
Garrett lets out a low moan, his eyes never leaving you. The excitement from the game is still written all over him, his chest rising and falling as you fist his cock, his lip tucked between his teeth, still riding high off adrenaline.
You shift closer as anticipation twists through your stomach, cursing under your breath as he grips your hip with one hand, dragging the tip of his dick along your slit with the other.
“I’ll go slow,” he mumbles, his chin tipped up to match your gaze as you straddle his lap.
Your breath catches and you bite down on your lip to keep quiet. Garrett’s forehead presses against yours, eyes pinched shut as he lets out a rough breath. His hand tightens at your waist, holding you steady as you sink lower.
His jaw tightens as he glances between you, watching the distance disappear until you’re settled in his lap, your thighs pressed against the bench.
When you finally look at him, Garrett is already watching you.
A shaky laugh escapes you before you can stop it, making Garrett’s heavy eyes immediately soften.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Feels good?”
“Mhmm,” you breathe, rolling your hips, the stretch making your muscles shake.
“Then why are you trying so hard not to make any noise, huh?”
A helpless laugh slips out of you.
“I don’t wanna get caught,” you whisper, his thumb tracing along your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna stop.”
“Yeah?” He murmurs sweetly. “You’re being so good for me—” Crack! His palm lands against your ass, sharp enough to make you gasp. Your body tenses, tightening around him and pulling a moan from his throat, his deep voice humming through the penalty box.
Garrett’s head tips back for a second. The sight sends a flutter straight through your stomach—hair damp and curling beneath his hat, lips wet from kissing, cheeks flushed. The muscles under his shirt are flexed tight, the team logo pulled taut across his chest.
Your hands brace against the wall behind his head as you move against him—riding him shamelessly.
“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, his large hands gripping your ass, coaching each roll of your hips. “Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
You smile, taking control on top, each shift drawing the two of you closer to the edge. You can feel every inch and ridge of him—each vein and curve—as he moves beneath you, heat building low in your stomach with every bounce.
His mouth finds yours again, lips parting so he can slip his tongue inside. “Need you to cum for me,” he mumbles between kissing, catching your moan in his mouth when his fingers press against your clit, rubbing tight circles on top.
“Yes. Yes,” you pant, and he groans.
“Mmm’fuck, baby,” he hums against your lips, pounding up into you as you fall apart, his name breaking from your lips in a breathless whine.
His rhythm falters with a low, broken sound as he finishes deep inside you, pulling you down as close as he can. His forehead presses to yours as the two of you share the same breath.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, hands drifting slowly up and down your thighs before smoothing your skirt back into place, still wearing that same stunned expression he’s had since puck drop.
“I love you,” you mumble, your hands holding his cheeks as you kiss him.
“I love you too, baby,” he hums. Garrett chuckles against your lips, raspy and deep.
“What?” You smile.
“Never gettin’ over this look on you, pretty,” he sighs blissfully, his hands settled on your hips. “Post-win. Freshly-fucked—”
“Garrett Graham,” you gasp like you’re surprised, giggling against his lips as he does the same, but a metallic clunk echoes somewhere above you and both of you freeze. Your heart immediately drops into your stomach.
“WHO’S DOWN THERE?” The voice cuts through the darkness and panic hits you all at once.
“Oh my God,” you hiss, climbing out of his lap as he fights with the waistband of his sweats, laughing a little at your panic. Not loud. Just enough to make you want to strangle him.
“Baby, move,” you scold.
“I’m movin’!” He chuckles, the two of you scrambling out of the box, hands shaking, your pulse pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears while Garrett somehow looks like he’s having the time of his life.
A beam of light sweeps across the home bench as you run through the tunnel.
“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss.
“Language,” Garrett mutters.
“Oh, please.” You shoot him a look as he catches your hand, his tongue poking through his teeth.
His laugh bounces off the concrete walls as he tugs you through the exit to player parking.
You barely make it around the corner before Garrett catches your wrist and pulls you against the brick wall. The momentum knocks a laugh out of both of you.
“We’re good, baby—FUCK!” He barks, throwing up a hand to shield both of you from the blinding headlights as a pair of beams sweep across you, the engine of a sports car roaring to life.
Music spills from the speakers and the fear in Garrett’s eyes disappears instantly, his shoulders relaxing as he wraps an arm around your waist.
His captain’s car slow-rolls forward and a deep chuckle drifts from the open window.
“You two have a nice night?” He asks, a smile tugging at his mouth, his thick Russian accent laced with teasing.
“Mhmm,” Garrett answers, nodding his head, his shoulders trembling as he fights back a laugh. “Great night, Roz. Thanks.”
“Good job tonight, kid,” Ilya says, giving him a wink.
“Appreciate it,” Garrett says, his voice cracking on the last word, embarrassment painting his cheeks red. The finger gun he shoots at his captain definitely doesn’t help, but thankfully Rozanov is already rolling away as his taillights disappear into the dark Boston night.
“Got a permit for that thing,” you whisper.
“Shut up,” he laughs, pulling you into a playful headlock, using his hold to press a rough kiss on your lips. “Stop teasin’ me. Fuck—”
“Language,” you whisper his words from before, but he’s quick, tickling you as you try your best to wiggle away but he’s having none of that. And the moment he pulls you in, your stomach falls, your eyes going wide on his like a deer in the headlights.
He looks down at you, quirking an eyebrow as you stare up at him. He nods, preemptively answering the question that you’re too mortified to ask.
“Mhmm,” he hums.
“Oh my God,” you gasp, heat rushing to your cheeks, but Garrett looks completely unbothered. He turns you around wrapping you up in his strong arms as you unravel.
“You think he knows?”
“Absolutely.” Garrett ducks his head, trying and failing to stop laughing. “Baby, he definitely knows.”
You let out a dramatic groan, throwing your head back, but he cradles the back of your head and pulls you against his chest. His heart thumps steadily beneath your ear, his lips resting against the top of your head as your breathing slowly settles together.
When you finally glance up at him, he’s already smiling. His eyes drop to your lips before he steals a soft kiss.
“Best night of my life,” he whispers against your mouth.
“Even after getting caught?” You mumble back.
“‘Specially after gettin’ caught,” he chuckles breathlessly. “Doesn’t get much better than this, huh?” He looks at you for a second and starts smiling all over again.
“What?”
“Nothin’,” he mumbles, swaying with you a little. “Just happy.”
watched the stanley cup finals last night and can’t stop thinking about bruins garrett winning a cup and meeting him down on the ice 🥺
STANLEY CUP
pairing — garrett graham x fiancée!reader
summary — garrett wins the stanley cup with the bruins, but before he even gets to the cup, he looks for the person who was there long before all of it.
warnings — 18+ mdni, bruins!garrett, established relationship, fiancée!reader, stanley cup win, emotional fluff, public kissing, possessive garrett, short smut scene, hotel room celebration, praise, soft dominance, unprotected sex.
word count — 2,090.
author note — this one was requested a few weeks ago, and i thought it would be a cute little fic to write between bigger updates. i really hope you like it. thank you for always being so patient with me and for all your support <3
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ORIGINAL MASTERLIST)
The final buzzer sounded, and for a second, you stood there, unable to breathe — not because you hadn’t seen it coming, but because you’d watched the clock bleed down for the last minute, your heart lodged in your throat with every brutal second.
The Bruins had been up by one, the other team’s goalie pulled, the entire arena on its feet and screaming so loudly you could feel it more than hear it. But when the horn finally went off, when the gloves started flying, and the bench spilled onto the ice, you went completely still.
Garrett Graham had won — the boy you’d known at Briar before Boston, before the cameras, before the whole world started saying his name as they’d always known who he was. The boy who’d carried more than he ever let anyone see and still acted like nothing hurt badly enough to keep him off the ice.
After everything, Garrett had won the Stanley Cup.
Around you, the arena erupted. People were crying and hugging, screaming into their phones, grabbing at your shoulders like you needed someone to tell you what’d just happened, but you understood what this meant, maybe better than anyone else in the arena. You understood the late-night phone calls after bad games, the ice packs, the silent drives home, and all the nights Garrett walked through the door, exhausted but still trying to smile, because he hated making you worry.
And on the ice, half buried beneath his teammates and a mess of black-and-gold jerseys, Garrett was laughing.
You caught glimpses of his face between helmets, his mouth open in a grin that looked almost too big for him, eyes bright, and damp hair a mess from where someone had ripped his helmet off in the chaos. One of his teammates caught him by the shoulders and hauled him upright, only for another to crash into him from behind, arms locking around him as laughter, shouting, and tears blurred together around them. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone kept yelling Garrett’s name.
And then, in the middle of all that noise, Garrett turned.
He wasn’t looking for the Cup.
His eyes searched the glass, the family section, the blur of hands and towels and camera flashes, and your hand came up to your mouth before you realized you were moving, because there he was, looking right at you.
The noise, the cameras, the crowd — all of it fell away.
His grin changed the second his eyes landed on yours, still bright with disbelief, but softer now, as if in the loudest moment of his life, he’d found the one quiet thing he needed.
You didn’t realize you’d started crying until the glass blurred in front of you.
Garrett pointed at you, then at the ice beneath him, like you were supposed to know exactly what he meant.
Get down here.
You laughed through the tears, shaking your head because your shoes were absolutely not made for championship ice, but Garrett only said something you couldn’t hear, his face making the meaning clear.
Baby.
He gestured again, more impatient this time, and you laughed through your tears because, obviously, he wasn’t going to let this go.
By the time someone helped you down to the ice, your hands were shaking. You stepped forward carefully, gripping the boards with one hand while the other pressed uselessly to your chest, like that might keep your heart where it belonged.
Garrett was already skating toward you, still in full gear, sweaty and breathless and looking at you like the Cup could wait.
“Careful,” he said, laughing as he caught you by the waist. “I didn’t win the Cup just to watch you eat shit on national television.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a sob. “You won.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, like he was still trying to believe it. “I won.”
He pulled you against him hard enough that the pads made it clumsy, and somehow that only made you cry harder. You clutched the back of his jersey, your fingers brushing over the name across his shoulders — GRAHAM — like you needed to feel it before you could believe it.
“You did it,” you whispered.
Garrett’s arms tightened around you. “We did it.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Garrett.”
“I’m serious.” His eyes were red now, and he looked almost annoyed about it, which was so painfully him that you nearly laughed. “You were there for all of it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No.” His gloved hand came up carefully, clumsy against your cheek. “You were there for everything that mattered.”
The tears came harder. Someone was calling for Garrett to lift the Cup, but all you could feel was his hand against your cheek, still shaking from the win and trying to be gentle with you even through the gloves.
“You should go,” you whispered, even though you still hadn’t let go of him. “They’re waiting for you.”
Garrett looked over his shoulder, where his teammates were already gathering around the Cup, bright under the arena lights and waiting for him, before looking back at you.
“I wanted to see you first.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
His forehead touched yours, his breath warm against your face despite the cold coming off the ice. “Baby, I just won the Stanley Cup. You really thought I wasn’t coming to you first?”
You kissed him because if you tried to answer, you’d only cry again.
Garrett made a rough sound against your mouth and kissed you back like he didn’t care who was watching, like he’d spent the last minute of the game holding himself together and you were the first place he could finally let go. One hand stayed at your waist while the other slid to the back of your neck, keeping you close as the arena roared around you.
When you pulled back, Garrett was grinning again, all breathless and stupidly pleased with himself.
“There she is,” he murmured, his grin softening.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a Stanley Cup champion.”
“You’re still an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, still grinning. “You’re an idiot.”
You glanced down at your ring, glittering under the arena lights, then back at him. “Apparently.”
Garrett laughed, bright and breathless, and it hit you all over again how happy he was.
Someone yelled his name again, louder this time, and Garrett groaned like having to leave you to lift the Stanley Cup was a personal inconvenience.
You pressed a hand to his chest. “Go.”
He pointed at you, already backing away. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m standing on ice, Garrett. Trust me, moving is not my priority.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
Heat rushed to your face so fast you were grateful for the noise around you.
His eyes darkened for half a second, just enough to make your stomach dip, even with half the arena watching. Then he kissed your forehead and skated backward, still watching you until one of his teammates finally shoved him toward the Cup.
The rest of it blurred after that.
The rest of it blurred after that: the photos, the champagne, the locker room interviews, Garrett lifting the Cup over his head with a laugh like he still couldn’t believe it was real. And still, between every obligation, he found you — a hand at your waist as he passed, a kiss to your temple, his fingers squeezing yours like he needed to make sure you were still there.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, his medal was still around his neck, his dress shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was damp from a shower he’d clearly rushed through, because patience had never been one of Garrett Graham’s strengths after a win.
He shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, his eyes dragging over you like he was finally allowed to look.
You kicked off your heels, trying not to smile under the weight of his stare. “What?”
Garrett shook his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Just looking.”
“You’ve been staring all night.”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved over you, slow enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m not done.”
He crossed the room before you could answer, catching you by the waist and pulling you into him. The medal pressed cold between your bodies, and you gasped into his mouth. Garrett smiled as he knew exactly why.
“You know,” you murmured, fingers slipping into his damp hair, “most Stanley Cup champions would be downstairs celebrating.”
“Most Stanley Cup champions don’t get to come back upstairs to you.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Not bad.”
“It was smooth,” Garrett protested.
“You used the Cup. That’s cheating.”
Garrett kissed you again, deeper this time, until whatever smart comment you had left disappeared against his mouth. He tasted like champagne and mint, and his hands moved over you with the kind of hunger that made it obvious he’d been holding himself back all night, every camera, every interview, every hand pulling him away only making him want you more.
His mouth found your neck, and your head tipped back before you could stop yourself.
“Garrett,” you breathed.
He hummed against your skin. “Again.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “Your name?”
“Yeah.” His hand slid under the hem of your dress, warm on your thigh. “Everyone’s been saying my name all night. I like it better from you.”
Your fingers tightened in his damp hair.
His mouth curved against your throat. “That’s it.”
The bed hit the back of your knees, and Garrett followed you down, still careful despite the adrenaline humming under his skin. That was Garrett — possessive enough to make your whole body go hot, gentle enough to wreck you.
He pushed your dress higher, spreading your thighs with a slow, deliberate kind of focus before pressing his mouth to the sensitive skin there. “Everyone kept wanting the Cup,” he murmured, voice low.
“And what did you want?”
His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “I wanted my girl.”
The words hit low in your stomach, and his mouth followed, kissing higher until your breath caught. After that, there wasn’t much room left for teasing — only his hands on you, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and the medal pressing cool against your stomach when Garrett moved back over you. He kissed you through every shaky sound he pulled from you, murmuring praise against your lips like he couldn’t get enough of being the reason you came apart.
When he finally slid into you, slow and careful despite the way his whole body was tense with wanting, his forehead dropped to yours.
“You with me?”
You nodded, breathless and overwhelmed. “Yeah.”
His jaw tightened; his body held tense above yours. “Use your words, baby.”
Your heart twisted, because even now, with all that want shaking through him, he was still Garrett — careful where it mattered.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Don’t stop.”
His control slipped just enough for his next thrust to go deeper, rougher, stealing the breath from your lungs. After that, he kept the same relentless rhythm, pushing you closer every time you tried to swallow a sound and he caught you doing it.
“No,” he murmured, catching your jaw in his hand. “Let me hear you.”
“Garrett—”
“That’s it,” he breathed.
You came around him with his name breaking out of you, the medal pressed cool between your bodies as your nails dragged down his back and he held you through every second of it. Garrett followed not long after, face buried in your neck, your name coming out rough and wrecked against your skin, the sound making your chest ache.
Downstairs, the celebration was still going. Up here, Garrett stayed pressed against you, his breathing slowly evening out against your skin.
You touched the back of his neck, smiling softly. “You won the Stanley Cup.”
He lifted his head, eyes soft and smug and fixed entirely on you.
“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your ring. “And somehow, this is still the best part of my night.”
You rolled your eyes, even as your throat tightened. “That was terrible.”
Garrett grinned and kissed you again.
“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really do.”
Before the Cup, before the cameras, before everyone else got to celebrate him, Garrett had looked for you first.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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