❀

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.

“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.

“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.

Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”

"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.

“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.

Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner. 

“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”

“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”

You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.

“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face. 

Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”

“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.

“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”

“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”

Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated. 

“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.  

“G, not cool, man.”

Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”

“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder. 

Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”

“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear. 

“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”

Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair. 

“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused. 

“Great, G!”

“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.

Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.

You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk. 

“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.

Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”

“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out. 

Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”

You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”

“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him. 

“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.

Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.” 

“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.

Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.

The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.

The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.

Thunk.

It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.

“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.

You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.

The expression on his face caught you off guard.

He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime. 

You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad. 

Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed. 

“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large. 

Then back at him.

“Yes, totally.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

“I just hit you with my water bottle.”

You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”

He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He frowned. 

You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again. 

“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”

“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be. 

“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped. 

“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.

“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.

“Officially?”

He paused, confused, “What?”

“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”

His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”

“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.

“You’re very observant.”

“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.

He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”

“That sounds right.”

“So let me make it up to you.”

“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Coffee,” he offered. 

You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.

“Coffee?” you repeated in question.

“I owe you.” 

“You really don’t.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”

You smiled, “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you answered again.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.

He followed right behind you.

The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.

Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed. 

The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.

You don’t say anything. 

Neither does he.

The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”

Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”

The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”

“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”

You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”

The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.

You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, beautiful.”

You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett. 

Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it. 

Cute. You thought to yourself.

Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”

You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”

Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”

Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”

“He basically has,” you snorted.

“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”

“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.

Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.

You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”

“What?” he tried to play it off.

“You have that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” you insisted.

Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”

That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.

Dean nearly choked. 

“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.

“Don’t what?” he responded.

“That.”

“What?”

“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing. 

Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing. 

Garrett just shrugged. 

You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.

“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.

“Coffee,” he agreed.

Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.

By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.

At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.

Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.

Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.

No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.

To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,

Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester. 

You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.

Bingo. 

You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her. 

The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in. 

The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.

The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.

“There she is!”

You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”

“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.

Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”

“She still answers it.”

You hated that he was right.

The grin he gave you says he knows it too. 

A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan. 

The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.

“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room. 

“Excuse me?”

“I expected worse,” he shrugged.

You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”

Each of the boys quipped a response.

“A lot.” 

“Enough.”

“Some would say too much.”

“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.

“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.

By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.

You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.

At some point, you realized something. 

You didn’t feel like a guest.

It was almost like you’d always been there. 

And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.

It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume. 

When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”

“I won't forget perfume.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

“Baby, it’s there just in case.”

He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room. 

You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.

Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself. 

As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family. 

Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head. 

You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.

It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds. 

Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand. 

“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”

You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there. 

Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.

He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester. 

“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes. 

You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.

You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”

“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge. 

“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.  

Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.

“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”

“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back. 

“Whatcha got, Logan?”

“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes. 

“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile. 

He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing. 

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy. 

“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.

You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted. 

“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted. 

“Up in his room.”

“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.

“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.

The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.

“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter. 

Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table. 

“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.

“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.

You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move. 

The meal was perfect.

You took one bite.

Then another.

Followed by another.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.

Tucker laughed, “What?”

“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.

“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.

“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”

You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”

“Obviously,” Garrett stated.

“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.

“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.

You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.

“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.

The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness. 

The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.

If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.

Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible. 

It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving. 

You felt like you always belonged there.

The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.

“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular. 

Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”

“A little.”

“A little means yes.”

You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”

“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.

“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it. 

“It does,” Garrett nodded.

“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.

“I’m supporting you.”

“More like interrupting,” you kid.

Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”

You blinked at him, “What?”

Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”

Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”

“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.

“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.

The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”

“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence. 

“You have an idea.” 

The other three just watched the banter between you two.

“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.

“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.

You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.

It felt natural.

“Okay.”

“Done.”

By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed. 

Every Sunday.

One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.

Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.

Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three. 

The dinners became routine. Then tradition. 

Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.

Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.

Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.

By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends. 

Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.

Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.

Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.

You saved him a portion when he was running late.

The pair of you always sat beside one another.

Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.

But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing. 

That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other. 

“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.

Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.

“A shot,” Dean answered. 

“Very informative.”

You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”

Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”

“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.

“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath. 

Dean wiggled his shot. 

You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking. 

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.

“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.

“Probably.”

“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.

“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots. 

“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.

“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished. 

There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.

Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other. 

The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot. 

The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.

“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.

“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.

“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett. 

“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.

Logan nearly doubled over laughing.

Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.

Dean looked personally offended.

And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met. 

The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.

Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out. 

Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.

Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.

You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.

You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside. 

You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs. 

The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall. 

There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore. 

Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom. 

He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours. 

Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other. 

Neither of you said much for a while. 

The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.

Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.

Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses. 

“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.

You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away. 

Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too. 

Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”

The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore. 

His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.

Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”

Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”

“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”

You blinked, “We are fine.”

“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”

You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second. 

Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”

“Wow.”

“What?” he quirked his brow at you.

“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief. 

“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.

“It definitely did.”

“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”

Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.

Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you. 

Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.

Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship. 

Every time he remembered something small.

Every time he made space for you in crowded places.

Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal. 

Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day. 

You already knew, but hearing it made it real.

“What?”

You smiled, “I know.”

His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”

“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.” 

“In my defense–” you cut him off.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.

“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”

The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”

You snickered. “Seriously?”

“I just want confirmation.”

“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”

He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.

“So?”

“So what?” 

You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”

“Missy.”

“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”

Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” you repeated. 

Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time. 

When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”

You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”

“They’re going to be unbearable.”

“Especially Dean.”

“He’ll claim responsibility.”

“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”

He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”

“Agreed.” 

The agreement lasted less than eight hours.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon. 

Logan was standing at the stove.

Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands. 

Dean was eating cereal directly from the box. 

Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual. 

Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual. 

Nobody paid attention.

Logan continued cooking his bacon. 

Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.

Dean kept munching on the cereal.

Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.

He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.

“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.

“Morning,” You replied.

You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.

And not normal. 

The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. 

Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”

You immediately dropped your head. “No.”

“YES.”

“It has been like six hours.”

“I KNEW IT.”

Garrett groaned. 

Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”

“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked. 

“I brought you together.”

“You really didn’t,” you laughed.

Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”

Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.

Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled. 

“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.

“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off. 

“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett. 

Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”

The room erupted.

Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”

Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”

Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”

Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two. 

And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back. 

You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family. 

Garrett was still your favorite person.

“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.”

Dean started the whole thing.

It happened on a normal Friday night. Everyone had chosen to hang out that night, with the idea of movies, dinner and a few drinks. Soft music came from the living room while Hannah and Garrett argued over the movie considering it was their turn to pick that night. The rest were out on a beer run, and dinner fell on you and Tucker, as it usually did.

Tucker stood beside you at the stove while you chopped vegetables.

Neither of you had actually planned on cooking together.

It just sort of... happened. It was Tucker’s turn that night, and when you got tired of waiting in the living room, you got up and headed to the kitchen.

“Hey.” You sat on one of the stools, leaning forward as you watches him prep. Tucker looked up, and smiled. “Hey. You got bored?”

“Yeah. Doomscrolling while Han and Garrett argued over whether to pick a romcom or a horror movie was amusing only for the first ten minutes.”

Tucker snorted. You watched him grab a pan. “Not surprised. So, you decided to head here?”

“I think I’d much rather be here than there at the moment.” You chuckle. Then you eye the vegetables on the table. “What are you preparing?”

“Mac and Cheese. Probably a lot of it. And—” He gestures over to the vegetables. “Something with those. I haven’t decided yet.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Need help?”

His head snaps up to you, brow raising. “You don’t have to. It’s my turn tonight.”

“Yeah, but I want to.” You shrug, sliding off the stool to take the knife from his hand. “Now scoot over, you work on the Mac and cheese and whatever thing you’ll do, I’ll handle the prep.”

Tucker grins, letting out a laugh before moving to the stove. “Yes ma’am.”

Sometime in the middle of it, you settled in a familiar, but also not familiar routine.

You handed him ingredients before he asked for them. He moved aside before you needed the space. You knew exactly where he kept everything, and he knew exactly how much seasoning you liked adding.

At one point, Tucker held out his hand behind him without looking.

You immediately placed the spatula into it.

And Dean happened to walk in at that exact moment, arms full with six packs.

Both your heads snap up, at the sound of someone entering, Tucker’s hand still holding the spatula, and your arm still outstretched in the middle of handing it over.

The silence lasted three seconds, before a shit-eating grin spread on Dean’s face. “Oh my god.”

You and Tucker blinked at him

"What?" Tucker asked.

Dean stared.

Then he puts the six packs down on the counter, and pointed between the two of you again, the grin on his face not at all wavering.

“You guys are literally like— Mom and Dad.”

You make a face. “Dean, what the hell are you—”

“No, like. I mean, I did comment on it to Allie-Cat about how you two seem to have this flow in the kitchen but seeing it happen just solidified the whole thing.”

“You’re being weird, Di Laurentis.” Tuckers laughs, turning his attention back to the sauce, stirring it with the spatula while you work on what you decided to be coleslaw. You nod along, but Dean shakes his head.

“I’m serious. Wait Allie-Cat,” He calls for Allie who pops her head up from the couch she flopped onto the moment they returned from the beer run. “Agree with me here.” Dean gestures to you and Tucker. “Mama y Papa.”

Allie blinks, then grins. “Yeah, I see it.”

Dean looks back at the two of you. “See!” He points at you. “Mama.” Then to Tucker. “Papa.”

“Dean.” You groaned.

“No, no, it works.” Hannah piped in from her place next to Garrett. “I mean, we already call you Mom as a joke. And Tucker is Dad here. It just works.”

“Oh my god.” You sigh, and turn to Tucker, who doesn’t seem like he has a problem with the whole thing, grinning in amusement when he met your gaze.

“So, we’re calling them Mama and Papa now?” Logan interrupts as he heads down from, looking between the kitchen and living room. He eyes you and Tucker, before nodding. “I can roll with it.”

The nickname stuck, and spread in the friend group like a highly contagious disease. And with the nickname came the teasing.

-

“Oh good, Mama brought snacks.” You looked up from unloading grocery bags onto the counter to find Hannah already reaching for the chips.

"Hannah."

"What?" she asked innocently.

"You are twenty-one years old."

"Yeah."

"You can buy your own snacks."

"Why would I do that when Mama always remembers?"

"Han-Han."

"Love you too, Mother."

Across the kitchen while unloading the other grocery bag, Tucker tried not to laugh as loud at the incredulous look on your face.

You kicked his shin.

He ended up laughing anyways.

-

Then there was the movie night incident.

Everyone had crammed themselves onto the couch, fighting over blankets and snacks.

You'd gotten up to grab more popcorn, and when you returned, your spot had disappeared, because Dean just moved slightly to your spot, and you stared at him.

Dean only grinned, patting the spot where he once sat, which is conveniently, next to Tucker.

You glowered. “Dean.”

He grinned wider. “Sit beside Dad, Mom.”

You froze, and you catch Tucker visibly stiffen, his eyes flickering to you, then to Dean.

Dean looked between the two of you.

"What?"

"Dean," you warned.

"What? Married couples sit together."

"We are not married."

"Yet."

Your friends just exchange grins and teases, your face immediately going hot. You glance at Tucker, and ignored the way your stomach flipped slightly when he met your gaze, before burying his face in his hands at another tease.

He groaned into his hands. "You people are unbelievable."

This time, it was your turn to smile in amusement at his reaction.

Things only escalated by the end of the month with the road trip, which was a six-hour drive to a neighboring city for a random weekend getaway.

You had volunteered to drive the car, and Tucker offered to sit at the front and switch with you when you were halfway.

It was reasonable, so you agreed, and when the day came, it was Dean (again) who made a huge deal about it.

"Oh look."

"Dean." Tucker was the first to give Dean a pointed look while you sigh in the driver’s seat.

"The family car."

You eye him. "Dean."

"Mama and Papa taking the kids—"

"DEAN."

Needless to say, by the time you reached the hotel, your patience was hanging by a thread.

Tucker, unfortunately, thought your annoyed face was hilarious.

"You know," he said as the group unloaded bags, "you get this wrinkle right here when you're mad."

You stared.

He poked between your eyebrows, his grin widening when you nearly slapped his hand away.

"You’re testing my patience.” You glowered.

His grin widened, and he nudged you. "I’m just pointing things out.”

“I hate you.”

He shut the trunk door, and grinned. “Nah. You love me.”

Something in your chest tightens. You choose to instead huff and ignore the feeling, turning on your heel just as Logan comes by to grab the other bags.

-

Months passed, and you thought the joke would have died down along with it.

It kind of did. Because the joke stopped being a joke.

People stopped questioning it. Everyone stopped laughing every time, instead treating it like it was normal.

And it did, because at some point, becoming the Mom and Dad of the group became normal.

It became a fact. An accepted thing.

Which somehow made it ten times worse, because somewhere along the way, the joke stopped feeling entirely like a joke.

At least to you.

And judging by the way Tucker sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention—

Maybe not to him either.

You didn’t know when you started liking him. When it stopped being just a nickname to you. But you could pinpoint when things really started to change between you and Tucker.

It was another Friday night gathering.

Another Friday night where you find yourself in the kitchen with Tucker. Usually, you’d have the others clean up while you lounge in the living room after making dinner, but after another round of jests that Logan started this time:

“You both are disgustingly domestic. Just get together already.” He points out. Grace, new to the group but had already caught on and was definitely in on the whole thing, nodded along. “It’s cute. Like you’re married and all.” You didn’t shoot them your usual pointed glares, instead opting to look away, but Logan caught the flush in your cheeks and, like Dean, made a huge scene about it enough to get the attention of the others. “Oh my god you’re blushing.” Allie looked at Tucker, and grins. “Tucker’s blushing too!” “Oh my god this is new.” Dean cackles.

You sent them all out for snack and beer runs so that the house would be quiet from all their jests, but you didn’t think ahead far enough because now you’re alone with Tucker.

The silence between you in the kitchen is usually comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

But tonight, its different. Heavy and awkward, like the all of the teasing finally settled into something more real between you two.

You curse yourself for not thinking ahead, busying your hands with drying a plate. Tucker was putting the dishes away, and it was silent for a long time (a minute), until he finally broke it with by clearing his throat.

“So.”

At the same time, you also decided to break the silence, and looked up to face him. Both of your faces were flushed, embarrassment obvious on either of your faces.

“So.”

You both stare at each other for a brief moment, before you both burst into laughter.

The tension cracked immediately.

When the laughter dies down, Tucker nervously shrugs at you, shifting his weight. “So, like, you don’t mind?”

“Mind what?” You blink at him.

Tucker rubs the back of his neck, and gestures vaguely. “Well. The whole… Mama, Papa thing.”

You stare at him, before letting out a shy laugh. “No. Not really. I don’t mind…”

“You sure?” He eyes you for a moment, and the seriousness in his gaze makes your stomach flip. “I mean, I could always tell them to back off.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“No?” A brow raises.

“No.”

He meets your gaze, and you swallow. “I mean, I don’t mind.” You look down at the dishtowel in your hands, and mumbled quietly, “I think it’s cute.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

When you dared glance up again, Tucker was staring.

Not a hint of amusement or anything close to teasing in his gaze. Then he smiled.

It was soft, and dangerous, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.

“Yeah?” He hums, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity makes you want to hide, but instead, you try to cover up the way your heart is pounding by looking away and grumbling, “Don’t make me repeat it.”

His grin widened. "I wasn't gonna."

"Liar."

"Maybe I was."

You rolled your eyes.

He laughed, and you lightly swing the dishtowel at him, earning an offended gasp and a “Hey!” from him. Your grins don’t exactly fade as you went back into the routine of wiping and putting away the dishes again, but something new has settled between you.

Something warm. Something hopeful. A quiet understanding about something that has been brewing there for months.

Dean noticed first. Of course he did. But it was mostly because neither of you were very good at hiding things. Or that neither of you was exactly hiding anything.

Tucker started sitting beside you more often, and you always saved the seat next to you.

He'd bring you coffee, meeting your outside your classes to walk you to your next one.

Sometimes, you'd drop by to bring him food.

You'd steal his hoodies. He'd let you.

Dean pointed it out to Allie. Allie told him to let it happen.

That wouldn’t stop him from commenting on it when he recognized the hoodie you were wearing after Hockey practice and you tagged along with Hannah and Allie.

"You guys are disgusting."

"Don’t be such a hypocrite, Dean." You poke at him. He scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. I mean why would he deny it, when Allie herself is wearing his hoodie?

You grin, "Exactly."

The funny thing is that neither of you were explicitly going out. No confession, no formal talk. It was just an understanding that settled after that one night, though you did think about actually doing the whole confession thing.

But it seemed like Tucker thought the same thing.

Because just a few days later, sometime around the early afternoon. It was just you and Tucker. A simple invitation to hang out, making lunch and all that.

You were helping Tucker clean up. Again.

Because apparently that was your thing. He was drying dishes. You were washing them.

Routine. Something normal. Comfortable.

"You know," Tucker suddenly said.

"Hm?"

"I think Dean might actually pass out if we started dating."

You nearly dropped a plate, glancing at him with squinted eyes.

"Tucker."

"What?"

"Tucker."

His laugh was warm.

You shook your head, but despite yourself, you smiled. “He would. Definitely.”

The room went quiet.

You glanced over.

Tucker was already looking at you.

The smile slowly faded from his face. Not like in a bad way, just in a manner that was softer. Serious. 

Your breath hitches. “Tucker…” 

He steps closer, “I’m not saying this because of the whole nickname thing.” He murmurs. “I’m saying this because I like you, and I'd really like to date you. If you'd let me.” 

The plate nearly slipped from your hands, but he catches it, setting it down in the sink. His gaze doesn't stray from yours, and you can feel your face heat up. "Tuck."

"Yeah?"

Your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest.

"You have really terrible timing."

His grin returned.

"You saying no?"

You stared, then tilted your head back and laughed. A beat, and you shake your head with a chuckle, "No."

His expression softened immediately.

"No?"

"No."

The smile that spread across his face was blinding.

“This confirmation that I get to call you my girlfriend now?” You grin. 

“Yeah.” And when he leans in, you tilt your head up in response. It's gentle. Careful, and you’re both smiling into it, and just as you pull away, you couldn't help thinking that maybe Dean had been onto something all along.

The next day, you walked into the hockey house holding Tucker's hand.

The silence lasted long enough for everyone's gaze to flicker from your joined hands, then back to you.

“Are you guys actually…” Hannah tentatively asks, pointing from you to Tucker. 

You nod. He just smiles, simply squeezing your hand tighter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Mama and Papa finally got together," Dean announced dramatically.

You just laugh, finding a seat on the couch. Tucker instead pulls you onto his lap, smiling widely, and for the first time since the nickname started—

Neither of you minded it at all.

“I can’t believe you got hit, dumbass!” You hiss at Dean as you clamber into Garret’s car to drive him to the ER

Truthfully it wasn’t his fault, it was a nasty hit that was clearly a foul but apparently the ref was blind or concussed because the fucking loser got sent off without a warning.

Dean looks like he’s been battered halfway to hell and you’re concerned enough that you’ve forced Garret to drive you to the closest ER.

Garret would complain if he didn’t also look concerned about the current state of one of his closest friends.

That alone lets you know that Dean shouldn’t still be groaning and hunched over the way that he is.

“It’s like you’re blaming me for getting beat to shit.” The blonde whines and you inhale sharply, trying not to stress him out more.

“It’s a stress response, can’t help that you’re an idiot that chirps guys twice the size of you,” you mumble back, rubbing his back soothingly as you hear him struggle to inhale.

“This car go any faster Graham?” You hiss to the brunette who whips his head to look at you in bewilderment.

“I’m driving the speed limit!” He says defensively.

“Rowan is not twice my size, you take that back.” Dean groans as he throws himself back against the car seat and tilts his head to the ceiling.

You scoff, “That’s the part you’re choosing to focus on? Not the fact that your smartass comments got you—“

“You love my smartass comments.”

You fight the urge to strangle the already injured man.

You and Dean are…complicated.

You’re friends at best and fuck buddies at worst.

You’re well aware you’d never be the one to lock him down, and you’d made your peace with that.

But you’d be lying if you said that the two of you didn’t occasionally toe the line between situationship and…more.

You knew for starters that you were the only girl friend Dean called to hang out with platonically, without the slightest assumption of sex.

You also knew that Dean had a set of Avengers boxers that he wore to sleep.

Either way, you knew things that other girls didn’t, that was a fact.

Unfortunately for you, that also meant you obtained the less favored girlfriend duties.

Like making sure he took care of himself and didn’t suffer some form of internal bleeding because he decided to shit talk on the ice.

“We’re 5 minutes away.” Garret remarks from the front.

Dean limply lifts one hand to give a fragile thumbs up with a wobbly smile.

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” Dean says groggily, somehow still managing a sleazy smirk on his face despite his injury.

You glower, “Sorry that I’m worried my friend is seriously hurt.”

“Friend? Ouch. Got demoted that easily?”

You can’t help it, you snort. “Shut up Di Laurentis.”

“Last name, Damn. Think I got myself in the dog house.”

You roll your eyes, stiffening when the lights of the Pittsburgh Trauma and Medical Centre flash across your window.

As Garrett parks, you open the door and tug on Deans arm to get him moving.

“Can you walk?” You ask concernedly, watching as he stumbles slightly as he gets out of the car.

He nods, looking pale in the face. You motion for Garrett to hurry up and flank Dean’s other side so the both of you can get him through the doors.

With a shaky hand and little fanfare you sign a bunch of forms before you’re called into the ED with blinding white lights and groups of nurses and doctors floating around the three of you.

You’re ushered to a room by a lovely woman called Princess and as you settle in you can’t help but bounce your legs, watching Dean and the door anxiously waiting for someone to arrive.

Garrett watches you in poorly veiled amusement, “You look like you’re about to shit yourself.” He huffs a laugh.

Dean snorts, “That’s not a look, she just does that.”

You slap his thigh with a petulant frown which has him theatrically wailing and you rushing to muffle his mouth with your hand lest he cause a scene.

Of course, that’s when the door opens as one of the doctors walk in.

Your jaw slackens in horror almost simultaneously as the two of you catch sight of each other.

“Dennis?!” You gasp out in shock.

Dennis’ eyes widen, his mouth forming your name is almost childlike wonder.

“Holy shit!” You laugh, moving your hand off of a suddenly quiet Dean’s mouth as you move towards your childhood friend.

“You’re a long way away from Nebraska Denny!” You say happily, throwing your arms around him and catching him off guard as he stumbles back before the familiar feeling of his arms wrap around your waist.

You feel him laugh into your neck, squeezing you tighter and forcing a hysterical giggle out of your chest.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into you as he pulls away slightly, hands still on your waist but meeting your eyes.

You soften, your bottom lip wobbling slowly as you swat at his chest half heartedly, “Don’t make me emotional now, it’s good to see you too.”

You’re too invested in the sight of the little blonde you knew from high school to notice Dean’s glowering and the shared look of perplexed nature that Garrett and him share.

“Denny?” Garrett mouths at Dean, and to much of his amusement watches as the blonde’s face scrunches up in distaste.

Denny. What kind of a nickname is “Denny” anyways. You’ve never given him a nickname, what’s so special about this guy that he gets one and Dean doesn’t?

“Anyways!” You clap your hands as you stand back, moving backwards to stand next to Dean’s bed as you sway on your toes.

“You’re Mr Di Laurentis?” Dennis checks with him and Dean nods, trying not to growl as he watches you stare at the doctor with excitement.

He’s starting to hate this dude.

“Can any of you tell me what happened?” Dennis asks, catching sight of Dean clutching his left side and grimacing in pain.

“He got hit while playing, some guy body checked him into the boards and his elbow connected pretty hard with his ribs.” You remark bitterly, staring at Dean with a frown.

Dean sniffs, nodding in agreement and Dennis makes a note on his chart.

“Alright, I’ll do a physical just to feel around and see if anything’s broken before we take some blood and do some scans just to make sure nothing serious is going on, okay?” He asks.

Dean bites back a growl again as you refuse to turn to look at him, instead nodding at Dennis like he’s the first coming of Christ.

He makes fast work of it, slowly pressing down on the readily forming bruises on Dean’s abdomen and apologizing softly when it’s sensitive to force a breath of air or a slight whimper out of Dean’s mouth.

You chew on your nails anxiously as you watch Dennis work with a sharp eye.

“What can we do about pain meds? He’s been groaning since we got in the car.” Garrett remarks this time, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall.

Dennis flicks his eyes up with a look of surprise, as if he’d forgotten there was someone else there at all.

“Yeah—yeah, we can totally do that. Do you have any known allergies I should know about?”

Dean frowns, thinking. “No, I don’t—”

“He’s allergic to penicillin.” You but in and Dean turns to stare at you in disbelief.

How do you know that?

Dennis shares an uneasy look between the two of you before nodding and turning to leave.

“Alright; good to know. I will keep you guys update but come and get me or someone else if your pain gets worse or you start to feel worse.” He mentions.

You nod hastily, turning to look at Dean with a bright smile as soon as Dennis walks out.

Deans face softens. It’s not right to be mad at you, it’s not like you did anything.

And it’s not like he has any right to be jealous, he’s the one who said this whole thing was casual.

“So…you and the cute doctor huh?” Garret smirks, forcing you both to break eye contact.

Your face warms and you groan, placing your hands over your face.

“Was I weird? Was that weird?” You stress, looking embarrassed.

Dean frowns, “How do you know him?” He demands.

You look confused, “I uh—we used to go to school together in Nebraska, before I transferred to Briar.”

Garrett hums in acknowledgment, “you guys didn’t keep in contact?”

Deans whips his head to stare at his friend with an incredulous expression. He doesn’t want to hear about that.

It’s enough having the guy as his doctor and having to watch you fluster yourself whenever he’s around.

“I mean,” you shrug. “Broken Bow’s a small place and when most people get the chance to leave—they’re not really too sad about what they’re leaving behind.”

Garrett nods, sharing a small smile with you.

Dean scoffs though, “yeah he seems real beat up that he’s seeing you again.”

You frown, “you think he doesn’t like me?” You look worried, like you’re afraid that you’ve overstepped and imposed yourself where you’re unwanted.

Garrett rolls his eyes, leaning forward to swat at Dean’s shoulder in reprimand.

“Don’t say that,” he chastises the blond.

“He means that he looks like he’s into you.” Garret tells you kindly.

You switch your gaze from Dean who’s scowling to Garrett who’s offering you a comforting expression.

“And that’s…bad?” You hedge slowly.

“Of course it’s bad!” Dean snaps.

Garrett closes his eyes slowly, blowing out a breath, “I am going to check what they’ve got in the vending machine’s round here—you two—”Garret gestures largely at the two of you as he walks out of the room.

You sigh, “You have a problem with Dennis?”

Dean attempts to cross his arms but hisses when it pulls on his injury, letting them flop uselessly next to him.

“Should I have a problem with Dennis?” Dean asks mockingly.

You growl exasperated, “ I don’t know Dean! Not that I know of? He’s been perfectly nice and I’m sure you guys would get along if you got to know him more—“

“I don’t want to get along with him!” Dean bursts out, red in the face as he scowls.

You falter, “What? Why?”

Dean hesitates, “Because I—it doesn’t matter.”

Your expression hardens, “it obviously does if you’re about to chew my head off for suggesting it.”

Dean slumps in his bed, toying idly at the loose threads on the sheet.

“I just—“ he blows out a breath “I don’t like the idea of you going out with him”

“Why?” You press.

Dean grimaces, “Because I—I like you.” He mutters lowly.

You blink slowly.

“I like you too? Dean what? we‘ve been sleeping together for months of course I like you—”

Dean looks like he wants to bash himself over the head with the bedpan, “No.” He stresses.

“I like you as in, I want to be with you—exclusively.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Dean laughs incredulously. “C’mon babe, you gotta give me something more.”

You blink faster, “I just—I didn’t think—you said you don’t date!” You hiss

Dean shrugs, an innocent yet nervous expression on his face, “I didn’t.” He confirms.

“Until you.”

You roll your eyes, “Egregious line, Di Laurentis.”

“Did it work?”

Your gaze washes over his nervous expression and you soften.

You’re leaning over the bed before you know it, pressing a soft kiss to his lips with a smile.

“You’re something else.” You murmur softly against his lips, both of you grinning into each other’s mouths as your eyes meet.

Getting pregnant during your freshman year of college had not been the plan. Getting pregnant with the biggest manwhore in your year and probably the whole school even though he was only a freshman too had been even less of your plan. But Dean Di Laurentis wasn't one to back out of a challenge, ever. So when you showed up at his hockey practice and shattered his world with two words, he didn't crumble. Instead, he nodded, asked what your plans were and assured you that whatever it was he'd be there for it.

When you decided you wanted to keep the baby and told him you didn't expect anything from him he hit you with the most outraged defense about how that was his child you were carrying and how he was going to do everything in his power to make sure you were both okay.

You were never together officially, Dean continued hooking up with other girls, now being extra careful, but still made sure he was always showing up for you. One night you called him crying at 2AM when you were five months pregnant because you were hungry but had ran out of the specific mango sorbet you had loved for months now and your back hurt and your feet were too swollen. He'd been in the middle of round two with a blonde from a sorority but as soon as he heard you crying he was already putting on his pants and rushing out the door.

You were way too pregnant by summer, so instead of heading to St.Barts, the entire Di Laurentis family huddled close in New York, your family having decided not to support you, to help you and Dean. His parents gifting you a unit right next to theirs so you could have your own space.

Sadly, the baby had decided to hold on until classes had started again. Dean moved in with the hockey guys into an off campus house, you had found an apartment not too far away that he had insisted on paying for , you'd fought him against it but ended up accepting an 80-20 split for the time being until you could go back to work, Dean hadn't even batted an eye at the money he had spent.

You decided to take the semester off to focus on the baby for the first months swearing up and down that you would be back to start your sophomore year, how? You were still not sure but you knew you'd figure it out.

Dean's friends had been surprisingly supporting through it all. The guys constantly checking up on you while Dean was in class and making sure to always bring something for you. When your water broke you had been at their house with Tucker and Garrett because Dean had insisted you stayed there as you were past your due date and he wanted to keep an eye on you.

You were on your way to the kitchen to get a snack when you felt the liquid splash down on your feet and stopped in your tracks. Garret looked up from the game they were playing and gasped "Did you pee yourself?" "I think my water just broke" Tucker looked at you then with wide eyes "What?" "I think my water just broke" You repeated looking down at the mess you'd made, then looked at the guys and with the calmest look ever you said "Someone needs to drive me to the hospital"

The next 20 minutes had happened in double speed, both boys helping you out to Garrett's jeep, Tucker with your hospital bag clutched all the way to the hospital, where Garrett yelled like a madman for help and it wasn't until the nurse looked at him with the kindest most understanding smile and said "We've got her daddy don't worry" That you all realized no one had called Dean yet.

15 minutes later you were in a room with Garrett and Logan when Dean rushed through the door with Logan hot on his trail. He stayed by your side for the entire 17 hours and 36 minutes the birth took and the moment he held his son he swore his whole world shifted in its axis.

The first week of Sebastian's life Dean refused to leave both of your side's, he missed lectures and practice and hangouts. By the beginning of the second week you called Garrett and begged him to come and take him away because he was driving you insane. The next four weeks were a constant revolving door of Dean's roommates plus Jules (Logan's sibling who had just started at Briar as a freshman) constantly checking up on you and the baby.

At six weeks you and Dean decided you were comfortable enough to take little Seb out, his first trip was straight to the hockey house.

Masterlist

📅 February 6, 2026

liked by nicolepiastri and 39.8K others

81cheries Callista mentioning Oscar as she shares her skincare routine with @|vogueaustralia !🧖🏻‍♀️🫧

“I apologise if you can hear my cats meowing in the background. […] My fiancé just got home and they’re very excited. […] They clearly know which parent spoils them more”

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user her fiancé being none other than australian f1 driver, oscar piastri as she releases a video with vogue australia!!!🧡

user petition for callista to start a youtube channel pls, i’d religiously watch her videos i fear

user omg a little glimpse into their everyday life🥹

user “they clearly know which parent spoils them more” cat dad oscar, you are the best thing to have ever happened to me

user our crazy cat lady and her polite cat fiancé with their little cat family 😻🧡

user if you listen closely, you can hear a bag of treats being opened. oscar really does spoil their cats bdskhdwkdhs ♥︎ by author

user i would be as excited as their cats too if my dad was oscar piastri🤣

user NICOLE IN THE LIKES THATS HER FAVOURITE DAUGHTER IN LAW FR

⤷ user callista’s her only daughter in law🤣 ⤷ user and that’s why she’s the immediate favourite!

📅 February 21, 2026

liked by 28.9K others

everythingoscallista Throwback to the Vegas GP in 2024 where they had Oscar play “This or That” He’s known all along that he’ll marry Callista😂🧡

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user i just know he went to the school of tom holland manifestation

user he’s been scheming from day 1😭 ♥︎ by author

user keep in mind that they were a year into their relationship atp…

user he’s been locked in from the very start😍😍

user he really meant it when he said “i would’ve proposed sooner if i had known she was ready”

user i literally forgot this even existed, i’m so glad i forgot about it and i now can relive this moment again 🙏🙏🙏

user no hesitation whatsoever is CRAZY

user “i think my girlfriend would be happy” and that’s on happy wife, happy life‼️

user the way he’s been longing for callista for YEARS AND NOW THEY’RE HAPPILY ENGAGED

user when a man knows what he wants >>>🤤🤤

📅 March 7, 2026

liked by 61.3K others

f1driversandwags Oscar Piastri talks about getting recognised more often by his fiancé, Callista Narcisse’s fans out in public in Off The Grid! They really are the sweetest pair 🤍😂

“By the time we made our relationship public, a few more people knew who I was […] I was getting recognised and approached in public and often times, they were not F1 fans which is cool. […] They’d talk and ask about Callista and I’m not gonna deny someone the joy of talking about Callista. […] It’s a nice change of pace in conversations, with them I can just be Oscar, the fiancé. […] I’m always looking forward to it.”

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user he knows the consequences of pulling a baddie iktr 💅

user oscar is my favourite accessory of hers actually!

user we ❤️ you, mr.chérie ♥︎ by author

user if he’s not this obsessed, i don’t want him!!!

user as a dancer, i literally only knew about f1 through callista and now i watch and support BOTH oscar and charles on the weekends 😂

user not a single chalant bone in his body when it comes to his girl

user he is EXACTLY where he wants to be 💀🧡

user started stanning callista in 2017 now i’m watching her millionaire man drive in circles every weekend…

user i literally only seek for callista content on his account 🤣

user love the way he’s like “yeah! i am callista narcisse’s fiancé! what about it!”

📅 March 17, 2026

liked by 53.6K others

cherrypastry Here’s the translation to Callista opening up about knowing the dangers of F1 as someone who supports 2 active drivers, her brother, Charles and her fiancé, Oscar! 🥺😔

“The sport has evolved massively since then but it doesn’t lessen the dangers of it. […] With 2 people who are actively still in the sport, you have to swallow the fear and try not to dwell on it but in every single race- whether I’m in the garages or not, I’ve constructed a way to get to them as quickly as possible, if need be. […] And, if I’m in the paddock, I always make the time to visit Charles before watching the race over in Oscar’s garage. […] I know what's going on, I can understand the sport so I just have to put my trust and know that it’s safe for not only my family but for other drivers as well.”

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user being so brave for your brother and partner knowing that you’ve lost a godfather figure to the same sport 💔 ♥︎ by author

⤷ user we don’t give her enough credit. i would sooner lose my mind if i were her…

user she’s literally the best backbone both oscar and charles have 🥺❤️‍🩹

user thanks callista now i’m crying

user i can’t imagine how stressful it must be to be a sister AND a partner of an f1 drivers😓

user a truly beautiful and caring sister and fiancé

user beautifully said with such raw words, ms. narcisse 🥲 i’m not tearing up at all 🥲

user MY CHÉRIE </333

user “for not only my family but for other drivers as well.” bc she’s made such good friends with the other drivers as well 💔😩

user my poor baby shaylaaaaaa

📅 April 5, 2026

liked by 19.4K others

callistasource Oscar and Callista seen out and about in Monaco! It seems like the photo she posted on her story is the bouquet she has on her lap 🥰💐

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user it’s his birthday tmr and he’s gifting his fiancé instead…

user he really is the type of partner who buys flowers “just because”🥹 ♥︎ by author

user him and alex being alike in a way they always spoil their partners with flowers <33 #pialbon

user oscar and his flowers 💐🩷

user i get so giddy whenever ik they’re together that’s mama y papa fr

user the flowers and what i’m assuming is hot chocolate since they don’t drink coffee on her story is so sweet idky 😭🫶

user fleur!!!

user his plate license being out of frame is criminal btw

⤷ user wait- what’s his plate license? ⤷ user O81C ☹️☹️☹️

📅 April 11, 2026

liked by 23.8K others

op81cn Tennis with Oscar and Callista! A year apart and nothing has changed, the way he looks at her 🥹🫶🎾

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user the fact that they reacquainted from watching a tennis match back in 2023🥹

user okay loverboy (said adoringly)

user with the photo of them in 2023, we’re just missing 2024 💔

user when you have a lifelong crush on your partner >>> ♥︎ by author

user i’m so happy for my personal close friend, callista for FINALLY having a man that worships her😭❤️‍🔥

user our prince and princess!!!

user i’m still not over the first photo and NOW WE HAVE A 2026 VERSION???🥲🥲🥲

user he’s so happy to be there with her bekzbwkss

user the eyes chico they never lie…

⤷ user he’s literally giving the look of love 😩

📅 May 1, 2026

liked by 43.2K others

narcisse.piastri Oscar was recently described as “Although, Oscar knows Callista’s capable. He is known for being fiercely protective of her.” in a recent article by Mr. Porter 🥹❤️‍🔥

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user whatever callista said in her prayer… I NEED IT

⤷ user in reality, it’s what oscar said in his prayer that we need💀💀💀

user absolutely huge respect for him

user “although he knows she’s capable” AAAA THIS IS WHY WE LOVE HIM 🥹🤍🤍🤍

user well, good on him! as he should!

user such a gentleman, he was raised right 🥰

user A MAN A MAN A MAAAAAAAAN ♥︎ by author

user extremely necessary lore drop btw this is just what i needed #livelaughloveoscallista

user he has 3 younger sisters and she has 4 older brothers, it only makes sense for him to be very protective of her 🤭🤭🤭

⤷ user i just know that her brothers are happy she chose oscar of all people 🤔

📅 May 27, 2026

liked by 86.5K others

f1wagculture Fawning over this part from the new “High Performance” podcast video. I truly love the relationship Oscar has with Callista 🥹🥲❤️‍🩹

“That was a big change for me, moving out at 14 years old and going off to school outside of Australia. […] That was pretty tough. It was tough in the sense that I was leaving everything behind, like my family, my friends and my home but it was a necessary step to take, in order to get to F1. […] There are times where I seek for the comfort of home but now that I’ve grown, I feel like I have a pretty good sense of self-awareness in terms of what I need and don't need and when I need some help. […] I also learned that home isn’t just a place- It can be a person […] Thankfully, I have my fiancé, Callista for that. With her, I know I’m not completely on my own.”

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user oh i didn’t need this today 💔

user HIS HOME ISNT A PLACE, HIS HOME IS CALLISTA

user he has such a beautiful way with his words😭

user this is a VERY sensitive topic for me

user naww they help heal parts of each other ❤️‍🩹

user oh wow i’m bored let’s delete our accounts!

user tears streaming down my face always 🥲🥺

user idc triple his pain and give it to zac brown

user my poor baby, i’m so glad he has callista😓

user SOBBING EVERYTIME HE TALKS ABOUT LEAVING HOME EARLY SOBBING EVEN MORE HIM THANKING CALLISTA FOR BEING HIS HOME ♥︎ by author

📅 June 5, 2026

liked by 43.6K others

81busybees Fork found in kitchen! Oscar has never fail to mention Callista in a recent interview!😭🍴🧡

"In Monaco, I got a second and a third […] I need to add the top step especially since it’s my fiance’s home-race.”

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user i see he’s also high on that hOPium

⤷ user he’d do anything for his wife! (and charles’ approval💀)

user FROM HIS LIPS TO GOD'S EARS

user he wants that p1 for the p1 of his heart 😜 ♥︎ by author

user he’s gonna do 6 overtakes i can feel it in my bones

user i think its easier to learn french for your fiancé with the current state of your car, oscar😅

user P7 TO P1 LFG OP81

user universe if you’re listening, don’t let this man embarrass himself in-front of his wife 🙏

user watch him get p4 lol

⤷ user YOU TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT THIS INSTANT 😠

📍 Monte-Carlo, Monaco • June 8, 2026

liked by oscarpiastri and 1.2M others

callista the cure 🫀

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oscarpiastri Let’s get the cat out of the bag 😂🐈‍⬛👜 ♥︎ by author

⤷ user your fiancé is literally saying that YOU’RE HER CURE and you commented that???😭🥲💀 ⤷ user there’s levels of dorkness to this comment

user ballet, her home, her cats, her family, her work and oscar = callista’s cure ❤️‍🩹☹️

oliviarodrigo ilysm 💘💘💘 ♥︎ by author

user this is quite literally the most wholesome photo dump ever 🥹🤍

arthur_leclerc Petite sœur avec sa petite nièce ❤️ ♥︎ by author [baby sister with baby niece]

lucien_n Mon précieux 😘 ♥︎ by author [my precious]

user the caption- the bouquet oscar bought her- the cat they adopted together- the hand holding- the pastries- the polaroids- HES HER CURE IM DECEASED

alexandramalenaleclerc Loveeee 😍😍 ♥︎ by author

user camilla’s first appearance on aunty callista’s account. the 2 youngest leclerc-narcisse girls 🥹🩷

hattiepiastri no. 1 girl 🤍 ♥︎ by author

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏

liked by Oscarpiastri & 7,458 others

hoppingaround81: pixie took on her first ever in person. australian grand prix! ( only her human went to the race, but pix enjoyed all the beaches very much ) 🏎️🏝️🧡🦘

———————————————————————————

user: pixie looks so cute at the beach

user: i bet she loved it

user: they do live in australia so i’m sure they have been going there since y/n got her

^yourusername: yes but only she started swimming in sept 2025!

user: is the 6th pic her pretending to be a kangaroo?

yourusername: she thinks she’s one of them!

user: why is oscar piastri in the likes

^user: maybe he likes bunnies

^user: he probably thinks it’s a fan account

^user: technically it is…

^user: yeah she’s been a supporter of him since his f3 days. this used to strictly be an oscar fan page until he joined in 2023 and that’s also the year she got pixie

user: ughhh you've got it all girl!

user: oh to be pixie at the beach with my human who busted attended the australian gp

user: queen did you see oscar crashed on formation lap? :(

^yourusername: yes i did unfortunately. absolutely gutted for the poor guy, but he will come back with a bang!

𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢

oscarpiastri: grateful for everyone at the AUS GP, always amazing to be back in my hometown and interact with everyone. this year we were off to a not so great start for the season, but my head is up and i’m ready to race again. interested to see how the rest of this season unfolds, hopefully it’s only up from here.

———————————————————————————

user: saddest day of my life

user: i actually screamed in terror when he crashed

user: the curse continues

^user: still so pissed off

^user: man i really thought he had it this year

user: i was so confident in him

user: ugh i really thought we were gonna see him at least somewhere on that podium

user: oscar will be back stronger

hoppingaround81: the season’s not over!

^liked by oscarpiastri

hattiepiastri: still the best brother 🧡

^user: aww at least his family was there for comfort

^user: no that makes it sooo much worse

^user: enough bickering about that. soooo likedd is nobody going to mention how oscar only liked a fan pages comment and not his own sisters????

^user: omg girl you’re so right

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏

hoppingaround81: visited the butterfly gardens and pix couldn’t stop making friends with them! 🤗🦋

———————————————————————————

user: she really is the friendliest little bunny

user: aww and you guys are matching

^yourusername: the butterfly would not leave us alone

user: not her being the real life snow white

^user: she collects animals like she's genuinely in pokemon. not that it's a bad thing though

user: butterflies suit you pair well!

user: how does she make everything look so aesthetic

^user: aside from her being an influencer on social media, the real answer is because she's just THAT girl

^user: yeah. there's no explanation really

^user: ohhhh my bad, you right

user: my fav f1 account bc it's not just about racing

^user: no literally, i love how we get to know her personal life

user: this account is the embodiment of balanced!

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏

hoppingaround81: someone was so excited to get outside that she escaped out the front door when mom was leaving, but thankfully dad rescued her. don’t worry we took her to the park the next day!

———————————————————————————

user: i’m sorry, we? pls who is we

^user: yeah literally who is we?

^user: how come this is the first dad mention

user: who has our bunny mama been hanging around!?!?!

user: pixie running away is cracking me up

𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢

oscarpiastri: enjoying some time off the croatian way

———————————————————————————

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏

hoppingarounding81: enjoying the croatian summer sun with pix!

———————————————————————————

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓

𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢

oscarpiastri: pixie’s parents are getting married

———————————————————————————

maxverstappen: p said he NEEDS to come over and see the bunny, she’s freaking out

^hoppingaround81: please tell her the whole fam is invited to the wedding. pixie will be there ofc!

user: huge day for annoying people!!

^user: everyone in my life WILL be hearing about this until the wedding

^user: girl then make them hear about the wedding for forever

user: oh my god my bingo card was right

user: | KNEW IT AWWW

user: and they called me crazy

^user: those people better look now

^user: i hope all feel stupid

user: | WAS NOT READY FOR THIS INFORMATION TODAY OR EVER.

landonorris: bro when were you gonna tell me you had a bunny AND a whole girlfriend 😭

^oscarpiastri: fiancé now!

user: thank you twitter user, i had time to prepare

^user: girl time to prepare?

^user: pfffttt lmao right, like we obviously knew they were dating but ain’t no way we expected an engagement post

user: yeah i totally thought they were hinting at like a new relationship not a long term hard launch

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏

hoppingaround81: special day for everyone especially our beautiful baby pixie. can’t believe i’m married to the love of my life, we’ve been with each other since 2019 and we always planned on forever 🧡🪩💐

———————————————————————————

alexandraleclerc: this is the cutest wedding ever, hi little pixie!

carmenmundt: i’m so obsessed with her tiny little bow

^georgerussell: the cutest ring bearer

user: since 2019 are you actually kidding me

user: not even shocked he kept this private for as long as he did

user: SHE IS SO GORGEOUS OH MY GOD

^user: the hijab with the layered wedding dress???

^user i’m actually crying this is so beautiful

user: oh! i was not expecting to be bawling for an f1 couple this early in the morning

nicolepiastri: my daughter in law 💕🥺

hattiepiastri: MY SISTERRRRR ❤️

^mclaren: we're not crying.....( hand us the tissues pls)

user: husband oscar? oh wowowowow

user: if you don’t think this is most gorgeous stunning couple, bride, wedding, and bunny parents you’ve ever seen then i don’t know what to tell you

user: pixie is just the most adorable thing ever

^user: dare i say the best paddock pet

^user: she’s never been in there but yk hell yeah

𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢

oscarpiastri: happy to now officially be known as mr. hoppingaround81, please inform the FIA and timing tower 😊🐇💍

———————————————————————————

user: AWWW

user: HIS WIFE IS GORGEOUSSSS

^user: right! the third pic omg!!

user: followed oscar for oscar and f1 but seems like i’m staying for his beautiful wife and pixie 😊

^hoppingaround81: pixie is so happy!!

user: OSCAR PIASTRI IS A MARRIED MAN??? EXCUSE ME???

user: he won at life idc what anyone says

user: her lace hijab has me tearing up 🥹

user: the details and aesthetic of the wedding is just amazing and next level

alexalbon: pixie and y/n are officially my favorite piastri family members now ( sorry nicole )

^nicolepiastri: none taken, theirs ours too!

𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢+𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏

oscarpiastri+hoppingaround81: bunny parents are adding one more to the mix, miss pixie is getting a sibling in 2028!

we’re ready to raise you and pix loves you already 💕🐇

oscatpiastri LMAO admin just said ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN’ and that was the face Oscar pulled😭😭 what kind of trauma did they unlock??

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user I’M CRYING the man was flabbergasted

user I NEED TO KNOW WHO THAT IS IK YOU GUYS ARE GOOD AT STALKING

-> user I could only find a private acc with that name @.yourusername but there is no way to tell if it’s actually her

-> user wow you guys are quick

user oh to be able to read his mind rn

user admin chose violence today

-> user he looked so betrayed my poor boy💀

user how did admin even get such private information about Oscar?? like there is absolutely no history of a YN YLN anywhere in Oscar’s digital footprint

-> user I mean, that’s their entire job no? find things that get clicks and oscar’s past def does that

🔒 yourusername

yourusername university is slowly turning me into a hermit

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yourfriend1 caption is so real dude

yourfriend1 one more class with professor brenner and I’ll actually break all of my good pencils

-> yourusername REAL

yourfriend2 movie binge night was so good we have to do it again

-> yourusername ‼️‼️

yourbestfriend girly you’re famous

-> yourusername fuck you mean by that?

-> yourbestfriend have you ever watched f1? does the name oscar piastri ring a bell?

-> yourusername YOURE FUCKING JOKING

yourfriend3 I’m so hungry I could eat oscar piastri🤔🤔

yourfriend4 what just happened

yourfriend5 the art faculty bathroom is actually so peak

yourfriend6 you’re so gorgeous one chance pls pls pls

TEXTS BETWEEN NICOLE AND OSCAR

TEXTS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND

👤 OSCAR PIASTRI WANTS TO SEND YOU A MESSAGE

oscarpiastri: Hello YN, I’m not sure if you remember me, we went to kindergarten together. I just wanted to give you a heads up, incase you haven’t seen it yet. There is a video going around on the internet of the McLaren social media admin mentioning you in an interview and people are taking it all sorts of ways. I hope it doesn’t cause you any trouble, if it does, please don’t hesitate to reach out and I will take full responsibility for it. I hope you are doing well!

INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGES BETWEEN YOU AND OSCAR

yourusername: Hello Oscar, it’s nice to hear from you! Thank you for the heads up, that’s really kind of you. I saw the video and the reactions, but don’t worry, it’s really no trouble. How are you? Maybe we could catch up? We haven’t seen each other for so long

oscarpiastri: Good to hear that it’s not troubling you. I’m sorry anyway. And I’d love to catch up. Are you still in AUS? I’m there from December until February, incase you are.

yourusername: Yep! Still an Australian resident:) I have a small semester break in Janurary, if that works for you?

oscarpiastri: Great! 👍

🔒 yourusername

yourusername touching grass because why am I doing all that over a MAN

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yourfriend1 I just looked oscar piastri up and jeezus YN go get him or I will

yourbestfriend my girl is crushing on the f1 championship leader… i always knew you had big ambitions but I didn’t think they were that big

-> yourusername YOU REALLY ARE NOT HELPING IT

yourfriend2 we’ve lost her😞😞

-> yourfriend3 to a MAN of all things smh

-> yourusername YOU GUYS

yourfriend4 why do I have to be on an semester abroad right now of all moments I FEEL SO LEFT OUT

yourfriend5 she was crouching like that for a good 5 minutes btw

-> yourusername STOP EXPOSING ME

-> yourfriend4 why was she even crouching??

-> yourfriend5 he was texting her really dryly and she freaked out bc obviously that means he hates her and she wants to die and he should crash

-> yourfriend4 you are absolutely hopeless YN

-> yourusername I need to find friends that actually love me

yourfriend6 yk when you start dating you’ll have to open this insta to him and he’ll see how pathetic you are for him

-> yourusername WAIT THATS SO EMBARRASSING

🔒 yourusername

yourusername no idea what just happened I just know it wasn’t good at all I’M SO SORRY OSCAR WHEN I SAID I WANTED YOU TO CRASH I DIDNT MEAN IT

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yourfriend1 you’re so unserious wearing a tshirt that says your tears don’t fall they crash around me after your CRUSH DNFED

-> yourusername gotta have some humour or I’ll cry

yourfriend2 I’m seeing this as a sign that he’s so obsessed with you that he does everything you say

-> yourusername THEN HE SHOULD LOCK IN AND WIN THE STUPID CHAMPIGNONCHIP OR WHATEVER

-> yourfriend2 CHAMPIGNONCHIP I‘M CHOKING

f1updates

f1updates oscar piastri when asked about the title fight and the support of family and friends for the race this weekend:

“I know a lot of things have to go right today, in order for me to win, but as long as it is a possibility, I will stay positive that I can do it.” Said the Australian. “I’ve got a lot of people here to cheer me on, my mum, dad and sisters, for one, but also an old friend, who I haven’t seen in a long time. They give me the strength to push one last time.”

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user I KNOW HE CAN DO IT

user Norris needs to fuck off it’s Oscar’s turn

user I wonder who the “old friend” is🤔🤔

-> user YN YLN? I’m still not over that mystery

-> user that would be the plot twist of a century

user my entire body is vibrating like I just drank four gallons of coffee

user THIS IS STILL MY BOY

🔒 yourusername

yourusername ABU DHABI ARE YOU READY?

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yourfriend1 HE WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF WHEN HE SEES YOU

yourfriend2 wow😳

yourbestfriend forget that wanna be athlete and come home to your wife (me)

yourfriend3 your nervous f1 rambling made me invested as well, I’m rooting for the blonde with an attitude problem

-> yourusername max verstappen?

-> yourfriend3 that one, yes

yourfriend4 HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABT TODAYS RACE?

-> yourusername I’m fucking shaking bro, Verstappen idk you like that but please find the closest barrier and take that Norris guy with you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri lots achieved. lots learnt. coming back stronger next year

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mclarenf1 we are so proud of you oscar🧡

user no one is in doubt that you’ll win the title one day

user not even Norris bottled this hard

user I don’t get why people are so harsh on him all of the sudden, have we all forgotten that he lead the wdc for half a season in his 3rd year in f1??

user op the man you are

user AURA

user oh 2025 you were so promising

yourusername still not sure if I understood it all, but I know that I’m incredibly impressed:)

-> oscarpiastri I’m glad you could make it🙂

-> user OMG IT WAS YN YLN

-> user he’s so awkward with emojis💀💀

-> user GIRL PLEASE OPEN YOUR INSTA I NEED TO BE PARASOCIAL

🔒 yourusername

yourusername nothing to sayyyy🧚‍♀️

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yourfriend1 do we have to act normal now bc he can see the posts?

yourbestfriend you smart little finch, I recognise a thirst trap when I see one😛😛

-> yourusername BE QUIET

yourfriend2 RIP unhinged instagram posts, you will be missed😞

-> yourusername you guys are so dramatic

oscarpiastri I'm not sure if I want to look at the other posts

-> yourusername don't, just don't do it

yourfriend3 one man in your life and you have an entire rebrand smh 🤦‍♀️

yourfriend4 you? speechless? what have you done to my girl, oscar piastri🤨

yourfriend5 WHAT IS A MAN DOING HERE?

-> yourusername BE NICE

yourbestfriend my girl is gonna be a famous wag🥲

yourfriend6 he can take great pictures at least

f1gossip

f1gossip Oscar Piastri was sighted in Melbourne, Australia with a mysterious woman on his arm. Who do we think she is?

view all comments…

user NO😫

user oscar piastri daring rumours in the first weeks of 2026 what is going on

-> user I started to doubt his abilities

user cant even see her properly but i already know shes so pretty

user wait I think I’ve seen her before?? At the Abu Dhabi GP

yourbestfriend OMG MY GIRL IS ON A GOSSIP PAGE @.yourusername LOOK MY GIRL GOT PAPARAZZIED

-> yourusername GIRL DON'T PUT ME ON BLAST LIKE THAT

user i’m not ready for everyone to become parasocial about him all of the sudden

user not him wearing the fugly ass burgundy shirt on a DATE

-> user we don’t even know if it’s a date, could just be a friend

user did anyone see that comment from @.yourbestfriend?? they tagged a user named YN YLN….. coincidence???

-> user did I miss something?? who is that?

-> user there is a video of the mcl admin saying I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN and everyone and their mother has been trying to find out who she is and what correlation oscar has to her since then

-> user yeah and her account is private, so there’s absolutely NO WAY for us to find out anything about her

81_updates

81_updates Oscar Piastri, Mark Webber and friends on Melbourne Beach. Some fans even stated that Oscar was with a girl and they seemed to be very close🤔

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user HOLD ME BACK

user I hate to say this, but I think oscar really does have a girlfriend now

user congratulations to whoever get’s to have that every night

user lmao the imprint on his chest looks like a 4

user god that girl is lucky

user I think it’s safe to say it’s YN

user oscar jack piastri I was unfamiliar with your game

🔒 yourusername

yourusername after being forced to participate in all of Oscar’s hobbies, I think it’s only fair if I force him to paint with me, right?

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yourfriend1 turn that frown upside down😛

yourfriend2 you guys make me sick

-> yourusername jealousy doesn’t suit you babe💋

yourfriend2 and yes, that’s absolutely fair

yourfriend3 be honest, who won the race?

-> yourusername I love how much faith you have in me, but be fr who is winning the race? A girl who has known about f1 for 3 months or an actual f1 driver??

-> yourfriend3 he didn’t let you win? break up with him

-> oscarpiastri she told me not to let her win🤷 said it would be satisfying for her ego if she beat me on raw talent

-> yourfriend3 oh my sweet angel😞 THAT MEANS LET HER WIN

yourbestfriend no photo credit for the picture smh🙁

-> yourusername sorry babe, credit to you for pic 6, and to osc for literally every other one

oscarpiastri I don’t think you want to see the monster I create when I touch a pencil

-> yourusername as if I was graceful playing paddle

-> oscarpiastri you’d look beautiful while digging in dirt

-> yourusername HKDBHAYPQA

-> oscarpiastri are you ok?

-> yourusername just fine:)) my cat walked over my keyboard:))))

-> yourfriend4 you don’t…..have a cat?

-> yourusername SHHH

oscarpiastri and I did not force you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri 🔋☀️

view all comments...

user when hes good with words😍😍

user I’m so obsessed with his gf and I don’t know anything about her

-> user I think that’s part of the appeal

user KARTING OSCAR

user that looks suspiciously like a date🧐

user I can’t wait for them to feel more comfortable and reveal a little more about their relationship

-> user I’m so excited for her to attend more races next year

user I don’t think they will ever confirm anything you guys, this is all we’re gonna get THEY ARE JUST SO PRIVATE

user HES SO CUTE

Fast forward to now, your junior year of college has come and you were currently still seeing your boyfriend. It had been over a year at this point but Beau didn’t seem to mind as long as he got to be with you. He would rather be with you in secret than not be in your life at all.

It wasn’t like you were a secret to everyone, after all, you had met each others parents/guardians (and extended family) and made it clear that you were serious about each other. Dean also knew because Beau couldn’t really keep anything from him even if he tried. The two men knew each other too well.

“Are we still on for girls night?” You had curiously asked Friday morning knowing that the three of you had always planned a night of movies, dinner, and drinks. Especially since Hannah only drank in privacy.

Hannah sighed, “I can’t tonight. I have practice for the showcase and then I have a tutoring session with Garrett.” She gave you an apologetic smile. “Rain check?”

You nodded, “sure. No problem.” You assured giving her a reassuring smile before moving your gaze to a guilty looking Allie. “Let me guess? You’ve got a date with Sean?”

Allie gave a soft smile, “I’m staying at his tonight.” She replied softly. “But I can cancel if you still wanted to have our girls night…”

You shook your head, “No, don’t cancel your plans for me.” You assured. “We have a girls night once a week. I’ll find something to do.”

Allie gave you a knowing look as a smirk grew on her face, “you’ll be here alone… so maybe you should find someone to do.” She suggested.

Hannah let out a little laugh but nodded her head anyways in agreement, “it’s been what? Freshman year since you’ve hooked up with someone?”

You didn’t say anything, but ‘If you two only knew’ was repeating in your head. It hadn’t been freshman year (obviously) but Beau just happened to wonder in your life not to long after your last hook-up. “I’m happy right now.” You admitted honestly to your girls. “I really don’t need to hook-up with anyone.”

Allie huffed, “everyone needs to have good sex once in a while.” She spoke confidently, “it’s only natural.”

“Aren’t you friends with one of Garrett’s groupies?” Hannah spoke up and you slightly nodded. “They’re all good looking so why not him?”

You cringed internally at the thought of screwing Beau’s best friend. You loved Dean but not in any type of romantic or sexual manner. He was someone you could trust and lean on for anything, and a part of you would forever thank Beau for introducing you to that part of Dean.

You shook your head at Hannah’s suggestion once you broke out of your thoughts, “Never going to happen.”

Allie’s face looked like she was lost in a thought for a moment before she looked from you to Hannah and back again, “who was that dude in your ethics class?” She asked trying to think.

“The one who hangs out with Garrett and the hockey team?” Hannah asked, slinging her back over her shoulder. “If you’re talking about him it’s probably—I think Garrett said his name is Beau.”

Allie turned back to you, “how about him?” She asked. “You two are insufferable.” You muttered before grabbing your bag and heading towards the door so you could get to class.

🫧

Half of your school day was over and you had yet to see your friends or Beau for most of the day. Which it was a given because you had a few different classes and everyone had their own lives outside of the friend group. You were currently grabbing lunch since you had a decent break between classes.

“Hey beautiful.” A soft voice whispered close to your ear before you noticed your boyfriend walk around the table and sit across from you.

A smile grew on your face causing you to bite your lip to keep it from stretching into a grin. “Hey,” you replied softly. “How’s your day been so far?” You asked knowing some of his schedule.

He shrugged acting nonchalant; “as boring as usual.” He muttered before mentioning something that had happened in conditioning earlier. “You wanna swing by the house before your girls night?”

You huffed a laugh, “about that… there’s no girls night anymore.” You replied. “Allie is staying with Sean and Hannah is tutoring Garrett.”

Beau’s eyebrows shot up, “they bailed?”

You shrugged, “we have them often so it’s not like it’s too important.” You assured while giving him a smile. “That also means that I have the dorm to myself…. So I was thinking that you could swing by for a bit? Hannah won’t be back until late and it gives us time to hang in my space.”

He smiled, “sounds like a plan, baby.” He agreed leaning back in his chair.

You hesitated for a moment before meeting his gaze again, “you don’t have to be in a rush either.”

That grabbed his full undivided attention (not like you didn’t have it anyway) as a look of shock seemed to cross his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t care to finally be semi-public?” A teasing tone could be heard in his voice making you roll your eyes.

“It’s long over due, isn’t it?” You asked softly.

Beau’s eyes softened as they looked over you, “what changed your mind?”

You shrugged and thought about it for a moment, “you know I love you, right?”

“Yeah, and you know that I love you.” He assured softly but also watching you carefully.

“Maybe they’ll understand more than I think.” You mutter as you feel him grab your hand easily from across the table. “and it would be nice if they quit trying to suggest people for me to hook-up with.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “who are they suggesting?”

You pursed your lips, “well the last one they mentioned was you.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He teased causing a scoff and an eye roll to come from you.

“Yeah and the other one was Dean.” You huffed. “But I’m pretty sure she was hinting at me being with anyone in the hockey house.”

“Dean? Really?” He asked and you nodded thinking back to what Hannah had told you.

Before you could say anything a mop of blonde hair plopped himself down beside your boyfriend, “what about me?” He asked flashing his dimpled smile.

You shook your head not wanting to mention what Hannah had said, but apparently Beau didn’t mind. “Her roommate mentioned her hooking up with you.” Your boyfriend muttered.

Dean’s eyes glistened with a teasing in them, “As much as I would love too. I think bro-code out weighs that.” His reply earned a glare from Beau causing him to joking put his hands up in surrender. “Let me guess, Wellsy thinks your lonely?”

You sighed, “something like that.” You muttered; “my roommates think everyone needs good sex at least once a week.”

Dean nodded, “they aren’t wrong.” He agreed with Allie which wasn’t surprising to you.

You rolled your eyes before throwing a fry off your to-go basket at the blonde’s face. “I have plenty of that.” You assured not missing the smirk that grew on Beau’s face.

Dean snorted, “I don’t doubt it.” The teasing tone was still very prominent in his voice. “You got Beau Maxwell to be in a committed relationship…. You deserve a cookie.” He joked.

Beau rolled his eyes, “seriously dude?”

Dean sent the couple a smirk, “what? You know how many girls want to be in her place right now?” He then turned his attention solely on Beau, “you know how many men want to be in your place right now?” He added.

“I know I’m lucky she chose me.” Beau replied his eyes narrowed at his best friend.

“Damn straight.” Dean replied with a teasing smirk.

You let out a breath, “on that note… I’m leaving.” You muttered and stood up from your seat. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I love you.” Beau called softly after you.

Dean snorted, “you’re so pussy whipped.”

🫧🫧 You sat at the kitchen table three cases of markers laying on the table. Some would say coloring was for children, but it was a stress reliever for you when you wanted something that was simple. Snacks were also lying along the table as well as drinks and your own custom cocktail. Beau was to be over after football practice was concluded.

Allie🌺 Did you find someone? You: I’m not hooking up with anyone. I’m a relationship girlie now. You know that. Allie🌺 Hooking up might be the start of something more 🤷‍♀️

You sighed laying your phone down. You loved Allie and you knew your friends wanted you happy, but sometimes they need to leave things alone. It’s partly your fault as well, since they don’t know you and Beau are together.

A knock on the door tore you out of your thoughts. You laid your marker down and went to open the door to see Beau looking as attractive as ever. His hair was still wet from his shower in the locker room.

“Hey, baby.” Beau greeted once you opened the door. He walked forward and placed a kiss on your forehead before walking into your dorm.

You smiled softly at the man you were in love with, “hey.” You greeted back while shutting your dorm door.

Beau stopped when he noticed the coloring book, markers, snacks, and drinks laid out on the kitchen table. “Doing a coloring date, are we?” He asked teasingly.

You huffed a laugh, “No. I was just stressed about midterms and I wanted something to calm my nerves.” You explained before going over and starting to clean up the markers.

Beau was right behind you, stopping you from cleaning up the markers. Without saying a word, he sat down in the chair beside your pulled out one and picked a page from your pile. “If my girl’s stressed, then I’m here to help her forget about it.” He spoke softly taking the markers out of your hand.

You felt a blush creep up if the heat radiating from your face was any indication. “You don’t have to color.” You assured as your boyfriend took the lid off a green marker and started coloring a tree that was on his page. “Beau, really it’s fine. You always make everything better anyways…”

Beau huffed playfully moving his gaze to you, “shut up and sit down with me.” He demanded yet his tone was still as soft as it had been.

You smiled to yourself with your heart full of love before sitting down beside him. You were back in your original spot and coloring the page. You two sat quietly, with Beau stealing drinks of your cocktail you had made every once in awhile.

You loved Beau. You truly did because what type of man would willingly sit and color with you. Letting you know that he only cared about being in your presence. Your heart was so full just thinking of him and all the ways that he proved to you that he loved you. Ways that were silent and caring, and not loud or overly sexual.

These are the days that you would remember and reminisce on when you two were old and gray. You smiled thinking about that, even though you and Beau hadn’t exactly mentioned getting married you both knew that you were in each other’s futures.

“What’s got you all smiley?” Beau spoke after a while of silence. Your eyes met his gaze, both of your eyes were filled with love.

You shook your head, “you’re literally perfect.” You mumbled feeling shy suddenly. You dropped your gaze back to your page.

Beau shook his head, “I’m not perfect.” He promised. “I’m far from it, honestly, but you on the other hand? Definitely perfect.” He replied with a cheeky grin on his face.

“I’m serious.” You defended your compliment. “I’d marry you right now if you’d ask because you’re so…” you trailed trying to find the right word to describe him.

Beau looked away for a moment before moving his eyes back over to you. You finally raised your gaze back up to meet his, “you’d marry me?”

Your brows furrowed, “Yes! Is that shocking or something?”

Beau bit his own lip for a moment to stop a grin from forming, “I’m holding you to that.”

You grinned, “is that your way of saying we’re going to get married?” You asked playfully.

Beau nodded, “oh, totally.” He promised and his voice held seriousness. “We’ll get married and have at least two babies… I mean, only if you want children.” He assured

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“Baby, I’ve had my life planned out with you since I saw you crying in the library freshmen year.” Beau mumbled as he went back to coloring his page. You knew he was using it as a distraction for dropping his truth-bomb on you.

Your eyebrows creased again, “freshman year? But that’s….” You trailed.

“The first time we met and you told me that your first college crush broke your heart.” Beau whispered letting you know that he remembered.

You looked at your boyfriend shocked, “Beau Maxwell, are you telling me that you were pining after me all of freshmen year?”

“Why are you so shocked?” His voice raised slightly but not in anger. It sounded like disbelief.

“Maybe because that’s a truth bomb I wasn’t expecting?” You explained with your hands waving around frantically seeing as you were shocked. “You’re Beau Maxwell.” You elaborated.

“So?”

“So—how can you say so? You’re the quarterback of the football team.” You explained more in depth. “You have had girls falling at your feet since high school and you just tell me that you were harboring a crush for almost a year prior to us sleeping together.”

Beau pursed his lips while nodding, “We’re together now… so why does it matter?”

You huffed, “what would you have done if us having sex didn’t turn into anything?”

His eyebrows furrowed at that because he honestly didn’t know. He had just been lucky and the plan him and Dean had come up with worked. Which now that he thought back may not have been the best idea.

“I don’t know but it did work so I’m not thinking about it.” He shrugged and turned his full attention back to the picture in front of him.

🫧🫧🫧

It was now 9pm and Hannah was still tutoring Garrett and you hadn’t heard from Allie in a moment. You and Beau had finished coloring and you had picked up the pages and markers while Beau helped clean up the snacks and drinks.

You two had moved to the couch as a movie played on your laptop that sat on the coffee table. You weren’t really paying attention to what was happening on your laptop. Your mind kept going over the conversation you two had talked about earlier.

It was definitely more of a glimpse of the future than what either of you had previously admitted. It didn’t scare you or anything, but you just wondered if there was anything that could change his though process. You honestly didn’t think that there was, because like you had stated earlier, he was the perfect boyfriend.

“I’m so in love with you.” You spoke softly as you broke the silence that had settled over your cuddling figures as the movie played. You moved your head to where you could look up at him and see him.

He wore a soft smile on his face, “where’d that come from?”

You shrugged slightly, “I just—I’m lucky to have you.” You settled for that even though it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.

His hand softly came up and rested on your jaw and neck, “I’m in love with you too.” He replied softly and leaned his head down just a bit to capture your lips with his.

The kiss had been soft and full of love, something that you were use to Beau doing. It didn’t take long for things to heat up, especially not with how the two of you were talking and feeling.

You blamed your hormones for not being able to hear your phone buzz on the kitchen table. And twenty minutes after your phone went off, You blamed yourself for not hearing the door unlock or open at first either.

“So I know we bailed on girls night, but I was thinking—OH MY GOD!” Hannah screamed before quickly turning around.

You shoved Beau away with more force than you meant too and quickly stood up to find your shirt that said man how thrown across the room. You huffed and rolled your eyes knowing that Hannah was a bit dramatic because neither of you were naked. You both were just shirtless and making out, so it wasn’t like she had walked in on anything.

“You can turn around now.” You sighed as you handed Beau his shirt.

Hannah slowly turned around and faced the two of you before giving an awkward smile, “so you took Allie’s advice on…” she trailed as her eyes flickered to Beau and then back to you.

You gave her a small smile, “not exactly.” You replied before Beau pulled you into him. Hannah’s eyes kept flickering back and forth between the two of you. “We’ve been dating for over a year…”

A flicker of hurt passed through Hannah’s eyes, “and you didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”

You shook your head quickly, “no. It’s not like that. I trust you and Allie completely.” You assured as you finally relaxed against your boyfriend.

“Then why not tell us?”

You shrugged, “it never felt like a good time.” You mumbled knowing that wasn’t an excuse. “Allie and Sean kept breaking up and I didn’t want to flaunt my relationship in front of her, and then you were worried and busy with the showcase and your scholarship list that I didn’t want to seem like I only cared about my relationship.” You explained hoping that she understood where you were coming from.

Hannah was silent for a moment before she finally nodded. “Okay, I understand why you hid it.” She accepted. “But don’t put your happiness in the closet all because you’re worried about us.”

You gave her a smile and nodded, “okay. No more secrets.” You promised and grinned when you felt Beau kiss the top of your head.

Hannah smiled back, “now I’m going to my room and I’ll put my headphones on as loud as the go and close the door.” She assured and shot you a wink as she walked off to her room.

You smiled turning back towards Beau and pulled him towards your room.

“That went better than you thought?” He asked causing you to nod in response. “Way better.” 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

You hated the idea of getting out of bed. Beau had finally spent the night without worrying about sneaking out the next morning. Which means you woke up in his embrace for the first time in weeks. It was something that always made your mornings feel complete and it made your heart swell with love.

You could’ve stayed in bed for hours, but you were hungry from not having a full dinner last night. So, reluctantly you got out of Beau’s embrace and found some clothes to slip on before making your way to the small kitchen. You started the coffee maker before pulling out some (protein) pancake mix and getting the add-ins.

“Are those pancakes?” Allie’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned and watched her walk out of her room and towards you before hopping up on the counter.

“It is.” You nodded and turned back to the pan on the stove. “I thought you were at Sean’s?”

Allie sighed, “we got into a fight late last night—or early this morning—it doesn’t matter. I just came straight home.” She muttered placing her head in her hands. “I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

You turned and gave her an apologetic smile, “we’re always available for you.” You promised causing her to send you a small smile.

The kitchen settled into a comfortable quietness for a bit before Hannah came out of her room. She joined you two with a smile on her face which dropped as soon as she noticed Allie’s face. You listened to the two girls quietly as you finished making breakfast. You had listened to Allie’s story about Sean, which always was the same, but you couldn’t convince her she deserved better. She had to figure that out for herself.

You had cooked a few sides to go with the pancakes while Allie had went on-and-on about Sean and Hannah had put her input in every once in a while. You didn’t know what to say, mainly because you had a great boyfriend. Someone who truly loved you and you never had to guess or wonder if he did.

Once breakfast was done you told the girls and the three of you made plates and sat at the kitchen table together.

“We seriously need a girls trip away from this place.” Allie groaned taking a sip of her drink.

You nodded, “I’m down.” To which Hannah agreed too.

You three were talking and making plans to take a trip together eventually, until Allie went quiet mid sentence causing you to look her way. Her fork was frozen mid-way to her mouth and her eyes wide. You followed her line of sight to see her staring at Beau casually padding out of your room and into the small kitchen and living area.

“Morning baby,” he greeted softly as he walked over and gave you a kiss on the head. “Ladies.” He nodded in recognition.

You smiled, “morning. There’s breakfast I fixed a few minutes ago.” You offered

He sent you a thankful smile and gave you a soft “thank you, babe.” before going to fix himself some food as well. You turned your attention back towards Allie who had closed her mouth now but was still looking at you.

Garrett Graham, projected pro prospect, Bruins interest, team leader, annoyingly handsome campus fixture with a smile that had almost certainly caused several GPA drops across the student body. 

She had come prepared with questions. She had her recorder running on the bench between them, her notebook open across one thigh, her pen uncapped and ready in her hand like a woman with purpose and professional integrity.

Then Garrett started answering properly, and that had become its own issue. He was good at being smug, obviously. That part was easy. Garrett carried arrogance like some men carried cologne, lightly applied but immediately noticeable. 

But when she asked him about being captain, about what it felt like to have younger guys looking to him, about whether the Bruins pressure changed the way he saw the rest of the season, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, one hand turning a roll of tape between his fingers. 

He spoke with this unexpected care that made it annoyingly difficult to remember she was meant to be extracting quotes and not just sitting there watching his mouth form words.

“I don’t know,” he says, eyes moving briefly to the rink like the ice might have an answer written somewhere under all the skate marks. “People act like captain means you’re the guy with the loudest voice in the room. Sometimes it is, sure. Sometimes you gotta call shit out. But most of it’s just… paying attention. Knowing which freshman needs to get his ass kicked in practice and which one needs you to pretend not to notice he’s about to puke from nerves before a game.”

Her pen hovers.

Garrett huffs a little laugh, looking down at the tape. “That makes me sound nicer than I am.”

“It really does,” she says, without thinking.

His eyes flick back to her, amused. “Wow.”

“No, I mean–” She laughs, because his grin has gone sharp now, pleased and teasing and very aware he’s caught her somewhere. “I mean, it’s a good answer. Annoyingly good. Like, I’m going to have to cut some of it down or people will start thinking you’re emotionally intelligent.”

He presses a hand dramatically to the centre of his chest. “That would ruin me.”

“Completely. Your whole brand gone overnight.”

“My brand is very layered, actually.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Yeah. Hot, talented, emotionally unavailable but, like, in a charming way.”

She snorts before she can stop herself, and Garrett’s grin widens like her laugh is something he’s earned and plans to be unbearable about.

The thing is, he keeps doing this. Slipping between real and ridiculous so smoothly she never has time to brace for either version. One second he’s making some dumb comment about Logan being held together by athletic tape and poor decision-making, the next he’s talking about pressure in a voice low enough that the empty rink seems to lean in around them. 

He talks about the Bruins carefully, not like a boy pretending not to care, but like someone who cares so much he’s had to teach himself not to flinch every time someone says the word future near him.

“It’s there,” he says, after she asks whether the scouting attention ever messes with his head. His hand stills around the tape. “Even when I’m trying not to think about it. It’s there. People talk like going pro is this finish line, right? Like once somebody wants you, you’re supposed to just be grateful and shut up. But it’s weird. It’s a lot of people having plans for your body before you’ve even finished using it where you are.”

She forgets, for a second, to breathe normally. There’s no tragic little performance, no athlete pretending vulnerability because it looks good in a profile. Simply Garrett, sweat drying at his temples, towel loose around his neck, saying something true because she asked the right question and he trusted her enough to answer it.

Her pen hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds. Garrett notices. His eyes drop to her notebook, then lift again slowly to her face, one brow rising. “Are you supposed to be writing this down?”

For one horrible second, she just blinks at him. Then she looks down at the blank stretch of page beneath her last half-written sentence and makes a sound so undignified it bounces off the empty seats. “Oh, fuck. Yes. Shit. Sorry.”

Garrett bursts out laughing.

“Don’t laugh,” she says, already scribbling so fast the words are barely forming. “You said something good and I got distracted.”

“You got distracted?”

She gives him a look without lifting her head, though the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that she is smiling like an idiot. “By the quote. The quote was good.”

“Sure.”

“It was.”

He shrugs. “I believe you.”

“You’re being smug.”

He laughs again, softer this time, and when she glances up, he’s already watching her. His elbows are still on his knees, shoulders rounded forward, the tape forgotten between his hands. His smile’s faded into something smaller, warmer, almost private, and the look of it moves through her body in a way that makes the cold rink air feel suddenly useless.

Her fingers tighten around the pen. Garrett’s gaze drops, briefly, to her mouth.

The silence shifts. Loud in all the places neither of them is touching. She can hear someone in the locker room bark out a laugh, distant and echoing, but it might as well be happening in another building.

Then Garrett clears his throat and looks away first, jaw flexing once like he’s physically pulled himself back from the edge of something. “So,” he says, voice just rough enough to betray him. “You need more captain wisdom or can I go shower before I become part of the rink?”

She looks down at her notebook because it is safer than his face. “I think I’ve got enough wisdom for one day.”

“Smart. Too much and you’ll fall in love with me.”

Her laugh comes out too quick. Too exposed. “Yeah, God forbid.”

He stands, and even that’s irritating: the size of him unfolding beside the bench, broad shoulders, hockey thighs, damp curls, all that casual physical confidence men get when they’ve never once had to question whether their body works in their favour. He grabs his gloves and stick, then pauses at the gate.

“Same time Thursday?”

She nods. “For the follow-up.”

“Right,” he says, and his mouth does that slow, dangerous little curve. “The follow-up.”

Then he walks away before she can decide whether to throw her pen at him or herself.

By the time Garrett drops into the chair beside her in the cafeteria two days later, she has one hand buried in a bag of chips, half a sandwich abandoned on a napkin, and fourteen open tabs on her laptop because higher education is mostly just creating new and inventive ways to make Google Docs feel judgmental.

“Jesus,” Garrett says, leaning sideways to peer at her screen. “You writing an article or hacking the Pentagon?”

She doesn’t look up immediately. “Both. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Hot.”

That gets her eyes off the screen. Garrett’s already grinning, backwards cap low over his curls, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his forearms. He has a tray in front of him loaded with the deeply alarming quantity of food hockey players treat as a casual lunch, and he looks far too pleased with himself for a man who has interrupted her academic suffering with one word and too much eye contact.

She fights the smile. Loses. “Do you just sit wherever you want?”

“Yeah.”

“That tracks.”

“This seat taken?”

“You’re already sitting in it.”

“Great. Love when stuff works out.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches for her iced coffee, mostly so her hands have something to do that isn’t immediately stupid, like touching the bit of hair curling out from under his cap. “Don’t you have captain things to do?”

“I am doing captain things.”

“You’re eating fries next to me.”

“Team morale starts with carbs.”

“You’re such an inspiration.”

“I get that a lot.”

He steals one of her chips without asking, which should be annoying but is somehow just familiar now, another one of those tiny domestic trespasses they’ve started building between them without ever discussing it. 

He asks about her other assignment, some feature for a media ethics class that has made her want to walk calmly into a pond, and then actually listens while she talks. He leans back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully, asking questions that are annoying only because they’re good.

“So basically,” he says after she explains the whole thing, “your professor wants you to prove journalists shouldn’t be assholes.”

“My tuition dollars at work.”

“Could’ve saved you a semester. Don’t be an asshole. Boom. Done.”

She points a fry at him. “That’s a devastatingly Briar hockey interpretation of media ethics.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not thanking you.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

She laughs, and it happens too easily now. Garrett makes laughing feel like slipping. Like she can brace all she wants and still end up somewhere warmer than where she started. He keeps looking at her like he’s delighted by the exact shape of her thoughts, like he wants to be around for whatever she says next, even when what she says next is technically an insult.

Across the cafeteria, someone calls his name. Garrett doesn’t look away from her. That does something embarrassing to the back of her neck.

“So,” he says, picking up his drink. “You gonna quote me in this ethics thing too?”

“Only if I need a source on moral decline.”

He grins, biting softly at the inside of his lip. “Mean.”

“Accurate.”

He opens his mouth, probably to say something unbearable, when Dean’s voice cuts across the cafeteria with the clean sharpness of a puck hitting glass.

“G.”

Garrett’s expression changes so quickly she almost misses it. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it gets filed away. His shoulders tense by half an inch. He turns, and she follows his gaze to where Dean and Logan have just come through the cafeteria entrance, Logan with a smoothie in one hand and the relaxed posture of a man who’s wandered accidentally into tension he fully intends to enjoy.

Dean, on the other hand, looks pissed. He stands there in a jacket that probably costs more than her laptop, blond hair messy, jaw tight, eyes moving from Garrett to her and back again with something sharp underneath.

Garrett exhales through his nose. “I’ll talk to you later,” he says, already pushing his chair back.

She looks between them, trying to keep her face normal. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

He grabs his tray, then hesitates, turning back like he’s remembered something he very much doesn’t want to leave unsaid. “Hey,” he says. “You going to Beau’s mask thing?”

“The masquerade party?” She feels Dean’s stare from across the room like a physical object, which is absurd and irritating and makes her sit a little straighter. “It’s after the game, right? Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Garrett’s grin comes back just enough to make her stomach dip. “Sweet. See you there.”

She tilts her head, trying to sound light even though the air has gone weird around them. “Yeah. Or not. Because of the masks.”

He nods solemnly. “No, totally. Could be anyone. Real mystery.”

“Very mysterious.”

“Guess I’ll have to use my detective skills.”

“You have those?”

“No,” he says. “But I’m hot, so people help me.”

She laughs, and he smiles like he’s taking that with him.

Then Dean says, louder, “Garrett.”

Garrett’s jaw moves once. “Yeah, man, I’m coming.”

He walks away from her table and over to them, and for a few seconds she tries very hard to return to her laptop like she hasn’t just become fascinated by the world’s stupidest male summit happening beside the salad bar. It doesn’t work. Her eyes keep cutting over, catching pieces.

Dean talking low and fast, one hand moving once in a sharp, irritated gesture. Garrett looking away, then back at him, expression shut down into something stubborn. Logan standing just behind them, eyebrows slightly raised, smoothie straw at his mouth, looking like he would pay actual money for popcorn if the cafeteria stocked it.

Dean’s gaze flicks back to her. She looks down too late.

The whole thing sits strangely under her skin after that, a small ugly pebble in the shoe of an otherwise normal afternoon. Dean has no reason to look at her like that. Dean has no reason to chew Garrett out over sitting with her at lunch, unless Garrett has told him something, unless she’s misread the last few weeks completely, unless the reason Garrett keeps getting close and then stopping is not because he doesn’t want her, but because Dean somehow still thinks he gets a vote.

The thought irritates her enough that she closes three tabs too hard, as if her laptop deserves consequences.

“You’re kidding.”

She looks up from where she’s sitting on the bench near the rink entrance, one skate half-laced, the other sitting on the floor like a weapon designed by sadists. “I’m not kidding.”

Garrett stares at her. “You’ve never skated?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

Garrett gestures loosely. “Like, not even badly at a birthday party when you were twelve?”

“I grew up near tennis courts, not ice rinks, Garrett. We had other hobbies.”

He makes a wounded sound. “You’re writing a piece on hockey.”

“I’ve watched hockey.”

“That’s not the same.”

She tilts her head. “I’ve also interviewed hockey players.”

“Still not the same.”

“I watched you practice for three weeks.”

“Still,” he says, pointing at her with his stick, “not the same.”

She bends back over the skate, tugging at the lace with the kind of aggression that suggests the boot has personally wronged her. “If this is about journalistic integrity, I’ll put a disclosure at the bottom. The author has never voluntarily placed herself on a knife shoe.”

Garrett laughs, then crouches in front of her before she can fully process the movement. One second he’s standing there, being tall and smug and irritatingly warm in a Briar hoodie, and the next he’s on one knee between her feet, taking the laces out of her hands like this is a thing his body has decided is allowed.

“Here,” he says. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Her mouth goes dry in a way that feels deeply inconvenient. “I’m tying shoes wrong?”

“You’re tying skates wrong.”

“Different sacred art?”

“Very different.” His head’s bent, curls falling forward as he works the laces with quick, practiced hands. “You want them tight through the ankle or you’re gonna fold like a lawn chair.”

“Comforting.”

“I’m a great teacher.”

“You just compared me to outdoor furniture.”

“A beloved piece of outdoor furniture.”

She bites her lip around a smile and watches his hands instead of his face because his face is worse. His fingers are broad and nicked in little places, tape residue near one knuckle, nails cut short. 

He tightens the skate with firm, efficient pulls, one hand briefly wrapping around the back of her ankle to hold her steady, and the touch is so normal, so practical, that her body has absolutely no business reacting to it like he’s slid his palm under her shirt.

Garrett glances up. She looks away immediately, which is subtle in the way a car alarm is subtle. He says nothing, because he’s learned mercy in one or two isolated categories, and finishes tying the second skate.

Getting onto the ice is an act of public humiliation, except there’s no public, thank God, just Garrett, which might actually be worse. He steps on first with the careless ease of a person whose body understands frozen water as a workplace, then turns and offers both hands.

She grips them immediately. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I kinda do.”

“You’re too confident.”

He laughs, pulling her gently forward. “Okay. One foot.”

The first skate touches the ice and immediately slides an inch in a direction she did not approve. “Nope.”

“Yes.”

She frowns. “No, Garrett.”

“You’re fine. Both feet, come on.”

She gets both feet onto the ice and grabs his hands so tightly he huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t tease her as much as he could. That’s another thing about Garrett, one she hates more than the smugness because it’s harder to protect against. He knows exactly when to push and when not to. 

He grins, sure, but his hands stay steady around hers, thumbs warm over the backs of her fingers, his skates braced wide enough that she knows without question he could hold her up if she fully lost it.

“There you go,” he says, softer. “See? You’re doing it.”

“I’m standing.”

“Standing is part of skating.”

She grips his hands tighter. “I’m incredible.”

“Generational talent.”

She laughs, then immediately squeals because the laugh disrupts whatever fragile treaty her ankles had formed with physics. Her legs straighten wrong, the skates slip, and she pitches forward straight into him.

Garrett catches her like it’s nothing. She hits his chest with a breathless little sound, hands landing on his biceps, his hands coming to her waist fast and firm. The impact knocks a laugh out of both of them, and for a second they’re just there, tangled and stupid, her skates sliding uselessly while Garrett holds her upright with the kind of casual strength that makes several parts of her brain quietly resign.

“Hi,” he says.

She looks up at him. His face is close. Too close for any version of this that’s still pretending to be about skating. His cheeks are pink from the cold, curls messy under the rink lights, grin fading as his eyes move over her face. 

His hands are still at her waist. Hers are still wrapped around his arms, and holy fuck, his arms. Solid under her fingers, warm through his hoodie, steady in a way that makes leaning into him feel less like a choice and more like gravity having a point for once.

“Hi,” she says back, and it comes out smaller than she intended.

His throat moves. The rink is quiet around them. Huge and cold and empty, boards rising white around the ice, old skate cuts beneath their feet, one distant machine hum somewhere behind the walls. 

She can feel his breath against her cheek now. She can feel the tiny adjustment of his fingers at her waist, like he’s reminding himself not to pull her closer and doing a bad job of it.

She tilts her face up. A question more than a move, her mouth parted slightly, her eyes dropping to his lips because she’s tired of pretending not to want the thing they’ve both been standing too close to for weeks. Garrett goes still. Completely still, except for the rise of his chest under her hands.

Her eyes flutter shut. His hands tighten once at her waist. Then he pulls back.

It’s not far, barely an inch. But it’s enough to let cold air rush between them, enough to make her eyes open and her stomach drop with the ugly, immediate heat of embarrassment.

“I can’t,” Garrett says, voice low.

She blinks at him. “What?”

His jaw works. He looks genuinely pained, which would be more flattering if she didn’t currently want to throw him into the boards. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because–” He glances away, breath coming out through his nose in a hard little huff. “Because of Dean.”

The name lands wrong. Wrong in her body, sour and metallic. She loosens her grip on his arms. “What about Dean?”

Garrett’s eyes cut back to hers. “Come on.”

“No, don’t come on me.” She shifts back on the skates, immediately wobbles, and grabs the boards beside them with one hand because anger, while energising, isn’t an adequate substitute for balance. “What about Dean?”

“You guys dated.”

“We barely dated.”

“You were together for, what, three months?”

“We hooked up for three months,” she says, sharper now. “Sometimes. When we were both free. It wasn’t a great tragic love story. We hung out at parties and occasionally made out in laundry rooms.”

Garrett winces. “I really don’t need the visual.”

“Then don’t bring him up while I’m trying to kiss you.”

His eyes flash at that, heat cutting through the restraint for half a second before he shuts it down again. “You think I want to be bringing him up?”

“I don’t know what you want, Garrett, because every time I think you’re finally about to do something about the fact that you keep looking at me like that, you suddenly remember friendship law.”

“Friendship law?”

“Bro code, house code, whatever the fuck you guys call the sacred little pact where nobody is allowed to touch anyone someone else once had mediocre sex with.”

His mouth twitches despite himself, then immediately flattens. “I’m trying not to be a dick to my friend.”

Her eyes flash. “You’re doing a great job being a dick to me instead.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick to you,” he says.

“No? Because it feels pretty dick-ish from here.”

He drags a hand through his hair, turning away for half a second like he needs the rink to help him survive the conversation. His skates shift on the ice with a clean scrape. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“Dean put a rule down, okay?”

The whole world narrows. Her fingers tighten around the top of the boards. “What rule?”

Garrett looks back at her and immediately seems to realise, too late, that he’s opened the wrong door.

She steps toward him, or tries to. The skates slide. She catches herself, furious enough that fear of the ice has temporarily become background noise. “Garrett. What rule?”

His shoulders sink. “He said you were hands off.”

For a second, she just stares at him. The rink noise fades into a thin ringing at the edge of her ears. Her face goes hot first, then her chest, then the backs of her hands, a spreading flush of disbelief so sharp it feels almost cold underneath. “He said I was what?”

Garrett rubs a hand over his mouth. “Hockey house is hands off. That’s what he said.”

“Hockey house is hands off,” she repeats, slowly, because maybe if she says it back, the words might become less insane. They do not. They get worse. They sit there between them, stupid and male and possessive in a way that makes her want to start swinging one of his sticks around until something expensive breaks.

“It’s not–” Garrett starts.

“No.”

He stops.

“No, don’t do that. Don’t soften it. Don’t try to translate asshole into something prettier.” Her laugh comes out once, bright and humourless. “Dean put a no touching rule on me?”

Garrett’s face has gone sheepish now, which, unfortunately for him, only makes him look guilty by association. “I didn’t make the rule.”

“But you followed it.”

His jaw tightens. “He’s my teammate. He’s my friend.”

“And I’m a couch he called dibs on?”

Garrett flinches. “That’s not how I see you.”

“But it’s how he talked about me, and you all just what? Nodded? Took minutes? Filed it under house law?”

“No.” He skates closer, hands half-lifted like he wants to steady her and knows better than to touch. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

She gives a short, furious nod. “Right.”

Then she turns toward the exit. Badly. The skates immediately betray her.

Garrett moves on instinct, catching her elbow before she can eat shit in the middle of the ice. “Hey–”

“Do not hey me!”

“I’m just trying to stop you from breaking your ass.”

“My ass and I are leaving.”

“You can’t storm off in skates.”

She huffs. “Watch me.”

“You physically cannot.”

“I will crawl.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, skating backward as she clings angrily to the boards and inches toward the gate with all the dignity of a newborn deer seeking vengeance. “Can I at least help you?”

“No.”

“You’re going the wrong way.”

She shoots him a look. “I know where I’m going.”

“You’re heading toward the penalty box.”

“Maybe I belong there.”

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh and immediately thinks better of it when she looks at him.

By the time they get her off the ice and out of the skates, her anger has focused into something clean and bright. Garrett follows her out of the rink with her bag over one shoulder and the expression of a man walking behind an active bomb he’s personally helped assemble.

“You don’t have to do this right now,” he says as she shoves her feet into her boots.

“Yes, I do.”

“Maybe cool off first.”

She looks at him. “You think I’m going to cool off about being declared untouchable by a guy who once texted me you up? at one in the morning with a typo?”

Garrett’s mouth presses together.

“Don’t laugh.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“You want to.”

“I really don’t.”

“You do. You’re just scared of me right now.”

“A little,” he admits.

“Good.”

The hockey house door swings open before Garrett’s even finished taking his keys out of the door, because God wants Logan to have front-row seats. Logan looks from her face to Garrett’s face to the fact that Garrett is holding her skate bag like a guilty chauffeur, and his eyebrows go up with immediate, delighted dread. “Oh, this feels like something I should not be in the doorway for.”

“Where’s Dean?” she asks.

Logan’s eyes widen slightly. “Kitchen.”

“Great.”

She steps past him.

Garrett follows. “Maybe we don’t–”

“No, you’re coming too.”

“Yeah,” Logan says, shutting the door behind them with the dazed cheerfulness of a man blessed by entertainment. “You’re definitely coming too.”

The house smells like takeout, laundry detergent, and whatever tragic candle Tucker keeps lighting in a hopeless attempt to make four athletes living together seem less like a public health concern. 

Somewhere upstairs, music thumps faintly. The living room is half-clean in the deeply male way, meaning there’s no visible trash on the floor but several cups have been abandoned on flat surfaces with the confidence of people who believe dishes migrate naturally.

Dean’s in the kitchen with Tucker, leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal at nearly six in the evening because money, talent, and good bone structure haven’t made him any less fundamentally ridiculous. 

He looks up when she walks in. Then he sees Garrett behind her. Then he sees her face.

“Oh,” Tucker says quietly from beside the fridge. “Shit.”

Dean straightens. “What?”

She stops on the other side of the island, hands flat on the counter because otherwise she might start pointing and never stop. “Did you tell the entire hockey house I was hands off?”

Dean’s eyes cut to Garrett. “Seriously, man?”

Garrett lifts one hand. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t issue a royal decree over her body.”

“Thank you,” she snaps, then points at Dean. “You. Answer.”

Dean sets the cereal bowl down slowly. “It wasn’t the entire hockey house.”

Logan, arriving behind Garrett with exactly the expression of someone entering a theatre late but thrilled, says, “It was kind of the entire hockey house.”

“Logan,” Dean warns.

“What? I’m pro-transparency.”

She stares at Dean. “You put a rule on me.”

Dean’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh my God, does every man in this house get issued that sentence at orientation?”

Tucker coughs into his fist. Garrett looks at the floor.

Dean’s face flushes, irritation rising fast now that he has an audience and no graceful exit. “I told them not to mess with you.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“Because I didn’t want them to.”

She laughs once, so sharp Tucker actually looks toward the sink like he might find somewhere safer to stand. “That’s not an answer. That is something a toddler says about a toy truck.”

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes. He drags a hand through his hair, annoyed and cornered and visibly trying to decide how much honesty he can survive in front of Logan, Tucker, and Garrett. Not much, judging by the colour in his face.

“You and I had a thing,” he says.

“We hooked up.”

“We hung out.”

“Yes, Dean, that’s generally how hooking up more than once works. Sometimes there’s a couch involved. Maybe a movie nobody watches.”

Logan murmurs, “Educational.”

Dean points at him without looking. “Shut up.”

She leans forward over the counter. “We were casual.”

“Maybe to you.”

Dean’s face changes as soon as he says it, like the words have come out uglier and more vulnerable than he planned. Garrett stills behind her. Tucker’s expression softens by a fraction. Logan stops smiling quite so much.

Dean swallows hard, then doubles down because vulnerability has made him defensive. “I liked you.”

Her grip on the counter loosens, then tightens again. “Dean.”

“No, don’t Dean me. I did. I liked you, and you didn’t like me back.”

“I liked you fine.”

“You liked me fine,” he repeats, voice going high with disbelief. “Great. Awesome. That’s exactly what every guy wants to hear.”

“We weren’t in love.”

“I didn’t say we were in love.”

“You’re acting like I left you at the altar.”

“I’m acting like maybe it sucked watching you giggle with my best friend for three weeks after you decided you were too busy to text me back.”

Garrett winces. “Okay, let’s not–”

She turns her head. “You stay quiet.”

Garrett shuts his mouth.

Dean lets out a humourless laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that, G.”

She points back at Dean immediately. “Don’t redirect because you’re embarrassed.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m not embarrassed.”

“You should be. You made a house rule about me like I’m a disputed parking space.”

Dean’s face twists. “I didn’t want to watch my friends go after you.”

“Then say that to me like an adult.”

“I didn’t think I owed you a fucking press release.”

She smacks her hand down on the counter. “You owed me basic dignity.”

Dean’s mouth shuts, and for one tiny second he looks less like Briar’s rich blond menace and more like a twenty-one-year-old guy who handled hurt feelings with the political structure of a frat basement.

Then, because he’s still Dean, he recovers poorly. “Well, sorry I didn’t want Garrett’s tongue down your throat two months after mine.”

Garrett’s head snaps up. “Hey.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says, loud enough that even Logan’s eyebrows jump. “You don’t get to act wounded and crude in the same breath like that makes you honest.”

Dean’s eyes flash. “You think I’m making it up? You two have been doing this little interview foreplay thing all over campus like everybody doesn’t see it.”

Garrett mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

She feels heat hit her face but refuses to look away. “Maybe if you had an issue, you could’ve talked to me instead of telling half the hockey team they needed permission to touch me.”

Dean scoffs. “I knew you liked him.”

“Yes, Dean. Congratulations. Your powers of observation survived your personality.”

Logan makes a strangled sound behind his smoothie. Dean points at her, the hurt cracking fully into the argument now, messy and oddly sincere under all the stupidity. “You didn’t look at me like that.”

“No, because you hooked up with someone else the same night you hooked up with me.”

Dean throws both hands out. “But I liked you more!”

The entire kitchen goes silent. Tucker closes his eyes. Garrett’s lips part in actual disbelief. Logan whispers, “That is an insane defence.”

She stares at Dean for one long second, then says, “Are you medically okay?”

Dean groans, dragging both hands down his face. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

“Because from here, it sounded like you were asking for emotional credit for ranking me first in a rotation.”

Garrett mutters, “Holy shit,” under his breath, and she cannot tell whether it’s horror or admiration.

Dean drops his hands. His face is red now, properly red. “I know I was shitty. I didn’t handle it right. You were… I don’t know. You were cool, and fun, and you didn’t need anything from me, and then you were gone. And I was a dick about it.”

She watches him for a second, her pulse still hot in her wrists. Dean looks back at her with more honesty than he probably meant to bring into the kitchen, and that makes it harder to stay perfectly furious. 

“You don’t get to be a dick by making rules about me,” she says.

His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yeah.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She steps around the island, close enough now that Dean’s eyes drop briefly like he’s checking whether she plans to slap him. She doesn’t. She wants to, a little, but personal growth and witness presence both intervene. “You can feel weird. You can be hurt. You can tell Garrett you don’t love it. You can even privately sulk like a blond little prince in your room if that’s what your healing journey requires.”

Logan whispers, “Blond little prince.”

Dean says, “Shut the fuck up.”

“But you do not get to decide what I’m allowed to do because your feelings arrived late and badly dressed.”

Tucker nods once, like this is fair. Dean looks at her, then at Garrett, then back at her. His mouth twists. “Fine.”

“Take the rule off.”

He stiffens. “No.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“No.”

She glares at him. “Dean.”

“I said I know it was shitty. I didn’t say I wanted to watch it happen.”

Garrett rubs the back of his neck. “Man–”

Dean points at him. “Do not man me. You’ve been waiting for this vote.”

He scoffs. “I have not.” She turns slowly to Garrett. He pauses. “Not… exactly.”

“Oh my God.”

Garrett winces. “Bad timing?”

“Terrible timing.”

Dean crosses his arms. “See? This is why the rule exists.”

She whips back around. “Dean Di Laurentis, take the fucking rule off.”

“No.”

“Take it off.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

He looks at her stubbornly. “What?”

“Take. It. Off.”

The kitchen holds its breath. Dean’s jaw works. For a second she thinks he might keep arguing, might dig himself even deeper because male pride is a tragic renewable resource. Then his gaze flicks past her to Garrett, and whatever he sees there makes his shoulders drop slightly.

Garrett’s not smiling now. He looks uncomfortable, yes, and guilty, and still maybe like part of him wants to put his head through a wall. But there’s also something earnest in his face, something quiet and clear and not even aimed at Dean, not really. It’s aimed at her. Like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t want to need, and hating that he’s needed it anyway.

Dean sees it. She knows he does, because his mouth tightens with the final little pinch of someone losing a fight he probably should have surrendered ten minutes ago. 

“Fine,” Dean says.

She points at him. “Say it.”

He stares. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Make it official.”

Logan perks up. “I can witness.”

“Nobody asked you,” Dean says.

“I’m witnessing anyway.”

Dean exhales hard, looking at the ceiling like he has been personally victimised by consequences. Then he drops his gaze back to her. “The rule is off.”

She waits.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “What else?”

“It’s decreed or whatever.”

Tucker presses his lips together.

Dean’s face goes flat. “You want me to say decreed?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

He stares at her. She stares back. Finally, with the exhausted dignity of a man being executed in his own kitchen, Dean says, “It’s decreed.”

Logan lifts his smoothie. “House law.”

Tucker nods solemnly. “House law.”

Garrett looks like he wants to laugh and die at the same time.

She smiles without warmth. “Good.”

Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen, past Garrett, past Logan, through the living room, and out the front door without looking back. 

She hears Garrett say her name once behind her, but she keeps going, because if she turns around too soon, she might either kiss him in the driveway or scream again, and neither feels like a strategic exit.

Beau’s holiday house is the kind of place that makes absolutely no sense as a college party venue unless someone’s parents have too much money and not enough concern about upholstery.

It sits just outside town, all big windows and pale stone and a deck wrapped around the back like the architect had been asked to design somewhere specifically for rich kids to make terrible decisions under flattering lighting. 

By the time she arrives after the game, the whole place is glowing gold from inside, music spilling out every time someone opens the front door, the lawn packed with cars, the porch crawling with people in masks and party dresses and button-downs worn by men who think rolling their sleeves up counts as formalwear.

The masquerade part has been loosely interpreted, obviously. Half the masks look expensive and intentional, feathered or black satin or glittering at the edges; the other half look like they were purchased from a party store by someone already drunk. 

Someone near the stairs has a full plastic wolf mask pushed onto the top of his head. Someone else is wearing sunglasses and insisting it counts. Briar, as an institution, remains deeply unserious.

She finds Garrett in less than five minutes. Which is ridiculous, given the whole point of masks, but Garrett Graham is impossible to misplace. He’s standing near the back doors with Logan and Tucker, broad shoulders under a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark mask cutting across the upper half of his face in a way that should look stupid and instead makes him look like someone’s bad decision dressed up as a theme. 

His curls are still a little damp from the post-game shower. There’s a tiny mark near his jaw from the game, a scrape or bruise starting to come up, and he looks unfairly alive, flushed from the win and the noise and whatever arrogant chemical floods the bloodstream of men who score in the third period.

He sees her at almost the exact same time. She knows because his body goes still. A pause in the middle of whatever Tucker is saying, drink half-lifted, head turning. His gaze moves over her once, fast and then slower, from the tiny silk halter dress skimming high on her thighs to the ribbon of her mask tied at the back of her head, to the heels she had worn with the full awareness that they weren’t practical and the private satisfaction that she would not need them to be for long.

The look hits her low in the stomach. There are no rules now. The thought should feel silly. They’re adults, technically. No one should need Dean Di Laurentis to revoke a house decree before two people can act like they’ve been wanting to act for weeks. But her body doesn’t care about the politics of it. Her body only knows that Garrett is looking at her like he’s run out of reasons not to.

She walks toward him, weaving through a cluster of girls by the kitchen island and one guy arguing loudly with someone about whether masks are classist, actually. Garrett says something to Logan without looking away from her, and Logan turns, notices her, then immediately smiles like an asshole.

“Tucker,” Logan says, patting him once on the chest. “We’re needed elsewhere.”

Tucker glances over, sees her, then gives Garrett a look that is equal parts warning and amusement. “Try not to start another legal dispute.”

Garrett doesn’t even look at him. “Go away.”

“Romantic,” she says when she reaches him.

His mouth curves. “You like it.”

“I like a man with manners.”

“Bullshit.”

She laughs, and his gaze drops to her mouth. It lingers there, and the noise of the party seems to press in behind her, warm and muffled and irrelevant.

“Good game,” she says, because some part of her brain’s still committed to sports journalism even while the rest of her is busy mentally dragging him upstairs.

Garrett’s smile deepens. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. That assist in the second was disgusting.”

His brows lift behind the mask. “Disgusting?”

“Complimentary.”

“Good.” He leans a fraction closer, voice lowering just enough that she feels it under the music. “Because I was trying to impress you.”

Her breath catches. Just a little.  “You were?”

“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his drink, casual in the way men only are when they’re doing it on purpose. “Had to. Big sports journalist in the stands.”

She tilts her head. “Is that what you were thinking about during the game?”

“Among other things.”

“Like what?”

His eyes move over her again, slower this time, and his jaw shifts like he’s physically stopping himself from saying the first answer. “You sure you want that list?”

Her skin warms under the dress. The party keeps happening around them. Someone screams laughing near the stairs. A bottle drops in the kitchen and shatters, followed by a chorus of deeply unhelpful cheering. The music changes to something louder, bass shaking faintly through the floorboards. Garrett doesn’t look away from her once.

She steps closer, because she can. Because Dean said decreed. Because Garrett’s hand is flexing at his side like he wants to touch her and is still, idiotically, waiting to be invited.

“So,” she says, looking up at him through the mask, “does house law have anything else to say tonight?”

Garrett’s grin comes slowly. “House law can go fuck itself.”

She pouts. “That’s very disrespectful to the institution.”

“The institution caused me a lot of personal suffering.”

“Poor thing.”

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice drops again, rougher now. “You have no idea.”

For a second neither of them moves. She can feel her pulse under the thin straps of her dress, in her throat, behind her knees, all of her suddenly aware of the distance between his hand and her waist like it’s a measurable failure of the room. 

Garrett’s eyes hold hers, dark behind the mask, the smile fading into something hungrier. Want, clean and badly restrained, finally allowed to exist in the open.

He sets his drink down on the nearest table without looking. “Upstairs,” he says.

She nods once. Garrett’s hand comes to the small of her back immediately, warm and broad and sure, guiding her through the crowd with a kind of focus that makes people move before they consciously decide to. They pass Dean near the bottom of the stairs, because the universe has comedic timing and a cruel streak.

Dean sees them. Sees Garrett’s hand. Sees her dress. Sees the direction. His mouth tightens for half a second. She lifts her eyebrows at him.

Dean looks at Garrett, then at her, then rolls his eyes toward the ceiling with the suffering grandeur of a man who’s made peace with a lawless society. “Use a room with a lock,” he says.

Garrett points at him without stopping. “That was almost mature.”

“Don’t make me regret personal growth.”

“Too late,” she says sweetly, passing him.

Dean mutters something that sounds like unbelievable, but there’s no real heat in it now. Not enough to stop anything. Not enough to matter.

The upstairs hallway is darker, warmer, the party noise blurring as Garrett leads her past a bathroom with a line outside it and a half-open door where two people are already making a terrible attempt at discretion. He finds an empty bedroom near the end of the hall, pushes the door open, checks once, then pulls her inside.

The door shuts. For half a second, they just stare at each other.

It should be funny, maybe. All that build-up and now a quiet guest room with somebody’s aunt’s decorative pillows on the bed and a framed beach print on the wall. It should break the tension, but it does the opposite. 

The sudden privacy makes the weeks behind them arrive all at once: the rink bench, the cafeteria, his hands tying her skates, the almost-kiss, the kitchen argument, every look he swallowed because someone else had written a rule neither of them agreed to.

Garrett steps toward her. She steps toward him at the same time, and they meet in the middle with no grace at all.

His mouth is on hers hard and immediate, one hand at her jaw, the other at her waist, walking her back against the door with enough force to make the wood thud behind her shoulders. 

She gasps into him, and he takes it like he’s been waiting weeks for the sound, kissing her deeper, hotter, his body crowding hers until there’s no space left to manage. Her hands go straight into his hair, knocking the mask slightly crooked, and Garrett groans low in his throat when her nails scrape over his scalp.

“Finally,” she breathes against his mouth.

He laughs, but it sounds wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.”

He kisses her again, and it goes messy fast. Garrett kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing and is still a little pissed he had to wait to do it, mouth confident, tongue sliding against hers, teeth catching lightly at her bottom lip until her fingers tighten in his hair. His hand slides from her waist to her thigh, finding bare skin under the hem of the dress, and she makes a small sound that seems to go straight through him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at her. His thumb moves once along her jaw, like he needs to see her face properly and cannot tolerate the mask hiding any of it. “Take this off.”

“You take yours off.”

“Gladly.”

He reaches behind her head for the ribbon, but she gets impatient and pushes his hand away, tugging at his mask first. It catches briefly in his curls, and he hisses.

“Jesus, easy.”

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.

“You’re violent.”

“You like it.”

“I really do,” he says, and then her mask is gone too, Garrett pulling it free and dropping both onto the floor like they have personally offended him.

The next kiss feels different with their faces bare. Hotter somehow, more exposed. His hand cups her cheek for one strangely tender second, thumb brushing near the corner of her mouth, and that small softness nearly undoes her more than the door had. 

His eyes flick over her face, the cocky edge shifting into something warmer, more careful, before she drags him down by the front of his shirt because tenderness is lovely but she has limits.

He laughs into her mouth and lifts her. Hands under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist automatically, the movement so easy for him it makes her stomach flip. He carries her toward the bed while still kissing her, which is both impressive and deeply obnoxious, and when her back hits the mattress she pulls him down with her by the collar.

The bed bounces. Somewhere downstairs, the party roars at something completely unrelated. Garrett settles over her, one knee between her thighs, forearm braced beside her head, his other hand sliding up her side over the silk of her dress. His eyes are dark, mouth swollen, curls a mess from her hands.

“You good?” he asks.

It’s low, almost rough, but there’s no performance in it. The little practical care tucked inside all that heat. It makes something in her chest go soft and aching before the rest of her body can vote against it.