before he knew | found family au ⋆˚࿔
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summary: in which the boys unknowingly praise y/n's ex-boyfriend, before garrett reveals he'll soon be spending a day filming ncaa media content with him.
notes: hi! get your tissues ready… we're diving into some angst. i hope you all enjoy the first of these 🤍 💌
ꪆৎ
sundays at the hockey house are rarely productive. by midday, every plan has been abandoned.
the television plays quietly in the background, some game nobody is paying proper attention to, while takeout containers cover half the coffee table.
grace is curled into one couch with her legs across logan’s lap, while sabrina and tucker argue from the floor over whether the movie they watched the night before was actually bad or whether tucker simply didn't understand it.
“i understood it” he insists.
“you asked me who the main character was forty minutes in, tuck.”
“there were too many men with the same haircut.”
“there were three men.”
“exactly.”
dean is stretched across the armchair with allie sitting sideways over his lap, eating fries from a carton balanced against his chest despite his repeated claim that they belong to him.
“you said you weren’t hungry” she reminds him.
“that was before you started eating my food.”
you barely notice any of it.
you're lying along the larger couch with garrett settled partly behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist, his chest warm against your back. your legs are tangled beneath a blanket someone dragged downstairs, his chin resting near your shoulder.
it's comfortable, quiet in the way only a full room can be quiet.
garrett’s thumb moves beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, brushing slowly over the skin at your side. not suggestive, barely conscious, just there.
you're halfway through reading an article for class when logan suddenly sits forward.
“wait.”
grace’s feet nearly slide from his lap. “what?”
logan points at the television. “did they just show highlights from the eastwood game?”
tucker looks up. “probably. they won last night.”
“no, but did you see the third-period goal?”
dean lifts his head. “the one from the top of the circle?”
“yeah.”
something inside you stills.
logan reaches for the remote, turning up the volume. the screen cuts back to the previous night’s highlights. players in dark uniforms spill across the ice, the commentary sharp with anticipation and excitement.
you know the colours before you see the number, you know the number before you see his face.
your thumb stops moving over your phone, the replay begins.
a clean pass across the blue line. the puck settles, then the shot comes hard and fast, the net moving before the goalie seems to understand what happened.
logan lets out a low whistle. “that’s fucking insane.”
“goalie had no chance” tucker says.
dean sits forward as the replay slows. “look where he releases it.”
the clip plays again.
you stop breathing for half a second. garrett feels it, his hand pausing against your waist.
on the screen, your ex-boyfriend turns towards the boards after scoring, teammates crowding around him. the camera catches his wide grin as he's pulled into the celebration.
you've seen that exact smile before.
outside your high school gym, through the windscreen of his car, across your kitchen table while your father joked that he was practically family already.
it used to make you feel chosen, later, it only made you feel stupid, incredibly, undeniably stupid.
“he barely had any space” logan says.
“he didn’t need it,” garrett replies behind you, his voice casual and thoughtful. “he gets the puck off too quickly.”
tucker nods. “goalie thinks he’s going high glove, then he changes the angle.”
“he does it all the time” garrett says. “defenders start closing too early.”
“then he passes through them" dean adds.
“exactly.”
the praise lands quietly.
garrett isn't exaggerating or trying to impress anyone. he simply means every word.
your body instinctively tightens before you can stop it. noticing, garrett’s arm shifts around your waist.
“you okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder as he says it, absent-minded more than deliberate. the conversation continues around you as logan searches for another clip.
you force your shoulders to loosen. “yeah.”
garrett’s thumb brushes once over your side. “you sure?”
“mhm.”
you keep your eyes on your phone, refusing to look back at the television, at your ex.
garrett hums quietly, clearly unconvinced. a second later he reaches across the coffee table without moving away from you, stealing one of dean's fries.
dean points immediately, "oi."
"it's an emergency."
"what emergency?"
garrett drops the fry into your hand instead of eating it himself, "y/n forgot to eat."
"i've literally been sitting here."
"exactly."
you laugh before taking a bite. garrett doesn't mention the conversation again, yet continues to keep an eye on you.
logan finds another video. your ex carries the puck through the neutral zone, drawing two defenders before slipping a pass between them without looking. his winger catches it cleanly, before scoring.
dean whistles. “that pass is filthy.”
“he pulls both defenders towards him” tucker says.
“because they know they can’t give him space” garrett adds. “that’s what makes him dangerous. it isn’t just the shot itself.”
“he controls the whole shift” dean says.
“pretty much.”
“you’ve watched a lot of their tape” dean observes.
“jensen makes me.”
“that wasn’t a denial.”
garrett smiles faintly, answering dean easily, as though the answer is obvious. “he’s worth watching.”
the words go through you slowly.
he’s worth watching.
once, you had believed that too.
you spent entire winters following him from rink to rink, sitting in freezing bleachers with your hands hidden inside the sleeves of his jacket.
you watched the early mornings, the private coaching, summer training. you listened while he spoke about the nhl like it was less a dream and more an appointment he had to attend.
you had been proud of him, terribly, faithfully proud. until you found him tangled up in sheets, moaning your best friend's name.
“he’s probably going first round” logan says.
dean scoffs. “top ten.”
“he’ll play centre professionally” garrett says.
“even with his size?”
“he’s strong enough, and his defensive game is better than people realise.”
tucker checks his phone. “he’s above fifty-eight percent on faceoffs too.”
dean stares at him. “do you have his entire season memorised?”
“no.”
sabrina leans over, glancing at tucker's phone. “he's on his player profile.”
grace looks up, clearly bored with the conversation. “are any of you capable of discussing hockey without pretending you’re scouts?”
all four boys answer at once, in complete unison. “no.”
allie reaches across dean for another fry. “who exactly are we talking about?”
the name leaves logan’s mouth easily, you feel it like a hand closing around the back of your neck, suffocating you.
tom langford
allie hums in recognition. “is that the captain everyone online is obsessed with?”
“yes” dean says.
“he looks smug.”
logan points at her. “thank you allie!”
“you’ve never seen him play” dean says, turning his gaze onto her.
“i don’t need to. i have instincts.”
“terrible ones.”
“you’re dating me.”
“exactly.”
the room laughs. you try to join in, but the sound comes out thin.
beneath the blanket, garrett absentmindedly intertwines your fingers again. he doesn't even look at your hand when he does it, as though holding it is something as automatic as breathing.
the highlights end, but logan continues scrolling. “you know what’s worse?” he asks. “apparently he’s a really good captain too.”
garrett nods. “he is.”
you feel his chest move behind you.
dean turns. “you’ve heard that?”
“everyone has. he stays late with younger players, watches extra film, takes the blame publicly when they lose.”
“coach jensen likes him” tucker says.
“jensen respects him” garrett corrects.
“same thing from jensen.”
logan drops his phone onto his lap, before bringing his hands up to shield his eyes. “fuck sake. he's really making the rest of us look bad.”
garrett laughs. normally, you love the feeling of it against your back, yet today, it only twists strangely through your chest.
once, long before garrett knew you, you sat in bleachers and watched that same boy skate. you wore his number, waited after games in his jacket, knew which skate he tied first, what song he listened to before warm-ups.
you believed you understood him better than anyone, until you discovered someone else had been receiving the same messages. the same promises, maybe even sitting in the same passenger seat when you weren't there.
it was awful, really
dean looks at garrett, crossing his arms over his chest. “you’ll probably get matched against him if both of us make the frozen four.”
garrett shrugs. “probably.”
“golden boy against golden boy” logan says. “that’s the matchup everybody wants.”
something competitive sharpens in garrett’s expression. “it’d be a good game.”
dean scoffs. “boring answer.”
“you want me to start threatening him through the television?”
“a little.”
garrett laughs, before inhaling deeply behind you. “speaking of, jensen pulled me aside yesterday.”
dean turns, his eyebrows narrowing in confusion. “that sentence never ends well.”
“nah this time it's actually not bad. ncaa media wants to do some frozen four promotional stuff.”
logan sits up. “with you?”
“apparently. interviews, photos, some skills content.” garrett’s hand remains beneath yours. “they’re doing a captain campaign.”
you already know. your body knows before your mind catches up, your fingers tightening around his. garrett glances down at your joined hands, before looking back up, meeting the gaze of his friends. “they want the two of us together...”
"tom and i."
he says your ex's name, out loud. he says it here, in the hockey house. between his own easy, calm voice and the approving reactions of the people you love most, he unknowingly lets the one part of your past you've worked so hard to keep outside these walls slip inside.
for a moment, the room sounds very far away.
“that’s sick!” logan says.
dean gives a low whistle, “they know what they’re doing.”
“that’s going to be everywhere” tucker adds.
everywhere, it's going to be plastered everywhere. you won't be able to escape it, no matter how hard you try.
“they’ll probably make you compare shots" logan says.
“or do accuracy challenges” tucker adds.
something inside you folds in on itself.
speak up.
speak up.
speak up.
“when is it?” tucker asks.
“next week, i think. they’re still finalising it.”
“whole day?”
“sounds like it.”
logan leans back. “you’re going to come home best friends.”
garrett snorts, shaking his head, yet smiling. “doubt it.”
“why? you clearly admire him.”
“his hockey” garrett corrects.
“same thing to you.”
dean grins. “g’s going to ask for his autograph.”
garrett huffs. “alright, i’m leaving.”
“you can’t. you live here.”
you stare straight ahead as the conversation around you fades into background noise.
next week, garrett and him in the same room. talking, laughing, being photographed together.
your past and present standing side by side.
garrett shifts beneath you, clearly eager to hear your opinion. “what do you think, y/n?”
everyone looks over, you turn to meet his gaze.
garrett's expression is open. not excited exactly, because he never enjoys media obligations, but there is interest there. professional respect and the quiet satisfaction of being chosen because he earned it.
you force a smile, squeezing his hand gently in assurance, “sounds like a pretty big deal.”
garrett nudges you gently, attempting to downplay the opportunity being presented, “nah, probably just a lot of standing around.”
“with one of the best players in college hockey” logan adds.
garrett glances at him. “you done?”
“not remotely.”
the conversation moves on to the kind of questions they might ask.
“best hands” dean says.
“tom” tucker answers.
“fuck you” garrett mutters.
“best defensive game.”
“garrett.”
“hardest shot.”
“garrett.”
“best release.”
there's a pause before dean points at the television, “tom.”
garrett exhales through his nose. “i regret ever telling you guys.”
“best overall player” logan says.
“garrett” you answer automatically, the words falling from your mouth before you're even able to stop them. the room goes quiet for half a second.
garrett looks down at you, surprised by how quickly you'd answered.
not because you've compared them, but because you need it to be true. if there was one thing to be certain of, it's that garrett is everything your ex never was, never could be.
garrett's expression softens, before he presses a delicate kiss to your temple, “thank you, baby."
you grab your phone, shifting your gaze onto it before he can see too much on your face.
“you really okay?”
you nod quickly, his eyes remain on you.
“you feel tense, y/n.”
“i’m just tired.”
“you weren’t tired ten minutes ago.”
you swallow. “headache, maybe.”
his thumb traces another slow circle beneath your sweatshirt. not fidgeting, soothing, almost as though he's trying to settle something he can't quite identify.
he's careful not to put you on the spot. “want to go upstairs?”
the offer is soft, private. part of you wants to say yes, to let him take you away from the name being passed around the room as though it means nothing. to curl into his bed and tell him the truth while there is still time.
garrett, that’s him.
my ex.
the one who cheated.
the one who made me feel impossible to love.
you imagine the change in garrett’s features, the promotional shoot disappearing, the boys never speaking about your ex the same way again.
the questions, the anger.
you shake your head. “no. i’m all good, i promise.”
garrett doesn't believe you, you can tell.
but he knows the difference between avoidance and a boundary, even when you're not brave enough to name which one this is, so he doesn't push. he only adjusts the blanket higher over your legs, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “tell me if it gets worse.”
“i will.”
another lie, small enough that you can pretend it doesn't count.
across the room, dean is still talking. “you need to ask him about that shot.”
“i already know how he does it” garrett replies.
logan points at the television. “then stop him.”
“that’s the plan.”
tucker leans back against the couch. “honestly, if anyone in college hockey can shut him down, it’s probably you.”
“probably?” garrett repeats.
“definitely” dean corrects.
logan grins. “that matchup is going to be insane.”
before reaching for the remote, garrett ducks his head slightly. "do you want a tea or anything?"
you blink. "what?"
"you said you had a headache."
your chest tightens in warmth, admiration. "i'm okay."
he studies you for another second before nodding once, "alright."
grabbing the remote, garrett rewinds the highlight before pressing play again.
the shot flashes across the television once more. the room falls back into analysis. release point, angle, timing, tom's passing, tom's edge work, tom's captaincy, tom's draft prospects.
the boys keep talking, not carelessly or cruelly, but with the uncomplicated admiration athletes have for talent that cannot be denied.
you hear every word. elite, smartest player on the ice, future nhl captain, the kind of player every coach wants.
garrett’s hand remains beneath yours the entire time. warm, steady, safe.
you tell yourself that this is enough.
this is only hockey, the shoot is only a day, your ex is nothing but a name from somewhere you no longer belong.
when the replay ends and his face fills the screen again, smiling beneath the arena lights, you feel garrett’s thumb move slowly across your skin.
he's still watching you, quietly, carefully, already noticing the first crack in a story you have not yet told him.
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