Write Me Away...

The new academic year always brings in new players who think they’re hot shit, and the other boys always get a perverse enjoyment out of putting them through their paces, exposing what they’re really made of. Some of them decide there and then to hang their skates up and not come back. Others will puff and pant through a couple of practises, fabricate an excuse about schedule conflicts. Only a few will actually meet the bar. Fewer still will keep trying to meet it.

Garrett always takes a step back during this time. The sight of so many fresh-faced guys striving to gain his approval makes his limbs feel leaden. Instead, Dean and Tucker take control, over-compensating for Logan’s absence, a test paper clash taking precedent over (as his lecturer called it) hitting a disc with wooden sticks.

There’s this one kid this year that irritates the shit out of Garrett. Alex? Aaron? Blonde hair that keep flopping in his face, baby blues that resemble cold chips of ice. Post-practice, he walks around the locker room like he owns the place, even has the audacity to slap Garrett on his shoulder on the way out, announcing: ‘See you next session, cap.’

Cap. Fucking cap.

‘He’s good, Gare,’ Dean reasons as Garrett shoots daggers after him. ‘Real good.’

‘Yeah,’ he mutters. ‘And a cocky piece of shit.’

‘Reminds me of another cocky piece of shit we know and love,’ Tucker says cheerily, and Garrett resents that, but he keeps his trap shut and tries to not let Tucker’s offhand comment get under his skin.

‘Away game tomorrow, boys,’ Dean reminds everyone as they file out the door. ‘Don’t get too pissed tonight!’

‘What, at your party?’ one of them claps back.

‘Yup,’ Dean grins, ushering them out the changing rooms. ‘Do as uncle Deanie says, not as he does.’

It’s as Garrett’s parking the car - on the road again, although your Fiat 500 isn’t in the drive, because you’re still out on placement - that his phone buzzes. He flicks the engine off, waits for the boys to climb out, then unlocks his phone.

Dad: I just want to talk.

Well, he didn’t. He swipes right on the message, swaps over to the internet browser. Refreshes the tab he’s left open in his in private browser, like the information displayed might have changed. Sorry, this webpage doesn’t exist any more. Kindly fuck off and go elsewhere.

But it doesn’t change.

It’s a contact page.

For a counsellor who specialises in supporting victims of domestic violence and abuse in the home.

A pounding on his window. Garrett curses and locks his phone, finds Dean waving at him.

‘Come on - that beer fountain isn’t going to set itself up!’

Garrett huffs out a sigh, shoves his phone away. It feels too much. Too big. Sure, his dad hit him. Sure, his dad hit his mum. That didn’t make them victims of domestic violence. Or people who had suffered from abuse in the home.

…Right?

‘Gare!’

‘Yeah - coming.’

The tab stays open, like it has done since the start of summer break.

*****

It’s late, past 10pm, and the party’s in full swing when he sees you.

You’re talking to Jules, keeping yourself tucked up against a wall, nursing what he judges to be a very flat cup of pop, and fuck, you look pretty. You’ve put make-up on, eyeshadow that deepens the colour of your eyes, lip gloss that accentuates the shape of your mouth. In a dress, t-shirt style, loose-fitting, black with tiny flowers scattered all across the cotton. No Star Wars socks, but as he draws nearer, like a moon orbiting a planet, he notices TIE Fighters adorning your ears.

The smile you throw him is nothing short of dazzling.

‘Hi.’

‘Hey.’ Fuck. He feels like a teenager again, fumbling his first time talking to his crush. Fucking stupid. ‘How was placement?’

‘Busy. Full of tiny shits who need constant attention. How was training?’

‘Yeah,’ he shrugs, ‘pretty much the same.’

‘Better watch what you say, Graham,’ Jules teases. ‘You want that kind of thing being published on Fifth Line?’

‘Nice to see you too, Jules.’

‘Likewise. Speaking of - I’m up.’

And without another word, they’re making a beeline towards the opposite corner of the house, where two people are making out with an intensity that suggests they probably shouldn’t be.

Leaving Garrett standing there.

Alone.

With you.

Why does this make his palms feel as if they’re slick with sweat?

‘So.’ He extends the vowel for a second too long and he hates it. ‘You made it.’

You shake your cup at him. ‘Just for one. Need my beauty sleep.’

‘Wow.’

You frown at him. ‘What?’

‘Nothing, I -‘ He shrugs. He’s played this one before and knows it works. ‘I just thought - if this is what you look like before sleep -‘

You poke him in the ribs, and he finds himself laughing at your attempt to throw him off. ‘Smooth. Try your tactics on someone who you actually stand a chance with, hockey boy.’

‘Aw, girlie. Don’t put yourself down.’

Another poke, but he catches your hand, gives it a squeeze before letting it drop. You shake your head, smiling, but there’s something guarded in your eyes, something he can’t quite place.

‘So.’ He lounges beside you as a group of people passes by; you practically flatten yourself against the wall, holding your cup warily in front of your abdomen. ‘Made any new friends?’

‘No,’ you say, ‘I’m here talking to you.’

‘Well,’ he croons, ‘that’s lucky, because I know plenty of people.’

‘What if I don’t want to know the people you know?’

He ignores you, scanning the room. You need someone to bounce off. Not too loud, because that would stifle you, but not too quiet, either, as you’d go into yourself. Someone -

‘Kendall. Over here.’

You stare at him, wide-eyed. 'Garrett.'

'What?'

‘You’ve slept with her.’

‘I’ve slept with most of the girls I know.’

‘You’re disgusting.’

He takes a swig from his non-alcoholic beer. ‘Never had any complaints. Come on.’ Leans a little closer, smirks conspiratorially. ‘Aren’t you a little bit curious?’

Your tone is sarcastic, but you’re pink beneath your make-up, and it looks so, so cute. ‘You like skating on thin ice, don’t you, Graham. What happened to bro code?’

He laughs, straightens as Kendall makes her way over. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.’

‘Something else might stop us having a little fun,’ you mumble, so quietly he almost missed it, but before he has a chance to question you, Kendall’s there, and he’s introducing you both, announcing you have no friends, spend a lot of time around babies, and like smutty romances.

The mortified look on your face as he walks away is priceless.

*****

It’s another hour or so before he checks in on you, finds you and Kendall on the sofa, animatedly talking about some new sports romance you recently read. You’ve kicked your shoes off and are sitting cross-legged, dress draped loosely across your lap; your drink, balanced precariously on the sofa arm, still looks untouched.

He arrives just in time to hear you say: ‘And then, they have really hot sex in the trophy room, but it’s not gratuitous, you know? Because it builds on the characters. It makes you -‘

‘Aw.’ Garrett picks up your warm cup of pop, perches himself on the arm instead. ‘Look at you making friends.’

Both you and Kendall throw him a look. ‘Fuck off, Graham,’ you say. ‘We’re talking about art, here.’

‘It sounds like,’ he parries, ‘you’re talking about fucking in places other than a bed. Scandalous.’

‘When you’re in a relationship, you need to do what you can to keep things spicy,’ Kendall muses. ‘Not that you would know that, Garrett.’

There’s no venom to her words, and he tips his drink at her before taking a sip, a comfortable neutrality the two of them have fallen into that Garrett's quietly grateful for. You take a stretch and yawn, rubbing your side, just above your hip bone. He doesn’t miss the wince you give.

‘I really need to go to bed.’

‘It’s not even midnight. This -‘ He gestures around the room, fit to burst with people enjoying themselves - ‘is gonna keep you up.’

‘Trust me,’ you say, yawning again, ‘it isn’t.’

‘Speaking of bedtime,’ Kendall says coolly, her gaze flicking back and forth between him and you, ‘Justin’s here to pick me up.’

‘See, that’s why you’re meant to be friends.’ He nudges your shoulder. ‘You’re both losers.’

‘Who’s the bigger loser?’ Kendall challenges. ‘The losers or the hot-shot hockey team captain who lowers himself to talk to them?’

‘Ah, Kendall,’ he chuckles. ‘Always keeping me grounded.’

She shakes her head, but there’s a smile pulling at her glossed lips. She gives you a hug, which you return tentatively, the line of your shoulders stiffening. ‘Text me your dates! The girls would love to hear about these romance books. Would give us something to do on the boring bus journeys.’

‘Yeah,’ you say, sounding shy. ‘Yeah, I - I will.’

And with that, Kendall’s gone, leaving you and him alone together once more.

He leans in. Takes a second to appreciate the smell of jasmine before murmuring in your ear: ‘You can thank me later.’

You turn his way. Your lips are very close to his. ‘Oh can I?’

‘Yup.’ He pulls away, suddenly, smirking at the disappointment on your face. ‘I take Paypal, Venmo, Monzo -‘

You hit his arm. ‘Shut up.’

‘- and, I have extended payment terms. So no need to worry about transferring me right now.’

‘Too funny,’ you drawl, then look wistfully over the back of the sofa, where Kendall disappeared. ‘It was nice. She was nice. Why aren’t you with her again?’

He shrugs. ‘Don’t do girlfriends.’

‘Ah,’ you say knowingly, ‘that’s right. Hockey, pussy, hockey, pussy.’

‘Now you’re getting it.’

You laugh, look back at the door once more, then make a strangled noise, before quickly whipping your head back around.

‘What?’ He glances back at the party that’s now in full swing, sees nothing amiss, other than Dean encouraging every girl around to do body shots down his abs, which isn’t unexpected. ‘What’s up?’

‘He’s here,’ you squeak.

‘Who?’

‘Adam.’

‘Who’s Adam?’

Through clenched teeth, you hiss: ‘My ex. With Gayle. His new girlfriend. And my ex best friend.’

He looks up again. Grits his own teeth when he sees who it is.

Blondie. From hockey tryouts.

‘That idiot’s your ex?’ he demands, then instantly regrets it, because you look like you might be about to cry.

‘Yes. Fuck. Why is he even here? People don’t show up at parties this late, do they?’

‘Jesus, girlie, when was the last time you got out?’

You yank your warm drink from his hand, squeeze it so tightly it nearly overflows. ‘Shut up. Fuck. This isn’t how I wanted him to see me.’

He frowns at you. Adam’s helping himself to beer, greeting Tucker like he’s a long-lost brother. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means.’ OK, you definitely sound on the verge of tears, and Garrett silently prays you keep it together, because comforting crying girls is not the top rated skill in his repertoire. ‘It means I wanted him to see me - I don’t know. With some other guy. Just like - he’s with her. But the guy I would be with would be hotter. Like - way hotter. And smarter. And probably taller. And he’d make me look - I don’t know - hot as a result. You know? And Adam would look at us together and he’d be like, well, damn, looks like I fucked up.’ You hang your head. ‘Sorry. It’s a stupid fantasy.’

Adam gamely does a body shot off Dean. Garrett hopes it burns his throat on the way down.

‘It’s not stupid. He hurt you. She hurt you. It’s OK to want a bit of revenge.’

‘It is?’ The music nearly drowns out your words, but he doesn’t miss the sadness in them.

And to hear you - you with your kindness, your full laugh, your softness and your pretty smile - sound sad flicks a switch in Garrett.

‘Do you trust me?’

‘What?’

‘Do you trust me?’ he repeats. He drags his gaze away from the fucker long enough to meet your own, blurred by tears and confusion.

‘Um - yes. Yes, I - I trust you.’

‘Good. Come on.’

He stands up, scoops your shoes up with one hand, holds the other out towards you. You take it hesitantly, letting him help you pull you to your feet. He gives your fingers a squeeze; they feel warm in his.

‘Follow my lead.’

And with that, he rests his hand on your lower back, and starts to guide you towards the stairs.

Right past Adam.

You stiffen, but you don’t move away, trying to lean into his touch as he stays close behind you, shoes still in his other hand. He keeps close: not so close that you’re touching anywhere else, but close enough that he can feel the body heat emanating from you, can smell your perfume with every breath. Fortunately, you automatically know what pace to set: leisurely and unhurried, and - in a stroke of genius - you even cast a glance back over your shoulder as you pass the kitchen island that’s doubled as Dean’s centre stage, throwing Garrett a small smile that he returns without hesitation.

He doesn’t even have to look to know that Adam’s watching every. Single. Move.

The thought makes him grin, and he leans in a little towards you, murmuring: ‘Still OK?’

‘Yes.’ Your voice is hushed, light with barely contained ecstasy. ‘I’m really, really good.’

‘Yeah,’ he can’t help but smirk, ‘same.’

Other people are staring. Dean, for one, smug, although that could be because of the girl he currently has licking some kind of clear liquid off his pecs. Some of the hockey girls, unfazed, because Garrett Graham taking girls upstairs in the middle of a party isn’t a new thing. Logan, lingering by the stairs, slack-jawed, and he hopes his best friend isn’t calculating the most efficient way to tear him a new asshole.

And, right besides Logan, is Jules.

Well. Garrett Graham didn’t do things by halves.

He nods at Jules, then continues escorting you up the stairs.

It’s a well-established rule in the hockey house that no one - no one - is allowed upstairs during parties. Anyone caught even midway up the stairs is seamlessly thrown out by Dean, establisher of said rule. Gotta keep some things sacred, he would insist. Maintain the mystery and all that - despite, someone would then remind him, half the girls on campus having already seen his room. It's no surprise, then, that the upstairs landing is deserted.

Even so, Garrett keeps his hand firmly pressed to the small of your back until you’re outside your bedroom door.

‘Shit,’ you breathe, and Garrett’s starting to panic he’s miscalculated - until you turn to face him, face pink with excitement. ‘Holy fucking shit.’

‘Yeah,’ he chuckles. His hand now hangs stupidly at his side, feeling weirdly cold. ‘I know.’

‘I cannot believe - oh my god.’ You shake your head at him, still smiling. ‘You didn’t need to do that. That was - wow. Shit. Did you see his face?’

‘Yeah,’ he grins. He has to admit, that felt pretty good. Fuck you, Adam from practice. That’s what you got for being a fucking asshole. ‘Yeah, I did.’

‘Thank you.’ You clap your hands together and give a little squeal, and it might be the cutest noise Garrett’s ever heard. ‘Thank you. I - wait. Wait wait wait.’

You eye him suspiciously and his heart plummets.

‘What?’

Yous spoke his chest. ‘Now I’m in your debt.’

A slow, slow smile creeps across his face. ‘Yeah. You are. Even more than you were before.’

‘Oh,’ you mumble, aghast, ‘no.’

‘Oh,’ he smirks, ‘yes.’

You groan and rub a hand over your eyes, smudging your makeup. ‘You’re not going to be reasonable about this, are you.’

‘Unlikely.’

Another pained sound. He prays silently you stop making them. Right now.

‘OK. OK, I can deal with this. Whatever it is - dishes, trash, filling up your car - I can -‘

‘What the fuck is going on?’

Both of you jump practically three feet in the air.

Logan is at the end of the corridor, storming his way towards the pair of you.

‘What -‘ he points a finger at Garrett, who holds his hands up defensively - ‘are you doing with my fucking sister?’

‘Lo,’ you say quickly, stepping between the two men. ‘It’s OK. It was my idea.’

‘No it wasn’t,’ Garrett protests. ‘Don’t take credit for my genius.’

You huff out a sigh and stamp back on his foot.

'Fucking - ow.'

‘Not helping.’

‘Someone had better start explaining what’s going on,’ Logan snarls. ‘Now.’

You reach out. Place both hands gently on Logan’s shoulders.

‘Adam is here.’

Something dampens in Logan’s still-warm gaze. ‘What?’

‘Adam,’ you repeat. ‘He’s here. With Gayle.’

‘Oh. Oh.’ Deep brown eyes bounce between you and Garrett. ‘So this -‘

‘Yes,’ you insist. ‘Just to fuck with him. There is nothing going on between us. At all.’

‘You really don’t need to be that insistent about it,’ Garrett grumbles. Trying to mask the sting he feels right in the centre of his ribs.

You stamp on his foot once more.

‘OK.’ Logan nods, shuffles awkwardly back, crossed his arms over his chest. ‘OK. Shit, sis - you could have said something.’

‘It wasn’t like it was pre-meditated,’ you counter. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. OK? I’m not hooking up with your best friend behind your back. I’m not hooking up with anyone, if that makes you feel any better.’

It makes Garrett feel decidedly better, but he quickly extinguishes the hope that’s surging in his gut, because Logan is still standing before him, and it’s all he can do to remind himself you’re Logan’s sister. Logan's sister.

‘You know,' he says, trying to distract himself from the drum that’s starting to pound away in his temples to the tune of Logan’s sister, Logan's sister, 'this is going to be all over Fifth Line.’

‘Yes, Garrett,’ you sigh, ‘I realise that.’

‘Shit,' Logan curses. 'Maybe I could talk to Jules -‘

‘Logan.’

He stops at your firm tone, hesitating as you reach out and squeeze his arm once more.

‘Just let me have this. It’s petty and pathetic but it makes me feel so much better.’

And then, a tiny crack splitting the syllable in two: ‘Please.’

It makes Garrett’s blood boil, thinking about how much this fucking asshole hurt you.

It’s a long, long minute before Logan replies.

‘Fine.’

You lean in and give him a hug. ‘Thank you. Although, just so you know, if I wanted to hook-up with Garrett, I would. It’s not the 1800s; you’re not my custodian.’

‘No,’ Logan grumbles, ‘but you’re still my sister and he’s an ass. No offence, G.’

‘Plenty taken,’ Garrett mutters.

You laugh, stifle a yawn. ‘Well. This has been fun. Maybe you’re right, Gare. Maybe I should attend more parties.’

‘I’m always right.’

‘Sure, sure.’ You smile against his neck as you turn around for a hug, throwing your arms around his shoulders. ‘Thank you. That felt really good.’

He blinks. Finds himself completely unable to work out what to do with his hands. Hug you back? And place them where? He was holding the small of your back earlier, but was that - appropriate? What about your waist? Upper body? What the fuck even is this? He knows how to hug girls. Knows how to do a lot of things to girls. Why is he fumbling like a rookie who had never seen a puck before?

Before he even reaches a decision, you let go, flashing him one final smile that punches the air from his lungs before turning to Logan and saying good night. Gives you both a tiny wave before disappearing into the safety of your room, shutting and locking the door behind you.

Logan studies Garrett through narrowed eyes. Garrett shakes his head.

‘Fuck off, man.’

‘I just know what you’re like.’ Garrett finches away, scowling at the floor. ‘And -‘

‘Graham!’

Both the boys start at the sound of Tucker’s yell coming from the bathroom, followed by the sudden appearance of Tucker’s head.

‘You. Didn’t. Do. The trash!’

‘Oh,’ Garrett groans, ‘my god.’

Tucker’s finger appears, pointing into the bathroom. ‘Get in here and change it.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, sweetie,’ Tucker drawls, stepping out of the bathroom, and Garrett's never met Tucker's mother before but he definitely feels like he has, ‘now.’

Logan rubs a hand across his mouth, coughing into his palm. Garrett ignores him.

‘Fine.’

He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him as the other two disappear downstairs, tugging the bin out from under the sink and yanking the flip lid off. OK, maybe it was a little full. OK, maybe Tucker was just doing his Tucker thing and keeping the house from falling into ruin. And OK, maybe Garrett was acting a bit like a spoilt shit about it. That didn’t mean -

Just as he’s tugging out the bag, it splits, right along the bottom, contents spilling across the bathroom floor.

For fuck’s fucking sake.

He nearly leaves it lying there out of principle, talks himself round, fishes out another bag and a pair of gloves from the cupboard. Starts gathering up bathroom crap and chucking it in the new bag. Prays Dean hasn’t shoved any used condoms in here -

He stops. Blinks. Blinks again.

There’s a pregnancy test on the floor.

A positive one.

His dad haunts him that night.

And the night after that.

And the night after that.

He tries to breathe. Tries to think of things to bring himself back down. The glide of the ice beneath his skates. The feel of the hockey stick in the palms of his hands. The sound of his friends, laughing, calling him over to join in whatever shit they’ve cooked up now. His mum. His beautiful, kind, gentle mum.

It doesn’t work.

He’s out the door by 5am every day. Running. Pounding the streets with a ferocity that leaves him slightly winded. Trying to outpace it: the devil on his shoulder, the demons that lurk in the corners of his heart.

It helps, a little. Quietens the voices to a point where they’re manageable once more.

*****

He finds you at the kitchen island one morning after one such run, eyes still puffy with sleep, already in your scrubs and eating cereal from the box.

‘You know,’ he says as he kicks the door shut behind him, ‘we have these things called bowls.’

You shrug, stuff another fistful of honey loops in your mouth. ‘Tastes better from the box.’

‘Some would argue it tastes better with milk, but OK.’

He kicks his shoes off. He’s still damp with sweat and he probably stinks, but he can’t find it in himself to care, heading straight to the fridge and pulling out a protein shake.

‘Placement this morning?’

‘Yup. Three weeks left.’

‘Want anything?’ He jerks his chin towards the cold storage before him. You shake your head. ‘Not even a ginger and lemon tea?’

‘I don’t think you find them in the fridge.’

He pulls a mug out of the cupboard, fills the kettle with water. ‘Really? Shit.’

You laugh at him. ‘Ginger and lemon tea would be great.’

He casts a surreptitious look at you as he moves around the kitchen. You look better today than you have done in a while. Still tired, but brighter. Peppier. Less green. Maybe you’re getting over something. Fighting something off. Maybe -

‘You OK?’

He blinks. You’re frowning at him so hard a line has appeared between your eyes.

‘Yeah,’ he says, giving himself a shake. ‘All good.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’ He flashes you one of his trademark half-smiles. Tries to deflect, redirect. 

It doesn’t work.

‘You’re lying.’ You pout at him. It’s fucking cute.

He snorts, busies himself with adding water to your mug, then stirring it round. Again and again. ‘You’ll give me a complex, girlie.’

‘Stop lying, then.‘

‘I’m not lying.’

‘Sure,’ you drawl, ‘sure. Can you me a favour, then, and stop massacring my teabag?’

He glances down. The water is saturated with tiny dead leaves. His fist makes heavy contact with the counter and he winces at the dull knock that fills the room.

You could have died, and I wouldn’t have fucking known.

Like it was his fault. Every fucking time.

‘My dad came to the game.’

The words tumble out of his mouth without much input from him. He doesn’t mean to. The guys know he’s a dick; Logan suspects something more. But he’s never confided in them. Never told them the whole truth.

You’re weak, Garrett. No son of mine will be weak.

‘I take it that’s bad news.’

Your tone is light but steady, soft but braced with an undercurrent of steel. He finds himself clinging to its stability as he massages his now tender knuckles.

‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s bad news.’

You let the words rest, breathe, then ask: ‘Swap a story for a story?’

He doesn’t look up. There’s an ache in his jaw and he inhales deeply once more, trying to unclench, unhunch. You’re OK. You’re not under attack. You’re OK. 

‘It’s a game we used to play.’ He closes his eyes, lets your words wash through him. ‘Logan, Jules, and I. When we’d have a shit day, we’d swap shit stories.’

‘Sounds uplifting,’ he mutters.

‘It was. I don’t know. There was something about sharing core trauma tales that made it… hurt less somehow. A pain shared, blah blah.’ And then, after a pause: ‘I can go first.’

He doesn’t know if it’s the way you say it - soft, coaxing, like you’re speaking to a small child - or if it’s just the intense culmination of the last few days, but he finds himself nodding. Just once.

‘So, I can’t eat chicken nuggets because when we were five, mum forgot to feed us for three days, and that was all we had in the house to eat. This absolutely ginormous bag of chicken nuggets. Like - 100 dippers big. So Logan worked out how to use the air fryer, and we had them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner literally for three days straight. I’ve not been able to even look at one since.’

He lets out a humourless laugh. ‘Wow. OK. Yeah. That’s - yeah.’

‘Isn’t it.’ You sound so… kind. It rushes through his body like pure spring rain, and he wants to bottle it, so he can listen to those two simple words again and again, use it to drown out the ones that roar in his mind in the depths of night. ‘So now… you go. If you want, of course. If not… well. You have a cute story about me and chicken nuggets.’

Another huffed-out sound from him. ‘Yeah. Fucking adorable.’

If you want. If you want.

What does he want? He wants to play hockey. He wants to hang out with his friends, maybe hang out with you. He wants to wake up in the morning and feel whole, like he isn’t carrying around the weight of something unmanageable everywhere he goes.

It sounds, he tells himself in a tone similar to one he grew up running from, like you don’t know what you want.

Maybe.

But one thing he knows he really wants: to stop feeling this way.

‘My mum -'

He stops. Swallows back the lump in his throat, tries again.

'My mum - she loved Dirty Dancing. She always played the soundtrack after - after my dad -‘ Another block, this one thick and sticky, less easy to dislodge. He tries to bypass it. ‘It was her way of letting me know she was OK.’

‘Do you still listen to it now?’ Plain, simple. Steadying him in ways he can’t steady himself.

‘Yeah.’ He unclenches his fist, lets his sore knuckles rest against the cool countertop. ‘Yeah, sometimes. When things get - shit.’

You hum, but don’t push. He wishes you were closer. Somehow also wishes you were further away.

He presses his hand too hard into the counter, and the sting forces him to open his eyes. The sight of tea leaves floating in lukewarm water greets him, and he laughs weakly, emptying the mug and starting again.

‘Thought you were training to deliver babies, not therapy sessions,’ he jokes. Hot water, tea bag, stir. He doesn’t know if this has helped or made him feel worse. He feels raw and exposed and not at all like Garrett Graham, captain of Briar U hockey team, ladies’ man and future Bruins player. Garrett Graham is not like this. Raw and vulnerable and weak.

No son of mine is weak.

‘Well, you know,’ you say. Still kind. Still unwaveringly kind. ‘I contain multitudes. And,’ you add, after a beat, ‘so do you.’

He swallows hard, chances a glance in your direction. Garrett Graham is also not a romantic man, but right now, in this moment, in the warm morning glow and with the dredges of sleep still softening your eyes, you look like his salvation.

And that scares him.

‘Thanks.’

You smile. It makes his chest ache for reasons he can’t explain.

‘Welcome. Come on. I want that cup of tea.’

He laughs, his shoulders loosening as brings the mug over to you, leans across the island to push it in your direction. Your bag’s discarded on the stool beside you, a spare pair of scrubs thrown haphazardly inside, stuffed under a book depicting a man and a woman’s clothed lower halves stretched out on sun loungers. He quirks an eyebrow at you.

‘Your latest dirty book?’

‘It’s not dirty.’

He picks up the book, flips it over. ‘’Maya Killgore is twenty-three and still in the process of figuring out her life. Conor Harkness is thirty-eight, and Maya cannot stop thinking about him.’’ He smirks at you, back on even footing once more. ‘This is the definition of a dirty book.’

You make a strangled noise of embarrassment, snatch it back from him. ‘No it isn’t. It’s about true love and overcoming social blockers to finding it.’

‘Pesky little social blockers like age?’ He uncaps his protein shake, takes a swig. Lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. ‘Think that’s called daddy issues, not romance.’

You don’t respond. When he lowers his shirt, he finds you busily packing the book away, then packing it away again.

He grins. You don’t look at him, but he definitely sees you flush. Hard.

‘You’re cute, girlie.’

‘Bet you tell all the ladies that.’

‘I don’t recycle nicknames.’

‘’Baby’ and ‘sweetheart’ already taken?’

He smirks. ‘Would never dream of calling you something so basic, girlie.’

Your blush has spread right to your hairline, and you make a show of sipping your tea. Laughter bubbles out of him. If this was a game, he definitely would have won this round.

‘You know,’ you say, once your redness has faded to an adorable pink. ‘If you want someone to talk to about stuff - aside from the boys, I mean - then… I’m happy to listen.’

He shrugs. Suddenly finds the spotless surface of the kitchen island incredibly interesting. ‘Thanks. I don’t - talk to the boys about this stuff. Any of this stuff. So I’d appreciate it if… yeah.’

‘Not even Logan?’

‘Not even Logan.’

‘Wow.’ You hold a hand lightly to your chest. ‘Garrett Graham, I am flattered that I am the one to pop your emotional support cherry.’

A glower at you. ‘Don’t make it weird.’

You giggle. Reach out and touch the back of his hand; his skin, where you graze it, feels almost burnt.

Say something. Say anything. Say that you like her, tell her how pretty she is, how - 

‘Garrett Graham, have you been checking the chores rota?’

Tucker’s dulcet tones echoing down from the upper floor shatter his illusion of victory. Garrett waits until Tucker inevitably appears at the foot of the stairs, already in his workout gear, eyebrow quirked and his I’m-the-mum-around-here vibe going strong.

‘Morning, Tuck. Coffee?

Tucker points a finger at him. ‘Don’t Tuck me. You were supposed to empty the bathroom bin three days ago. It’s gross.’

Garrett rolls his eyes. ‘Dean didn’t do it before me.’

‘Yeah, and Logan didn’t do it before you! So it’s totally fucking rank. Empty it.’ Another finger wag. ‘I mean it. And - yeah. Coffee. Please.’

Garrett holds up an empty mug to him, smiling sweetly. ‘Coming right up.’

The two of you wait until Tucker’s out the door before exchanging a look.

‘He rights a tight ship,’ you say diplomatically.

‘Yup,’ Garrett sighs. ‘And don’t we know it. Going to the party next week?’

A shake of your head. ‘Nope. Billy-no-mates over here, remember?’

‘You know it’s being held here, right?’

You give him a well duh look. ‘Couldn’t miss Dean talking about the chocolate fountain he’s successfully converted into a beer fountain.’

He can’t help but chuckle. ‘We could go together.’

Shit - where did that come from? Going to a party with girls was a definite way of not scoring any girls to hook up with. And he hadn’t hooked up with anyone in weeks. Not since that girl over summer. Kirsten? Kelly? Kelly. The one with the nipple piercing he still thinks about every now and again, and who got incredibly loud when she came.

He wonders, vaguely, what you sound like when you come.

‘Ah,’ you say. Blushing again. ‘No, I’m good.’

‘Lemme guess.’ Grabbing a frying pan, he starts looking for some eggs, trying to remember who last bought them: Dean (cupboard), or Tucker (fridge). ‘Placement.’

‘Hey. You spend 12 hours a day helping women deliver and care for tiny babies. Then we’ll talk.

‘I’l swap you for a day on the ice.’

‘Trust me,’ you deadpan. ‘This isn’t the kind of looking-at-vaginas-all-day that you’d enjoy.’

He clutches his chest in an exaggerated manner, in the same place you made it ache just minutes earlier. ‘I’m wounded you have such a low opinion of me.’

‘Based on some very well founded rumours.’

Eggs are in the fridge, unboxed in the specially designated egg rack (Tucker, of course). ‘Just because Jules is your sister doesn’t mean she knows jack shit. So much of what she writes on that stupid ass rumours website is total shit.'

‘Oh,’ you say sweetly. ‘So you’re not some kind of sex god?’

‘I said so much. Not all of it.’

He cracks an egg in the pan. You hop down from your stool, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

‘Come on,’ he tries once more. ‘Go to the party for a bit. Earn your daddy issues romance.’

A sigh, pursed lips, and you don’t respond until you’re halfway out the front door.

‘Maybe.’

It feels like he’s won another round.

His father shows up at his game the following weekend. Garrett doesn’t know he’s there until after the match, but he should have fucking guessed given how jittery he is the entire match, how badly he plays, the final score that makes him want to punch a fucking wall.

He might not know, but his subconscious definitely does.

The boys are polite but somber as they pass his father in the corridor on the way to the locker rooms. Garrett leans against the wall, shoving his soaked hair out of his face, waiting for the venom he knows will come his way.

‘Garrett.’ Cold, courteous. Garrett didn’t expect anything less.

‘What.’

His father takes a breath, and there’s a swell of satisfaction in Garrett’s chest that he’s able to get as under the man’s skin in the same way that he does.

‘Gare -‘

‘Don’t.’ Garrett shoves away from the wall, starts down the corridor after his team. ‘Just fucking don’t.’

His father blocks his way. ‘I tried texting you. Calling you.’

‘Take a hint.’ He keeps his eyes fixed on his father’s tie, slate grey, adorned with a Bruins pin. It makes something calcify in his lower body, heavy and dense.

‘I didn’t see you all summer.’

‘Yup.’

‘Didn’t hear a word from you.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Jesus.’ A clenching and unclenching of a fist. Garrett’s vision spots. Reality becomes slippery and he scrabbles frantically to keep hold.

His father is still talking.

‘- you could have died, and I wouldn’t have fucking known.’

Garrett’s head snaps up, anger his anchor now, and for a sick moment he appreciates its hostile presence, throbbing away at the base of his spine. Almost in time with vein pulsing in his father’s forehead, green and ugly.

‘I’m sure you would have found out somehow.’

He shoulders past, rage constructing his windpipe, his vocal cords, and he’s eternally grateful his father doesn’t follow after him.

*****

He takes a cold shower, and it helps, but it’s not enough, the heat still simmering under his skin. Barely controlled. Barely contained.

Leaning against the shower wall, he tries to breathe, just like that self-help book still stashed under his bed told him to. In. Out. In. Out. Forcing the air down into his belly instead of just his lungs. Trying to imagine it moving through him like a living force, extinguishing flames in its wake. It's supposed to help. It’s supposed to help.

Why isn’t it helping?

‘Gare.’ Logan’s voice, tentative. Like he’s navigating his way around a fuck-ton of eggshells. ‘You coming, man?’

He doesn’t want to be that person, the one they tiptoe around.

He knows what that’s like.

‘Yeah,’ he manages, keeping his voice even. ‘Yeah, just - five minutes.’ He slams the water off, takes another breath.

He feels like a fucking idiot.

*****

He parks on the road, ignoring the boys’ protests at not using the drive, and busies himself with turning off the engine, unplugging his phone, checking imaginary messages as they pile out. Logan hesitates, hovering in the passenger’s seat.

‘Hey.’

‘Yeah?’ Garrett doesn’t look up. Can’t.

‘You good?’

‘Yup,’ he says tightly. ‘Totally.’

A pause. ‘OK.’ Then: ‘You know, a problem shared is a problem halved.’

‘Yeah.’ He flicks his phone off, but doesn’t look up from the dark screen. That constricting feeling in his chest eases, just the smallest, microscopic amount. ‘Thanks.’

He senses Logan nod. ‘Come on. I’m starved. Do you think Tucker’s made a start on food?’

A lifeline. Garrett grips it with both hands, forcing the events of the past few hours to the darkest recesses of his mind. Boxing. Compartmentalising. He’s not Garrett Graham, son of hockey legend Philip Graham: he's Garrett Graham, Briar U Captain, hockey prodigy, future star player of whatever team he fucking wanted.

This version of Garrett isn’t weak. Doesn’t fall to pieces at the mere sight of his father in the stands.

'Do we want him to have made a start on food?’ he finds himself asking, only a little shakily.

‘Yeah.' Logan heaves a sigh. ‘Those shortbread cookies were really bad.’

It feels good to laugh, his limbs feeling lighter, his stomach loosening the knot its worked itself into. Logan holds out a fist, and Garrett bumps it wordlessly.

Breathe. Focus. And breathe.

The boys climb out of the car, Garrett locking the Jeep behind them and following Logan up to the house, groaning as he takes stock of the shitty day. First the loss - which was his own fucking fault, and everyone knew it - then his dad turning up to give him an earful about fuck knows what. Sure, the last he had spoken to his dad had been in May, before the end of the season, when his team had lost and placed third and he’d nearly had a panic attack in the locker rooms as he’d waited for his father’s Baltic appraisal. Sure, Garrett hadn’t gone home for weeks after that, claiming a summer training routine that had only been a half-lie. Sure, Garrett had been avoiding any attempts his dad had made at communication, texts left unanswered, calls going straight to voicemail.

And his life had been so much better for it.

He should have guessed it was too good to last.

Whoops sound from inside the house as he and Logan reach the front door. Dean-esque sounding whoops.

‘Please,’ Logan says, ‘don’t tell me there’s a girl naked in our kitchen right now.’

Garrett can’t resist. ‘Well, your sister -‘

‘Shut the fuck up.’

Logan barrels inside, leaving Garrett smirking on the porch, hesitating as he casts a glance back over his shoulder. It’s just his car parked there, a dark mass in the oncoming twilight. No other’s. Well. Except for your tiny tin can, tucked up in the driveway.

No others.

His dad is gone. For now, at least.

He takes one last breath, then steps inside.

It’s insanity. The boys are jabbering with excitement, weaving around each other as they tried to reach different parts of the kitchen island, plates in hand that are becoming rapidly leaden with food. Dean points to his own and gives Garrett an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

‘Chilli. With all the trimmings!’

‘And hockey!’ Tucker shouts, grabbing a fistful of nachos before launching himself at the sofa. 

Garrett watches in bemusement as the other two follow suit, adding final spoonfuls of sour cream and guacamole to their already stacked plates before positioning themselves on the coach, all of them perched on the edge to get as close as possible to the TV. He glances up and sees you standing by the stove top, Tucker’s pink apron tied loosely around your waist, a perplexed smile lifting the corner of your mouth. He has an inexplicable urge to place a kiss right there, to coax that smile a little wider.

You look up, catch his eye. He feels his face go warm, hopes fervently you don’t have some undisclosed ability to read minds.

‘Hey.’ Kicks his shoes off, wanders over to the kitchen, sticks his hands in his pocket for want of something to do. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Just a little something. To say thank you.’

‘You didn’t have to do that. Seriously. I mean - Tucker has to earn his keep.’

‘Fuck you,’ Tucker says, holding up his middle finger without turning his head from the TV.

‘Well,’ you say bashfully, eyeing the mess on the island. ‘I can’t make much. But chilli - that, I can do.’

‘Amen!’ all three boys call out in unison.

You shake your head at him, adjusting your apron before gesturing to what’s left of the devastation. ‘Go on. Before they come back for more.’

Garrett nods, grabbing a plate, frowning as he notices the lack of any food near you. ‘You should get some too.’

‘Oh.’ You fiddle with your apron again, chewing your lip as you re-tie it around your middle. ‘I… I’ll just have some rice.’

He frowns, spoons some rice on a plate, places it in your general direction. ‘You good?’

‘Hm?’ You blink at him, clearly a million miles away.

‘Last I checked, a plate of rice doesn’t exactly constitute a full meal.’

You laugh. Notice the now-loaded plate beside you and smile gratefully. ‘Yeah. Yeah, all good. Thank you.’

The apron comes off altogether, leaving you in a too-big t-shirt and leggings, and you hoist yourself up on a bar stool before poking at the rice he’s dished up. The boys cheer loudly at the TV; Garrett rolls his eyes, sits on the bar stool next to yours. Doesn’t miss the side-eye Dean gives him, but chooses to ignore it.

You're staring at your food like it might explode in your face. He gives you a nudge with his broad shoulder. ‘You sure you’re good?’

You jump a little, smile, give him a playful nudge back. Even just that tiny bit of contact is enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Fuck. Who is he? For the second time tonight, he consults the construct of himself, the one he’s built single-mindedly since starting here two years ago. Garrett Graham, casual only, no girlfriends. Garrett Graham, who could charm the panties off any girl he wanted in under an hour. Garrett Graham, who didn’t have time for a girlfriend, much less want one.

When did he turn into such a fucking simp?

‘I told you I’m good,’ you insist, and to be fair, you look better than you did the last time he saw you. Less green. Still washed out. Still the purple bags under your eyes. Still unbearably fucking pretty. ‘Super tired. Placement’s been kicking my butt.’

‘Day off today?’ Damn, the chilli was good. Hot. Full-bodied. Exactly what he needed.

‘Yeah. Back in tomorrow at 7am, though. It’s a full moon tonight, which means it’ll be an extra busy shift.’

‘Wait.’ Dean tears his gaze away from the TV. ‘Is that an actual thing?’

‘Yes,’ you nod, ‘it is. No one knows why, but more babies are born around the full moon than not.’

‘Hey.’ Dean points his fork at you. ‘B word is not allowed in this house.’

‘Only because it makes Dean’s balls withdraw into his body,’ Tucker says cheerfully.

‘And everyone would hate for that to happen,’ Logan drawls.

Dean holds his hands up. ‘Wrap it before you tap it, guys. Look, I’m just saying. It’s like - what’s that horror game kids play in the mirror?’

‘Bloody Mary?’ Tucker supplies.

Dean clicks his fingers. ‘That’s the one. Say it three times, and you will speak it into existence.’

Tucker and Logan both exchange a look, before uttering, in unison: ‘Babies, babies, ba-‘

‘Jesus Christ you guys,’ Garrett scolds as Dean lobs chips across the sofa. He turns back to you, finds you watching the three of them with an odd look on your face, part amused, part… sad?

‘Don’t mind them. They have the emotional maturity of jellyfish.’

‘I mean,’ you laugh, but he doesn’t miss the unsynchronised note it's trying to smother, ‘they’re my brother’s friends, and hockey players. I didn’t expect anything less.’

‘Wow.' Got to keep you talking. Keep you smiling. 'Ouch.’

‘Obviously,’ you add sweetly, elbowing him lightly in the ribs, ‘you’re the exception.’

‘Fucking right.’ Then, because he’s feeling bold: ‘So how was your day off?’

‘Mmm. Good.’ You take another mouthful of rice, chew slowly. ‘Slept in. Read a book. You know, standard I-have-no-friends stuff.’

‘You read a whole book?’

‘Mmm.’ There’s a chorus of boos as one of the players on screen is sent off after a scuffle on the ice. You lean in closer to him so he can hear you; you smell, again, like jasmine, and he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. ‘Yeah. It was a romance one, that’s why. It’s a lot easier to get through them.’

‘Ah.’ He gives you a knowing wink. ‘A smutty book.’

You laugh, completely nonplused. ‘Only a little. It was pretty pedestrian.’

‘What are you guys talking about over there?’

The pair of you look up. Logan is watching the interaction with narrowed eyes, and Garrett instinctively finds himself shifting away. Just a little.

You, on the other hand, don’t budge, and instead give Logan the finger. ‘The size of your tiny dick.’

‘Is dick size directly related to how quickly it takes to conceive a baby?’

‘Tucker,’ Dean says, ‘what the actual fuck?’

‘What?’ Tucker shrugs shamelessly. ‘I’m asking our resident midwife, not you.’

‘I think we know what the answer is,’ Garret mutters as you giggle into your plate of rice, one hand holding your belly. You have a pretty laugh. Rich and genuine, one that makes him want to laugh, too.

‘Yeah,’ Dean agrees, ‘I think we do, or I’d have babies all over campus right now.’

‘Maybe you do have babies all over campus,’ Logan says, ‘you just don’t know it.’

‘Is that the third time saying baby?’ Tucker teases.

‘Oh my god,’ Dean groans, ‘shut up about babies.’

‘Wow,’ you say quietly, ‘they are children.’

‘Yeah,’ Garrett agrees, ‘they are.’

‘So, hockey boy.’ You tilt yourself in your seat to peer up at him, a coy little grin on your face as your eyes meet his. ‘What was the last book you read?’

He smirks. ‘Nice try. Last book I read was Fritz Fischer’s War of Illusions. Or was it AJP Taylor’s The Struggle for Mastery in Europe?’

‘Doesn’t sound like there’s much kissing in either of them.’

‘You’d be surprised.’ This close, he can trace every imperfection on your skin, can follow the neat line of your Cupid’s bow. ‘They get pretty hot and heavy later on.’

You roll your eyes. ‘History major?’

‘Ding ding ding,’ he quotes, echoing you from the other day. Another scowl from you, which makes him laugh. You’re cute. Feisty. He likes it. He likes it a lot.

Maybe a little too much.

‘So the hockey is to just stop you from being a nerd, right?’

‘Damn. Am I that transparent?’

You nod solemnly. ‘Yeah. I mean, look at you. Total nerd, right there.’

You touch a hand to his bicep, feather-light, right where the sleeve of his t-shirt ends. His skin burns from where you graze it.

Are you… flirting with him?

He glances at Logan. Confirms that yes, he is still watching the game, not preparing to knock Garrett senseless with a hockey stick.

He shifts a little in his seat, his bare knee knocking into your clothed one. You don’t move away.

Yeah. You were definitely flirting with him.

Bro code, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. Bro code.

Flirting wasn’t against the bro code, right? Sure, dating your friend’s sister was. As was sex of any kind. Obviously.

But not flirting.

…right?

‘I definitely, one hundred per cent, do not have any babies anywhere on this campus. Or off this campus, for that matter!’

The two of you pull away at Dean’s raised voice. Like you’ve been caught. Like you were doing something wrong.

Which you weren’t.

Much.

‘Just saying, man,’ Tucker says coolly, ‘only someone with at least one baby hanging around would get that defensive about it.’

‘Oh my god.’ Dean scrubs a hand across his face. ‘They hand out condoms for free. OK? You gotta be pretty stupid to get yourself knocked-up when there’s free contraception right under your nose.’

It’s subtle, the change in your demeanour. A slight stiffening of your spine. A clenching of your jaw. A flare of your nostrils.

You push your half-eaten plate of rice away and jump down from the stool.

‘I need to get to bed,’ you announce, already making your way to the stairs. ‘Early start. Don’t leave just Tucker on clean-up duty, OK?’

And before Garrett can say anything - before he can ask if you’re OK - you’re gone.

Later, you door is shut when Garrett heads upstairs for bed, and although he raises his fist a couple of times, it always comes back down to hang limply at his side.

That night, when memories of his father rise to the front of his mind, he remembers the smell of jasmine, and it helps.

Just a little.

He doesn’t see you again for a full week.

It’s maddening. The way you occupy his every thought and you’re not even there. The way you haunt his every step through your absence. The way you’re there but not there, present but not: your toothbrush, sitting on the side of the sink, close to his. Your shampoo, your soap, feminine shades of pink and purple standing out starkly against the masculine ones of bolt blue and slate grey. Your shoes, bag, keys, coat, all tucked away in various parts of the hall. Your bright red car tucked up against the garage door, like if you park close enough, maybe it will - impossibly - blend in with the paintwork, like no one will notice it there.

The way you’re close - so fucking close - and yet so far.

Why can’t he stop thinking about you?

He asks Logan about your whereabouts as casually as he can on day three, unable to take it any longer.

‘She’s on placement.’ Logan thumps his hockey stick into the ice, eyeing the other team members warming up on the ice before practice. ‘Long shifts, like twelve, fourteen hours. Sucks they got them doing it this early in the academic year.’

With a sinking feeling, Garrett realises there really is no way for him to not sound like an asshole when he asks his next question.

‘Placement for what?’

Logan looks at him, and yup, certified asshole status achieved. ‘Midwifery. You were totally listening the other day, weren’t you.’

‘Oh,’ Garrett says smoothly, ‘yeah. Totally.’

‘I bet you’d be listening if he told you now,’ Dean murmurs, occupying the bench space to Garrett’s left. Garrett all but stomps a skate into his foot.

‘Fuck you, man.’

‘Hey.’ Logan frowns. ‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ Garrett says before Dean can get any more smart-ass comments in. ‘Ignore him. So - midwifery? She’s training to be a midwife?’

‘That’s usually what that means, yeah. Second year.’

‘You are so off your game, G,’ Dean chuckles. Garrett gives him a shoulder-barge.

‘Fuck you. She, uh - enjoying it?’

‘Ask her yourself.’

‘I never see her.’

‘Plus,’ Dean says coolly, ‘you said you don’t care about a girl being in the house, remember?’

Garrett’s contemplating whether Dean would appreciate a fat knock to his perfect jaw, but he’s saved from making any decision on that front when Coach summons Logan to the ice. Garrett turns to Dean and gives him a thump instead to the side of his helmeted head.

‘What the fuck.’

‘Aw. Cute.’ Dean tugs off his helmet. His hair is annoyingly perfect and sweat-free. ‘Garrett’s in love.’

Garrett snorts. ‘I’ve barely said ten words to her.’

‘And you’re already in love. Is that why you’re parking the Jeep on the street instead of the driveway?’

Well - he didn’t want to block you in if you were out early. Or late. Or just needed to get out for whatever reason whenever you wanted.

Not that Dean needed to know that.

‘I’m parking the Jeep on the street because there’s not enough room on the driveway for both cars.’

‘She drives a tin can.’

‘It’s a small driveway.’

‘It’s totally normal sized.’

‘The Jeep is huge.’

‘Yeah.’ Dean extends the sound a lot longer than strictly necessary. ‘Nice try. Thought you didn’t do girlfriends.’

‘I don’t.’ Garrett fiddles with the tape on his knuckles. ‘I especially don’t do girlfriends when they take the form of Logan’s sister.’

‘Mmm. Bro code. Respect that.’ A pause, then: ‘Doesn’t change the fact you’re in love with her.’

‘Fuck you, Di Laurentis. I’m not in love with her.’

A self-indulgent chuckle. ‘Riddle me this, then, Graham: what colour are her eyes?’

Garrett remembers exactly what colour your eyes are, framed so prettily by your long lashes, the bags underneath so dark they were almost bruise-like in hue, but again, he isn’t about to tell Dean that. Instead, he shoves his helmet on and stands, ignoring the fact it’s not his turn in rotation.

‘I'm not talking to you about this.’

‘That makes it even better,’ Dean laughs as Garrett skates away.

*****

It’s day seven after you’ve moved in when he sees you again.

It’s 8am. His first class of the day is cancelled, and rather than haul ass to the gym like he normally would, Garrett rewards himself with his first lie-in since term start two weeks ago, followed by poached eggs on toast.

It’s not much. But for him - living on the schedule he does, aiming for the dreams he is - it borders on self-indulgent.

He’s just pouring himself a black coffee, when he hears the front door unlock, and he looks up in time to see you stepping into the hall, still in scrubs.

‘Girlie.’

You blink at him, surprised. Even from this distance, he can see you look beyond tired, indigo smears beneath your lower lash line. ‘You can just call me by my name, you know.’

‘I like girlie. And good morning to you, too. Eggs?’

He has no idea why he offered, seeing as he was literally just about to eat the eggs on the plate before him, but you shake your head vehemently.

‘No fucking way.’

Garrett snorts. ‘Could’ve just said a simple no.’

You rub a hand over your eyes. ‘Oh my god. Yeah. You’re totally right. I’m sorry.’ You turn a pretty shade of pink, busying yourself with slipping your shoes off. Your socks have R2D2 on them today. ‘That was - really fucking rude.’

He shrugs. ‘Only a little. Coffee?’

First eggs, now coffee? Fuck. He must be gone.

You chew your lower lip. ‘Uh - also, no. Although I’ll take a ginger tea, if there’s anything like that around?’

Garrett pulls open a cupboard. ‘You’re fortunate we have a Tucker living in this house. Ginger and lemon?’

‘Sounds amazing. Also, what are you talking about? Dean gives off big herbal tea vibes.’

‘Maybe after he’s gone through his quarter life crisis and had his gap year in Thailand.’

‘Ooh,’ you laugh, ‘yeah. He probably won’t eat anything processed after that, too. Will only drink raw milk and all that.’

Graham adds a teabag to a mug, pours hot water over it. ‘You’ve thought a lot about this.’

‘One might say too much.’

He laughs, turns to the island to find you perched on the stool furthest away from him. He cocks an eyebrow at you.

‘I offended you that much at Thanksgiving?’

‘What?’ You look at the space between your stools, then flush. ‘Sorry - no. That’s not it. It’s - the eggs. They smell super gross.’

He places the tea in front of you. Even after a twelve hour shift, hair in disarray and creased scrubs, you look devastatingly pretty. ‘They barely smell like anything at all.’

‘Maybe to you,’ you grumble. ‘Thank you. For the tea.’

He ambles back to his own seat. ‘Welcome.’

‘And,’ you add, turning that pretty shade of pink once more, ‘thank you. For letting me stay. Sorry - I was super rude the other night and didn’t say anything.’

‘Well,’ he says coyly, ‘you are Logan’s sister. I expected a certain degree of entitlement.’

‘Hey,’ you say, ‘fuck you.’

He chuckles, punctures both eggs, the yolk oozing out cross his toast. Catches you wincing away, and there’s a definite green tint to your face. He quickly shovels a forkful in his mouth.

‘So.’ He swallows, takes another bite. ‘Accommodation fell through?’

‘Hm?’ You glance back at him in confusion; he gestures vaguely around the pair of you.

‘For you to end up here.’

‘Oh.’ You scrunch your nose. ‘Logan not tell you?’

‘I mean…’ Garrett shuffles in embarrassment. Did he not take in a single word of what Logan said the other day?

The laugh you make sends pleasant shivers down his spine.

‘Let me guess. You weren’t listening.’

‘Hey,’ he says defensively, ‘I tried to listen, all right? Logan just - always chooses the wrong times.’

‘Mm-hmm. What, like when some girl is Snapchatting you pictures of her tits?’

‘You’re very obsessed with what I get on my Snapchat.’

‘Now you’re projecting.’ You take a sip of your tea, make an appreciative mmm sound. Garrett concentrates very, very hard on his eggs. ‘Anyway. I was meant to move in with my boyfriend and my best friend. They moved in the week before I did; I was out visiting Jules on her media internship in New York. I decided to surprise them and came back a day early.’

Garrett feels a curl of disgust slithering through his gut. ‘Let me guess. You found them in bed together.’

‘Ding ding ding.‘

‘That’s fucked up. I’m sorry, girlie.’

You shrug, but there’s a stiffness to your movement you’re not able to hide. ‘Doesn’t matter. They deserve each other.’

‘Yeah,’ he says firmly, ‘they do. How long had you been together?’

‘All last year. So, you know. Built my whole university experience around him, like the idiot I am. Very feminist of me.’

‘Very.’ Plate empty of food, he gets up and washes off any egg remnants in the sink, before spraying down his placemat for good measure. ‘Missed out on all the freshers’ fun, then.’

‘Yeah. Too busy playing house with the world’s biggest loser.’

He chuckles at your sour expression. ‘Always this year.’

‘Uh,’ you say. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

Something in your tone makes him glance up. You’re staring down at your tea, an unreadable expression on your face.

‘Not your thing?’ he asks, softening his tone.

You start, seem to remember yourself. ‘I’m too busy with this placement to think about freshers. These twelve hour shifts have got me beat.’

Your tone is supposed to be light, breezy, but it doesn’t mask the heaviness that underscores your words. He fumbles. Aches to chase off the sadness that lingers in the press of your lips, the fall of your gaze.

‘Logan mentioned.’ He’s back at the island, grasping for a way to move you back to something that won’t make you look so upset. ‘Midwifery?’

‘Yup.’ You brighten at that, and he almost breathes a sigh of relief. ‘I’m on the ward at the moment. It never stops. Babies don’t wait for anyone.’

‘Yeah,’ he chuckles, ‘I bet. That’s a lot.’

‘What is?’

‘You know.’ He shrugs. ‘Babies. Shit.’

‘Yeah. Babies do shit. Amongst other things.

He shakes his head, and you smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. ‘And you?’ you ask a beat too quick. ‘Hockey, pussy, hockey, pussy, twenty-four seven?’

‘Wow,’ he laughs. ‘When you put it that way…’

‘You sound like a total whore?’

‘I mean - yeah. Guess I am.’

You giggle, fiddling with the tea label hanging over the edge of your mug.

‘I really am grateful that you’re letting me stay here,’ you add quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed off the other night. Just - a lot. To deal with, you know? Anyway.’ You crumple the label in your hand. ‘I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can. Promise.’

Garrett shrugs. ‘No rush. Long as you’re not about to start a 3am air horn club, you’re good to stay as long as you want.’

Grimacing, followed by the ripping of the tea label in two. ‘Yeah,’ you say. Flat. Clipped. ‘Thanks.’

He frowns. Did he say something wrong? He stumbles, tries to salvage the situation, when you take a gulp of tea and jump to your feet, your face suddenly a sickly shade of puce.

‘Thanks again,’ you say, your voice just a little too high-pitched, before bolting for the stairs. The bathroom door opens, slams, and all he can hear after that is the obnoxiously loud fan whirring to life.

He wonders, briefly, if he should check on you, but decides that would be too much, and settles for tidying away your barely touched drink instead.

‘We can’t have some girl living with us.’

‘Dude.’ Logan pauses mid-reach for the just-set granola bars Tucker’s decanted, sliced, and placed squarely in the middle of the kitchen island. ‘She’s not some girl. She’s my sister.’

Dean doesn’t even look remotely embarrassed. ‘Whatever, man. Still a girl. It will disrupt the masculine sanctity of the house.’

Tucker looks pointedly at his pink apron and floral tea towel adorning his shoulder, then back at Dean. ‘Sure it would.’

‘Masculine sanctity,’ Logan echoes in disbelief. ‘Since when were you taking ethics and philosophy?’

‘Since this semester, actually,’ Dean says primly.

‘The chick you’re currently sleeping with doesn’t count.’

‘I think you’ll find it does. Especially when she does this thing with -‘

‘Yup, no, that’s enough.’ Tucker swats Dean’s hand away from the granola bars. ‘No snacks for you until you clean up your act.’

Dean gives a sly smile. ‘Could be waiting a while, then.’

‘More for us. Gare - come get some before the these other fuckers eat it all.'

Logan huffs an out sigh which, Garrett knows without even looking, is directed at him. ‘Are you even participating in this?’

Garrett shrugs, switching off the muted hockey match playing on the flatscreen TV, shifting on the sofa so he’s now fully turned towards the other three in their various positions around the kitchen island: Tucker, back turned and fussing with the oven; Logan, sat rigid on a bar stool with a hard glint in his eye; and Dean, who seems more bothered about what Tucker’s next offering will be over the conversation at hand. His closest friends - but, right now, the banes of his fucking existence.

Garrett shoves a hand through his hair. There’s an accusatory undertone to Logan’s words that he’s not sure he likes, but probably isn’t unjustified. ‘Whatever, man. Her living here isn’t gonna make much difference to my life.’

‘Um,’ Dean interrupts, resting both elbows on the island and leaning in Garrett’s general direction. ‘Have you been listening to this conversation? Girl. Living. In. House. That’s gonna make a massive difference to our lives.’

‘It just means,’ Logan sniffs, ‘you won’t be able to fuck everything that moves wherever you want whenever you want.’

‘Exactly!’

‘Garrett, you’ve met Logan’s sister.’ Tucker, ever the peace-maker, pulls a tray of shortbread from the oven. ‘What’s she like?’

Another lift of Garrett’s shoulders. Logan had already run the proposition by him, the house being Garrett’s - or paid for by his dad, at least. Truthfully, Garrett didn’t have a deal with it. So there’d be a person of the opposite sex living here? Big whoop. Garrett’s life would still be hockey, class, repeat. Interspersed with the occasional hookup, of course. Having a girl living with them might alter Dean’s life - or the life of Dean’s dick, at least - but for Garrett? Business as usual.

‘Ah.’ Garrett casts his mind back to when he last met Logan’s sister, last year sometime. Thanksgiving? Fuck, he can’t remember. ‘She seems… nice?’

‘Wow.’ A slow round of applause from Dean. ‘Smooth.’

Garrett has the decency at least to feel a little embarrassed. Logan rolls his eyes. ‘At least I know you won’t be hooking up with her. What’s with all the food stuff, Tuck?’

‘It’s the start of the new academic year.’ Tucker waves a plastic mat over the still-hot tray of shortbread. ‘We’re starting as we mean to go on.’

‘Granola, I get. Shortbread?’

‘Paleo, vegan, egg-free, reduced sugar.’

‘What the fuck is even in them?’

‘A lot of almond flour.’

Logan eyes the tray suspiciously. ‘And what else?’

‘Can we get back to the topic at hand?’ Dean takes his chance and flinches a granola from the plate, then pulls a face. ‘Pumpkin seeds? Really?’

‘Yes,’ Tucker says defensively, ‘really. Sunflower seeds, too.’

Dean slowly deposits the granola bar on the countertop. ‘Dude.’

Logan huffs out a groan. ‘Look, guys. Garrett’s already said it’s fine. Tucker doesn’t care as long as it’s not ruining his baking schedule. And she’s obviously my sister. You’re the odd one out here, Dean.’

Dean breaks off a corner of granola and fires it at Logan. ‘Is she annoying like you and Jules? Is it a family trait?’

‘She’s adopted. So, last time I checked, no.’

‘Nature versus nurture, man.’

‘Seriously, who is this chick you’re hooking up with?’

‘She’s five seven, blonde, and has this tongue that can -‘

‘We’re taking a vote!’ Tucker announces loudly, still waving frantically at the tray. Garrett laughs, taking it as his cue to get to his feet and saunter over to the kitchen island, perching on an empty bar stool. ‘All in favour say aye!’

Dean doesn’t even look surprised when he’s the only one who doesn’t say aye.

‘Well,’ he sighs, eyeing the granola before him with disdain. ‘Fuck my life.’

*****

Logan’s sister moving in is so insignificant in Garrett’s life that he isn’t even there on move-in day. It’s only when he tries to park the Jeep in the driveway and sees the tiny red Fiat 500 tucked up against the garage, boot thrown open, that he remembers.

How long are you here for again? And why? Fuck - Garrett wishes he’d paid even a little more attention when Logan was telling him that his sister needed some place to stay, but truthfully, he hadn’t really cared. The new season had started, and expectations were higher than ever. The coach’s. His team’s. The crowd’s. His dad’s. The dark, post-game quiet when Garrett climbs back into his car after a match is fucking blissful. No lights, no music, no hum of the engine. Just sheer unadulterated silence.

Sometimes, he just wishes everyone would shut up and leave him the fuck alone.

He groans, runs a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat from the gym. The first few weeks were always tough as everyone adjusted to life back on campus. This year would be no different. It would pass.

He hopes.

He shoves the car door open, grabs his gym hold-all, and makes his way up to the house. He’s blocked you in, but right now, he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s just spent two hours lifting weights after spending another two hours out on the rink, and he still feels the tension coiled in the base of his spine, winding him tighter than he has any right to be. He wonders what Kendall’s up to, then remembers she has a boyfriend now. Wonders what Zoe’s doing, but she’s doing a placement year in Germany. He scowls and fumbles in his pocket for his keys. He could find someone else. Easily, which he knows sounds big-headed, but why lie about it? He scrolls absent-mindedly through his phone contacts as he jabs his key in the lock, realised it's already unlocked, turns the handle, pulls the door towards him -

Only to have someone fall face-first into him.

Not someone.

A girl.

‘Oh my god - I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.’

He blinks. You’ve pulled away from him and are hurriedly straightening your clothes, which is ridiculous, because there’s no way he could catch a glimpse of anything, your body completely obscured by black leggings, an oversized black tee, and fluffy baby Yoda socks. He lifts his gaze and - inexplicably - feels the air leave his lungs as they lock on your face.

Pretty.

Fuck, you’re so pretty.

‘Uh,’ he says. Distinctly aware he’s still in his stinky, sweaty gym gear and in dire need of a shower. ‘All good. You - OK?’ he tacks on belatedly.

‘Yeah.’ You smile, rub a hand across your eyes. Fuck, everything about you is pretty. Pretty eyes, pretty mouth. Even the shape of your nose is pretty. ‘Sorry. Just - tired. Not looking where I was going. Yada yada. How are you? Been a while.’

Oh. Oh no. Garrett frantically cycles back through his memories of the past six months. Who are you? A girl he’d slept with? He would definitely remember if he had someone as pretty as you in his bed. A girl one of the other guys had slept with? Nope - he would definitely have remembered that, too. Maybe -

‘Wow.’ You cock a hip, rest a hand on it. ‘You don’t remember me. What a fucking Play Boy.’

Graham holds up the hand not carrying his gym bag. ‘Look,’ he says quickly. ‘If I -‘

You laugh. Fucking laugh. ‘Just messing with you, Graham. I don’t think you looked my way once over Thanksgiving.’

He pauses. Studies you again, blinking as something finally surfaces from ten months ago.

‘Girlie?’

‘And there we go.’ You nod as the penny finally drops. ‘Better get remembering my face, because you’re going to be seeing it a whole lot more.’

Logan’s sister. 

You’re Logan’s sister.

Had Logan’s sister always been this indescribably beautiful? And how had he not noticed before? He feels like an idiot. Not that noticing would have made any difference, because you were - after all - Logan’s sister.

If he keeps telling himself enough times, maybe it will stick.

‘I, uh.’ He shakes his head once, twice. ‘Sorry. Not got a great memory for faces.’

‘Uh-huh. Sure. Bet you tell all the girls that. Or was it because you spent most of that day glued to your phone, watching sexy Snapchats? Maybe you’ve only got a memory for tits, hm?’

Ah. That was why he didn’t remember. He was hooking up with Brittany at the time. And Brittany really did like Snapchat.

‘Look,’ you say, before he gets a chance to think of some witty response. ‘I’ve still got some stuff to get out of the car, so… do you mind…?’

‘Oh.’ He steps to the side, still in a daze. ‘Uh - sure.’

‘Thanks.’ You breeze past him, and he catches the smell of your perfume. Garrett’s no pro on female scents, but it’s definitely something floral. Rose, maybe. Or jasmine. His mum had liked jasmines. He used to get them for her on Mother’s Day, on her birthday, their smell filling the living room and making him feel warm inside.

You get to the porch steps, then pause. ‘What time’s your first class tomorrow?’

‘Uh.’ Christ - did he have any other words in his repertoire? Any at all. ‘8am.’

‘Oh, good. I don’t need to scold you for blocking me in, then.’

‘No,’ he says distantly. ‘I guess not.’

You nod, carry on down the steps - still in just your socks - then call out to him from the bottom. ‘Logan was looking for you. He’s upstairs.’

‘Sure,’ he manages. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, a clumsy muscle he’s lost all control over. ‘I’ll - head on up.’

He does, although he’s not sure how. Maybe he teleports, because there’s no way he consciously tells his body to take him there. Or maybe he does. Right now, he feels like he’s having an out of body experience, like you in your effortless radiance have knocked his soul from his very being. 

Logan emerges from the room opposite Garrett’s, Dean in tow. He grins at Garrett, leaning in for a hug. ‘Hey, man. Look, thanks for doing this again. She genuinely had nowhere else to go.’

‘All good,’ Garrett mumbles, suddenly aware that - during that entire interaction - you hadn’t said ‘thank you’ once. Should he be reading into that? Were you so conceited that you thought you were just entitled to move in here?

Or, another part of him thinks, did you rightly think he was a bit of an asshole and couldn’t be bothered with niceties when your own life was falling apart around you ears? Was your life falling apart around your ears? Fuck, if only he could remember what Logan had said -

‘So - it’s all good she takes the spare room, right?’

‘Huh?’

‘My sister.’ Logan gives Garrett a look, which Garrett vaguely interprets as are you high, dude? He jerks a thumb into the room behind him. ‘She good in there?’

‘Oh.’ Garrett gives what he hopes is a nonchalant shrug. ‘Yeah. Yeah, sure. In there’s great.’

‘Cool. No loud hookups, ya hear?’ Logan wags a finger at both the men on either side of him. ‘I don’t wanna be dealing with her complaining about your kinky sex lives. Anyway, I’m gonna go help her grab the last few bits. You’d be surprised what you can fit in a Fiat 500.’ Logan claps Garrett on the shoulder, gives him a grateful smile. ‘Thanks again, Gare.’

Logan disappears down the hallway, makes his way down the stairs. Garrett’s gaze falls on Dean, who’s studying Garrett with narrowed eyes.

‘What?’

Dean pouts thoughtfully. ‘You just bumped into her downstairs, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ It definitely sounds more defensive than Garrett intended, and he tries to soften his vowels, unlock his jaw. ‘And what?’

The smile that graces Dean’s face is nothing short of mischievous.

‘No reason.’