breaking point (part two)
Garrett Graham x Reader
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. Youâre dating his rival. Youâre wearing the wrong colors. But he doesnât look at you like youâre the enemy, he looks at you like heâs seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part one here
You wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.
For a moment, you canât remember where you are. The bed is too comfortable, the room too clean, the sheets smell wrong â not wrong, just different. Not like Cameronâs cologne and expensive detergent. Like something cleaner. Safer.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The napkin. The attack. Running through Boston in the freezing dark. Garrettâs voice on the phone, steady and sure. The apartment lobby. His car. This house.
You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.
The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple thatâs going to turn black soon. Thereâs a split in your bottom lip you donât remember getting.
You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.
You look like a victim.
The thought makes you want to throw up.
Thereâs a knock on the door â soft, hesitant.
âY/N?â Garrettâs voice. âYou awake?â
âYeah.â Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.
âCan I come in?â
You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware youâre still in yesterdayâs clothes. âSure.â
The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. Heâs showered and changed â different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
âI brought breakfast,â he says. âNothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. Heâs weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.â
He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasnât kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. Thereâs even a glass of orange juice.
âYou didnât have to do this,â you say.
âI know.â Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. âHow are you feeling?â
âLike I got hit by a truck.â
âYeah. You look-â He stops himself. âSorry. That came out wrong.â
âI know what I look like.â
Thereâs a long pause. Garrettâs looking at you with an expression you canât quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. Youâre not sure which is worse.
âI think you should go to the police,â he says finally.
Your stomach drops. âGarrett-â
âI know youâre scared. I know you think heâll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.â He gestures toward the mirror. âYou have evidence. Documented injuries. Thatâs assault. Thatâs attempted murder.â
âHis parents are lawyers-â
âI donât give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.â Garrettâs voice is hard. âWhat he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.â
âAnd if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?â
âThen at least you tried. At least thereâs a record. At least the next time he does this â because there will be a next time, to you or someone else â thereâs a paper trail.â
You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this wonât work, why itâs pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.
But Garrettâs looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.
âWill you come with me?â You ask quietly.
âEvery step of the way.â
***
The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.
âSomeone will be with you shortly,â the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.
Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. Youâre about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.
âY/N Y/L/N?â
âThatâs me.â
âIâm Officer Murphy. Come on back.â
She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. Itâs exactly like the ones on TV â gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. Thereâs a camera mounted in the corner.
âFor documentation purposes,â Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. âEverything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?â
You nod.
âIâm going to need verbal consent.â
âYes. Thatâs okay.â
Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.
âSo,â Officer Murphy begins. âYouâre here to file a report about an assault?â
âYes.â
âCan you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.â
You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.
âMy boyfriend â Cameron Beck â he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.â
âWhat time was this?â
âAround eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.â
Officer Murphy is writing everything down. âAnd what precipitated the attack?â
âHe found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.â
âWere you?â
The question catches you off guard. âNo. It was justâsomeone gave me their number and I kept it. Thatâs all.â
âOkay. So he found this number and then what?â
âHe got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-â Your voice catches. âHe put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldnât breathe.â
Officer Murphyâs expression doesnât change. âDid you lose consciousness?â
âAlmost. I thought I was going to die.â
âWhat happened next?â
âHe let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.â You point to your cheek. âThen he started choking me again.â
âHow did you get away?â
âI kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.â
âWhere did you run to?â
âJust ⌠ran. Down the street. I called for help.â You glance at Garrett. âHe came and got me.â
Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. âAnd you are?â
âGarrett Graham. Iâm-â He hesitates. âA friend. She called me and I picked her up.â
âYouâre a student at BU as well?â
âNo. Briar University.â
Something shifts in Officer Murphyâs expression. Recognition, maybe. âYou play hockey.â
âYes, maâam.â
âAnd the boyfriend â Cameron Beck â he plays for BU?â
âYes.â
Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You canât see what.
âOkay, Y/N. Iâm going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?â
Your stomach churns. âDo you have to?â
âItâs important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.â
You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.
âOkay,â you whisper.
Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. âIâll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.â
With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. Youâre wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.
Officer Murphyâs jaw tightens. âHow long has he been hurting you?â
âI donât know. A while.â
âMonths? Years?â
âAbout a year. It started small. Then got worse.â
âAnd you never reported it before?â
The judgment in the question makes you flinch. âNo.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.â Your voice rises. âBecause I didnât think it mattered.â
âIt matters,â Officer Murphy says firmly. âIt always matters.â
She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.
Which, you suppose, you are.
Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
âAlright,â Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. âYou can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.â
She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that youâd just tripped.
Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.
Then she asks: âDid he ever sexually assault you?â
The room goes very quiet.
You canât look at Garrett. Canât bear to see his reaction.
âYes,â you whisper.
âCan you describe what happened?â
âHe would-â Your throat closes up. âHe would force me. When I didnât want to. When I said no.â
âHow many times did this happen?â
âI donât know. A lot. Too many to count.â
âMost recently?â
You close your eyes. âYesterday morning. I woke up and he was alreadyâhe didnât ask. He just-â
You canât finish the sentence.
Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. Thereâs something wet on his palms.
Blood.
His nails have cut into his skin.
âGarrett,â you whisper.
He doesnât seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.
Officer Murphy notices too. âMr. Graham, do you need to step outside?â
âIâm fine.â His voice is rough.
âYouâre bleeding.â
Garrett looks down at his hands like heâs surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.
âIâm fine,â he says again.
Officer Murphy doesnât look convinced, but she continues. âY/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.â
You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until youâre just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.
Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.
When youâre finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.
âOkay. This is whatâs going to happen next. Weâre going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beckâs arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.â
âWill he go to jail?â You ask.
âThat depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. Youâll have to testify.â
Your heart sinks. âI have to see him again?â
âIn court, yes. But weâre also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he canât contact you, canât come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.â
âHis parents are going to fight this,â you say. âThey have money. Lawyers.â
âLet them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what youâve described, this isnât going to be a hard case to make.â
You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way itâs supposed to.
But youâve been disappointed so many times before.
âWhat do I do now?â You ask.
âGo home. Rest. Weâll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.â
âOkay.â
Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. âYou did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesnât feel like it right now, but youâre incredibly brave.â
You shake her hand, but you donât feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.
Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.
âMr. Graham, you should get those looked at.â
âTheyâre fine.â
âTheyâre not fine. Thereâs a first aid kit at the front desk.â
Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.
You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.
âResources,â she explains. âDomestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.â
âThank you.â
You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You donât have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.
Everything except your phone and your life.
Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesnât quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. Itâs such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.
Once youâre both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. âWhere do you want me to take you?â
You hesitate. âMy dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-â
âNo.â
âWhat?â
âIâm not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where youâll be alone.â
âGarrett, I canât just hide forever-â
âIâm not saying forever. Iâm saying until we know heâs been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.â He starts the car. âYouâre coming back to the house.â
âI canât impose like that-â
âYouâre not imposing. Youâre surviving. Thereâs a difference.â
You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, youâre terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified heâll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what heâll do when he finds out you went to the police.
âOkay,â you say quietly.
Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.
âYouâre still bleeding,â you say.
âI know.â
âYou should clean that.â
âI will.â
But he doesnât sound like he cares. He sounds like heâs somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.
When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.
âMy roommates are home. They know youâre here â I told them last night. Theyâre cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, thatâs fine too.â
âItâs their house. I should at least say hi.â
âYou donât owe them anything.â
âStill.â
You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight â messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.
âG, that you?â A voice calls from the kitchen.
âYeah. And Y/N.â
Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockeyâs most recent post on Instagram â Logan, Garrettâs best friend. The other two you donât know.
They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries â shock, anger, pity.
âJesus,â one of them breathes. Heâs auburn-haired, built like a tank. âHe did that to you?â
You nod, unable to speak.
âIâm Tucker,â he says. âAnd when I see that motherfucker, Iâm going to break every bone in his body.â
âGet in line,â Garrett mutters.
The third guy â tall, blond hair, kind eyes â steps forward. âIâm Dean. And youâre welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.â
âI donât want to be a burden-â
âYouâre not.â Loganâs voice is firm. âAny friend of Garrettâs is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.â
Youâre overwhelmed suddenly. These boys â these strangers â are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.
âThank you,â you manage.
âYou hungry?â Tucker asks. âI made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.â
âI could eat,â you say.
âGood. Sit. Iâll heat it up.â
Garrett leads you to the dining table â a beat-up wooden thing thatâs seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.
Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. âLet me see your hands.â
âIâm fine,â Garrett says.
âYouâre bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.â
Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.
âWhat the hell did you do?â Dean asks.
âNothing.â
Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesnât even flinch.
âWe went to the police this morning,â Garrett says. âShe filed a report. Theyâre issuing a warrant for Beckâs arrest.â
The room goes quiet.
âGood,â Tucker says finally from the kitchen. âFucking good.â
âDid they believe you?â Dean asks you.
âI think so. Thereâs evidence. Photos. My statement.â
âAnd if he tries to come near you?â
âRestraining order. But it takes time.â
âUntil then, you stay here,â Logan says. Itâs not a question. âWeâll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you donât go anywhere alone.â
âI canât ask you guys to do that-â
âYouâre not asking. Weâre offering.â Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. âEat. You look like you havenât eaten in days.â
Heâs not wrong. You canât remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.
Itâs delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.
âThis is really good,â you say.
âTold you.â Tucker grins. âHockey and cooking. My only two skills.â
Despite everything, you almost smile.
Garrettâs still watching you with that intense expression. Like heâs memorizing every detail. Like heâs afraid if he looks away, youâll disappear.
âYouâre safe here,â he says quietly. âI know it doesnât feel like it. I know youâre scared. But weâre not going to let anything happen to you.â
You look around the table at these four boys â these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.
âWhy?â You ask. âWhy are you all doing this?â
The boys exchange glances.
âBecause itâs the right thing to do,â Logan says simply.
âBecause that asshole deserves to rot,â Tucker adds.
âBecause you deserve better,â Dean says.
Garrett doesnât say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like youâre something precious.
You squeeze back.
And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, youâre going to be okay.
***
Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.
Garrettâs been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date heâs been waiting for.
The date heâs going to make Cameron Beck pay.
Heâs in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Loganâs taping his stick. Tuckerâs blasting music through his headphones. Deanâs doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.
Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.
You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars â pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about âfalse accusations,â and went right back to his life.
Including hockey.
Boston Universityâs administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasnât been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.
Innocent until proven guilty, they said.
Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.
None of that matters to BUâs athletic department as much as their winning record.
Garrettâs jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. âAlright, boys. Listen up.â
The room quiets.
âWe all know what tonight is,â Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. âWe all know who weâre playing. And Iâm going to say this once: I donât care about your personal feelings. I donât care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?â
Thereâs a murmur of agreement.
Coachâs eyes land on Garrett. âGraham. My office. Now.â
Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.
âSit.â
Garrett sits.
Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. âI know what youâre thinking.â
âDo you?â
âYouâre thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.â
Garrett doesnât confirm or deny.
âI get it,â Coach continues. âI do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, youâre the captain of this team. Youâre a junior. Youâre probably going to the NHL in a year. You canât throw that away because you want revenge.â
âIâm not throwing anything away.â
âIf you go after him tonight, you will be. Youâll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?â
Garrett meets Coachâs eyes. âYes.â
Coach sighs. âI canât stop you. But Iâm asking you to think about your team. About your future.â
âI have thought about it.â Garrett stands. âAnd Iâve made my decision.â
He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.
âWell?â Logan asks.
âSame as always. Play clean, win the game.â
âAnd are you going to play clean?â Tucker asks with a knowing smile.
Garrett doesnât answer. Just pulls on his jersey â number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.
When itâs time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensenâs eye one more time.
âCoach?â
âYeah?â
âIâm sorry.â
Coachâs brow furrows. âFor what?â
âFor the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.â
Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrettâs already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words donât register. Thereâs only one thing on Garrettâs mind now.
The ice.
***
Youâre sitting on Garrettâs bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldnât watch. Your therapist â the one the victim services advocate connected you with â said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didnât try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.
But you canât help it.
You need to see this.
The arena is packed â a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling âone of the most anticipated matchups of the season.â Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.
They have no idea what else this game means.
The camera pans across the Briar bench. Thereâs Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. Youâve never seen him look like that before â like violence contained in a hockey uniform.
Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.
Cameron.
Heâs there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didnât assault you. Like he didnât rape you. Like he didnât leave you so broken you still canât look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.
The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that heâs facing âpersonal legal issuesâ but donât elaborate. Wouldnât want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.
You feel sick.
The door opens and Beau, Deanâs best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. âYou okay?â
âYeah.â
âYou donât look okay.â He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. âYou know you donât have to watch this, right?â
âI know.â
âBut youâre going to anyway.â
âI need to see it.â
Beau nods like he understands. âWant company?â
âSure.â
He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. Itâs something youâve noticed about all the boys â theyâre incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.
Itâs the opposite of Cameron in every way.
The puck drops.
***
Garrettâs never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesnât cheap shot. Doesnât go for injuries. Doesnât use his stick as a weapon.
Tonightâs going to be different.
Heâs skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.
Garrettâs vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Canât just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.
The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in â all legal, all clean â but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.
Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briarâs up 1-0.
The periodâs winding down â about three minutes left â when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.
Theyâre at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
Beck leans in close.
âHey, Graham,â he says, voice low enough the ref canât hear. âHowâs my girl doing?â
Garrettâs stick tightens in his grip, but he doesnât respond.
âShe still staying at your place?â Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. âThatâs cute. Playing house. But we both know sheâll come back to me eventually. She always does.â
The refâs getting into position.
âSheâs a good fuck though, right?â Beckâs voice drops to a whisper. âTight. Eager. Especially when she cries.â
Something inside Garrett snaps.
The puck hasnât even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.
His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beckâs head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesnât stop. Heâs on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.
Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrettâs bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.
âYou piece of shit-â Punch. âYou fucking coward-â Punch. âYou think you can talk about her like that-â Punch.
Beckâs nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.
The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.
Garrettâs still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.
Beckâs on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane â some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.
One ref is talking into his mic. âNumber 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. Youâre done.â
Garrett doesnât argue. Doesnât protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.
The Briar bench erupts.
Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. Itâs the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.
Support. Solidarity.
They know why Garrett did it. And theyâre backing him one hundred percent.
Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even heâs fighting a smile.
As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beckâs sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.
Garrett doesnât care.
It was worth it.
***
You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.
One second, theyâre lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrettâs on Cameron like a feral animal.
Beau jumps up beside you. âHoly shit!â
You canât speak. Canât breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameronâs face turns into a bloody pulp.
The commentators are losing their minds.
âAbsolutely vicious attack by Graham â completely unprovoked â this is going to be a lengthy suspension-â
But it wasnât unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.
And Garrett responded.
For you.
The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood â not his own â is splattered across his jersey.
Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.
Theyâre supporting him.
All of them.
âDid you see that?â Beauâs grinning. âThe whole fucking bench. They all know.â
âKnow what?â
âWhy Garrett did it. Theyâre telling him theyâve got his back.â
Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.
Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldnât let it slide.
The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briarâs penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.
When the period finally ends, itâs still 1-0 Briar.
You close the laptop.
âYou okay?â Beau asks.
âI donât know.â
âThat was pretty intense.â
âHe did that for me.â
âYeah. He did.â
âHeâs going to get in so much trouble.â
âProbably.â Beau shrugs. âBut Garrett doesnât care. You shouldâve seen him these past three weeks. Heâs been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.â
âI need to-â You stand up. âI need to call him.â
âHeâs probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.â
âI donât care. I need to talk to him.â
You grab your phone, pull up Garrettâs number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
âHey, itâs Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.â
Beep.
âHey, itâs me. I justâI saw what happened. What you did. And I-â Your voice cracks. âThank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know youâre probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I justâthank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.â
You pause, trying to find the right words.
âIâll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?â
You hang up.
Beauâs watching you with a soft expression. âYou care about him.â
Itâs not a question.
âHe saved my life,â you say.
âThatâs not what I asked.â
You sit back down on the bed. âI donât know what I feel. Everythingâs so complicated and messed up and Iâm barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?â
âHe cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.â
âWhat do you mean?â
Beau hesitates. âHe doesnât really talk about his feelings. None of us do â weâre athletes, weâre emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? Iâve never seen him like that with anyone. Heâs protective to the point of obsession.â
âI donât want to be his redemption project,â you say quietly.
âYouâre not. Trust me. If you were, heâd be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesnât do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.â Beau stands, stretches. âAnyway. Iâm going to make some popcorn. You want some?â
âSure.â
He leaves and youâre alone with your thoughts.
You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briarâs still up 1-0. BUâs pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briarâs goalie is playing out of his mind.
The commentators are still talking about Garrettâs ejection.
âWeâre hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.â
Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.
You think about Cameronâs face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since youâve known him.
You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that youâre glad Garrett hurt him.
But you donât.
You feel vindicated.
***
Garrettâs in Coachâs office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.
But Garrett wasnât there to see it.
âThe leagueâs reviewing the footage,â Coach says, arms crossed. âTheyâre talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.â
âOkay.â
âThatâs it? Just okay?â
Garrett shrugs. âWhat do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.â
âDid you know Beck is in the hospital?â
That gets Garrettâs attention. âWhat?â
âBroken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.â
Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.
He doesnât.
âGood,â he says.
Coachâs expression hardens. âGarrett-â
âHe did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldnât even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.â
âSo you decided to take justice into your own hands?â
âYeah. I did.â
âThatâs not your job.â
âMaybe not. But someone had to do it.â
Coach is quiet for a long moment. âWhat did he say to you?â
âWhat?â
âAt the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?â
Garrettâs jaw tightens. âIt doesnât matter.â
âIt does if it pushed you that far.â
âHe talked about her. About-â Garrett canât repeat the words. Canât make himself say them out loud. âIt was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasnât going to let him get away with it.â
Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. âYou know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.â
âI know.â
âYouâre probably done for the season.â
âI know.â
âAnd youâre okay with that?â
Garrett meets Coachâs eyes. âIâd do it again in a heartbeat.â
Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. âYouâre a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.â
âDoes that mean youâre not kicking me off the team?â
âI should. But no. Youâll serve your suspension and then weâll see where we are.â Coach stands. âNow get out of here. Iâm sure youâve got someone waiting for you.â
Garrett doesnât need to be told twice.
He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore â he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beckâs face â but itâs a good kind of pain. Satisfying.
His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.
And one voicemail from you.
He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.
Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him youâll be there when he gets back.
Something in his chest loosens.
He starts the car and drives home.
When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beauâs on the couch, watching TV.
âSheâs in your room,â Beau says without looking up.
Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.
His door is closed. He knocks softly.
âCome in.â
Youâre sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrettâs breath catch.
âHi,â you say.
âHi.â
âAre you okay?â
âIâm fine. Are you?â
âI watched the whole thing.â
âAnd?â
You stand, walk over to him. Youâre close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.
âThank you,â you say quietly.
âYou already said that. In your message.â
âI know. But I wanted to say it to your face.â You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. âDoes it hurt?â
âNo.â
âLiar.â
The smallest smile touches his lips. âMaybe a little.â
You hold his hand carefully, like itâs something precious. âYouâre probably suspended.â
âYeah.â
âFor multiple games.â
âProbably.â
âBecause of me.â
âBecause of him,â Garrett corrects. âBecause heâs a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.â
You look up at him, and thereâs something in your eyes Garrett canât quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.
âNo oneâs ever stood up for me like that before,â you say.
âThey should have.â
âBut they didnât. You did.â
Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that heâll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.
But he doesnât.
Because youâre not his to protect. Not really. Youâre just someone he couldnât walk away from. Someone he couldnât save until you decided to save yourself.
âGet some sleep,â he says instead. âWe can talk more in the morning.â
You nod, but you donât let go of his hand.
âGarrett?â
âYeah?â
âIâm glad it was you. That night. When I called. Iâm glad it was you who answered.â
Something in Garrettâs chest cracks open.
âMe too,â he says.
You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything heâs been holding back for three weeks.
The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.
And something else. Something heâs not ready to name yet.
But itâs there.
Growing stronger every day.
***
The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for âexcessive violence and intent to injure.â
Garrett doesnât even blink.
Four games. Thatâs it. He was expecting worse â six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.
âFour games,â Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. âThatâs nothing.â
âCouldâve been worse,â Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.
âCouldâve been better. Couldâve been zero games and a medal.â
Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. âDid you see the prospect rankings?â
âWhat about them?â
âYou moved up.â Tucker grins. âApparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.â
Garrett sits up. âYouâre kidding.â
âNope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying youâre exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.â
Dean appears in the doorway. âThereâs already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. Itâs got like two million views.â
âJesus.â
âYouâre famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.â
Garrett doesnât care about fame. Doesnât care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.
You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrettâs old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. Youâve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister â protective, teasing, careful. Itâs the safest youâve felt in over a year.
âWhatâs all the noise about?â You ask.
âGarrettâs trending on Twitter,â Tucker announces.
âFor the fight?â
âFor being a badass, apparently.â
You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. Itâs become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesnât flinch when youâre near. You donât panic when he moves. Itâs taken weeks to build this comfort, but itâs there.
âHow are the knuckles?â You ask.
âBetter. Still ugly.â
âBattle scars.â
âSomething like that.â
Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.
âWhat?â He asks immediately.
âThe DA. The trial date got moved up.â
âTo when?â
âThree weeks from now.â Your voice is shaky. âApril seventh.â
Garrett does the math. Thatâs right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.
âYou okay?â He asks.
âI donât know. I thought Iâd have more time to prepare.â
âYouâve been preparing for weeks. Youâre ready.â
âAm I?â You look at him, and thereâs real fear in your eyes. âWhat if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?â
âThen Iâll be there to put you back together.â
Itâs a promise. Simple and absolute.
You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.
But neither of you do.
***
The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.
The DA â a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep â meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.
âTheyâre going to try to discredit you,â she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. âTheyâre going to imply youâre lying, that you wanted it, that youâre just trying to ruin his life because youâre bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.â
âHow do I not break?â You ask. âHow do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?â
âYou remember why youâre doing this. You remember that youâre not just fighting for yourself â youâre fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.â
Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.
âOkay,â you say. âI can do that.â
âI know you can.â
The night before the trial, you canât sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.
âHey,â he says softly.
You jump, nearly dropping the mug. âGod, you scared me.â
âSorry. Couldnât sleep either.â
âTomorrowâs the day.â
âYep.â
You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. âWhat if he gets away with it?â
âHe wonât.â
âBut what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. Theyâve got money and connections and-â
âAnd you have the truth.â Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. âYou have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.â
âYou canât testify. You werenât there.â
âNo, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know youâre not alone.â
You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.
âIâm terrified,â you whisper.
âI know.â
âBut Iâm also angry. Iâm so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.â
âHe will.â
âPromise?â
Garrett shouldnât make promises he canât keep. Shouldnât guarantee an outcome thatâs out of his control. But looking at you â brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto â he canât help himself.
âI promise.â
***
The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.
Youâre dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.
Garrettâs beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. Heâs a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.
âYou look good,â you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.
âI look like Iâm going to a funeral.â
âAnd still very handsome.â
He manages a small smile. âYou ready?â
âNo. But letâs do this anyway.â
Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. âAlright, letâs go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You donât let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?â
âYes.â
âGood. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isnât a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.â
You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.
The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.
Itâs smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces â your parents, who flew in from wherever theyâve been. Julie, whoâs been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrettâs teammates.
And Cameronâs parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like theyâre at a country club meeting instead of their sonâs rape trial.
You donât look at Cameron. Canât. Not yet.
The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge â an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes â takes her seat.
âThe People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,â the bailiff announces. âCharges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.â
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
The trial begins.
***
Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.
The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records â the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphyâs testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.
She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.
Cameronâs lawyer â a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour â objects to nearly everything. âRelevance, your honor.â âSpeculation.â âPrejudicial.â
Most of his objections get overruled.
Then itâs time for your testimony.
You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.
Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. âCan you state your name for the record?â
âY/N Y/L/N.â
âAnd how old are you, Y/N?â
âTwenty.â
âAnd youâre a student at Boston University?â
âYes. Junior. Journalism major.â
âCan you tell the jury how you met the defendant?â
You take a breath. âWe met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.â
âAnd when did the relationship turn abusive?â
âGradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. Heâd grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.â
âAnd did you tell anyone?â
âNo. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, heâd go back to being the person I fell for.â
âWhen did the physical abuse become severe?â
âLast summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.â
Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.
âAnd the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?â
This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.
âHe would force me. When I said no, heâd do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.â
âHow many times did this occur?â
âI donât know. Dozens. Maybe more.â
âAnd the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?â
You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.
By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.
Then itâs Coburnâs turn.
He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.
âMs. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?â
âItâs not a claim. Itâs a fact.â
âA fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?â
âI was scared.â
âScared. Of what?â
âOf him. Of what heâd do if I told anyone.â
âBut you told Mr. Graham, didnât you?â Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. âA hockey player from a rival school. Isnât it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?â
Garrettâs hands clench into fists.
âNo,â you say firmly. âI never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didnât fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.â
âAllegedly tried to kill you.â
âThereâs nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.â
âOr perhaps you two had rough sex and youâre retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?â
Katherine jumps up. âObjection! Badgering the witness.â
âSustained,â the judge says. âMr. Coburn, watch yourself.â
But Coburn isnât done. âYou say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?â
âYes.â Your voice doesnât waver. âIt sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone whoâs been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.â
âOr someone whoâs lying.â
âIâm not lying.â
âYou expect this jury to believe that my client â a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record â is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?â
âBased on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.â
Coburn smiles. Itâs not a nice smile. âNo further questions.â
You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.
The defense presents their case. Itâs weak â character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldnât hurt a fly.
Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.
Itâs all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.
When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.
And then you wait.
***
Two hours feel like two years.
Youâre in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.
Garrettâs there too, because they couldnât make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.
âWhat if they donât believe me?â You ask for the hundredth time.
âThey will,â Katherine says.
âBut what if they donât?â
âThen we appeal. But theyâre going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.â
Your phone buzzes. Itâs your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Canât deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.
Garrettâs phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.
âWhat?â You ask.
âLogan. He says if Beck walks, theyâre going to handle it themselves.â
âThatâs not helpful.â
âI think itâs sweet.â
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
Thereâs a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. âJuryâs back.â
Your stomach drops. âAlready?â
âQuick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,â Katherine says, standing. âLetâs go.â
You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up â more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.
Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.
The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but theyâre all carefully neutral.
The judge addresses the foreperson. âHas the jury reached a verdict?â
âWe have, your honor.â
âOn the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?â
âWe find the defendant guilty.â
The courtroom erupts. Cameronâs mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.
âOn the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?â
âGuilty.â
âOn the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?â
âGuilty.â
You canât breathe. Canât process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.
The judge is talking about sentencing, but you canât hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.
âTwenty-five years,â the judge announces. âWith possibility of parole after twenty.â
Twenty-five years. Cameron wonât be out until heâs almost fifty.
Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. Youâre crying.
And then youâre moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.
He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.
âWe did it,â you sob into his shoulder. âHeâs going to prison.â
âYou did it,â Garrett corrects, voice rough. âYou were so fucking brave up there.â
âI was terrified.â
âBut you did it anyway. Thatâs what brave means.â
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.
âIâm so proud of you,â he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. âSo goddamn proud.â
Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. Heâs shouting something â probably threats, probably curses â but you donât care. Canât hear him over your own heartbeat.
Youâre safe. Finally, truly safe.
You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.
Heâs looking at you with an expression youâve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.
âGarrett,â you whisper.
âYeah?â
You donât have words for what youâre feeling. Donât know how to explain that this boy â this stranger who became your savior who became your friend â has somehow become everything.
So you donât say anything.
You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.
Itâs nothing like kissing Cameron. Thereâs no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.
When you finally pull apart, youâre both crying.
âWas that okay?â You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.
âThat was-â Garrettâs voice breaks. âYeah. That was okay.â
Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.
His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face â harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like youâre something precious. Something worth protecting.
âThank you,â you whisper. âFor everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.â
âYou donât have to thank me.â
âI do. Because you didnât have to do any of it. You couldâve walked away. But you didnât.â
âI couldnât.â Garrettâs forehead touches yours. âNot from you.â
Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. âSorry to interrupt, but thereâs some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside â theyâre going to want a statement.â
You take a shaky breath. âCan Garrett come?â
âOf course.â
You donât let go of Garrettâs hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Donât let go as she explains the next steps â the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order thatâs now permanent, the victim services available to you.
Donât let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.
You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.
The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.
When itâs finally over, when youâre back in Garrettâs car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.
âI canât believe itâs over,â you say.
âItâs not over,â Garrett replies. âHeâll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.â
âBut the worst part is over.â
âYeah. The worst part is over.â
You look at him â really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesnât mean possession.
âWhat happens now?â You ask.
âWhat do you want to happen?â
âI donât know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.â
Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. âIâm not going anywhere.â
âPromise?â
âPromise.â
And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someoneâs promise to you actually means something.
You believe in tomorrow.
You believe in healing.
You believe in love â the real kind. The kind that doesnât hurt.
As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.
Sheâs not gone.
Sheâs been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.
And now, finally, sheâs ready to wake up.
***
One year later.
Youâre standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and youâve never felt more alive.
The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriendâs team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? Youâre just happy to be here.
Happy to be doing what you love.
Happy to be yourself again.
âAlright, Y/N, weâre live in thirty seconds,â your producer says through your earpiece.
You smooth down your blazer â BU red and white, professional but not stuffy â and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briarâs captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.
Who also happens to be the love of your life, but youâre trying to keep it professional.
âAnd weâre live in five, four, three âŚâ The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.
You smile at the camera. âIâm here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonightâs season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.â
Garrettâs in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.
âThanks, Y/N,â he says, and thereâs the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. âFeels great to start the season with a W.â
âYou had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one â the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.â
âYeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.â
âLucky?â You raise an eyebrow. âThat was pure skill and you know it.â
Now heâs definitely smiling. âWell, Iâve had some good coaching. Great teammates. Itâs a team effort.â
âSpeaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?â
Something shifts in Garrettâs expression. Gets more serious. âItâs bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But Iâm also excited for whatâs next.â
You consult your notes, but youâve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrettâs favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesnât matter right now. Right now, youâre a journalist doing your job.
âYour team has high expectations this year,â you continue. âReturning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?â
âI think weâve got the talent and the drive. Weâve been working our asses offâsorry, can I say that on air?â
You fight back a smile. âWeâre cable. Youâre fine.â
âWell, weâve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyoneâs bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think weâve got a real shot.â
âAnd what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?â
Garrett looks directly at the camera. âHonestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.â
Itâs a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.
You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But thereâs something in Garrettâs eyes â a warmth, a familiarity â that makes you relax slightly.
âSo,â you say, going slightly off-script. âThree goals on opening night. Thatâs got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.â
âOh, especially against BU,â Garrett agrees, and now heâs definitely teasing. âNo offense to your school.â
âSome taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.â
âYou did. That third period though âŚâ He makes a yikes face.
âOkay, rude.â
âIâm just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought youâd appreciate factual accuracy.â
You bite back a laugh. âI appreciate winning more.â
âWell, youâre dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.â
Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you canât help it. You grin. âI suppose thatâs true.â
âPlus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.â
âOh, should I?â
âDefinitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.â
You feel your cheeks heat up. âGarrett, weâre on camera.â
âI know.â Heâs absolutely shameless, that smile widening. âJust keeping things interesting for the viewers.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âYou love it.â
And okay, you do. You love this â the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like youâre the only person in the arena.
âAlright, I think thatâs probably enough for tonight,â you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. âGarrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.â
âThanks for having me.â
He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, heâs leaning in and kissing you â quick and sweet but definitely not professional â right there on camera.
When he pulls back, youâre frozen, face burning, completely flustered.
âSee you at home,â he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.
You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.
âAnd thatâs ⌠thatâs the post-game report from Agganis Arena,â you manage. âBack to you in the studio.â
The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didnât know you were holding.
Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. âWell, thatâs going viral.â
âIâm so sorry-â
âAre you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.â He claps you on the shoulder. âGreat job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.â
You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. Thereâs already a text from Julie:Â OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.
Then one from Logan:Â Gâs getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.
Then one from your mom:Â Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional đ
Youâre laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrettâs truck â you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but youâll both end up at the same place.
Home.
It still feels surreal sometimes. That youâre here. That youâre happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like youâre precious.
You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss thatâs probably being GIFâd and memed as you drive.
When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.
You let yourself in â still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home â and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.
âHey, superstar,â you say, dropping your bag by the door.
He looks up, grins. âHey, yourself. Howâd the rest of the interviews go?â
âFine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.â
âI couldnât help it. You looked too good.â
You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. Itâs automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.
âYouâre going to get me in trouble,â you say, but thereâs no heat in it.
âWith who? Your producer loved it.â
âWith my professional reputation.â
âYour professional reputation is that youâre a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briarâs hockey team.â
âExtremely handsome? Really?â
âIâm just reporting the facts.â
You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. âYou played really well tonight.â
âYeah?â
âYeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan â perfect pass.â
âAre you analyzing my game?â
âIâm a sports journalist. Itâs literally my job.â
Garrettâs expression softens. âYou know what I love about you?â
âMy devastating good looks?â
âWell, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You couldâve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didnât.â
You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago â broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.
But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BUâs sports network.
Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.
âI had help,â you say quietly.
âYou did the work.â
âWe did the work.â
Because it hasnât been just you. Garrettâs been there for every step. Patient when you couldnât be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.
Heâs been to therapy himself â dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.
Youâve healed together.
âCome here,â Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.
âHi,â you whisper.
âHi.â
He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.
When you break apart, youâre both breathing harder.
âIâm really proud of you,â he says. âFor tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.â
âIt was just an interview.â
âIt wasnât just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.â
You hadnât thought about it that way. Hadnât consciously registered that you were in BUâs arena doing what you love without fear.
âHeâs in prison,â you say. Itâs a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if heâll somehow find you. âHe canât hurt me anymore.â
âHe canât hurt you anymore,â Garrett agrees. âAnd even if he could, heâd have to go through me first.â
âMy fierce protector.â
âAlways.â
You kiss him again, and this time itâs different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.
âBedroom?â He murmurs against your lips.
âBedroom,â you agree.
He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs â something that should be cheesy but somehow isnât, not with him â and lays you gently on the bed.
The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.
Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.
You donât cry anymore. Now itâs just ⌠good. Better than good. Amazing.
He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.
âThis okay?â
âYes.â
âAnd this?â
âYes.â
Itâs something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though youâve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.
Only gives.
He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameronâs handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.
âBeautiful,â he whispers against your skin. âSo fucking beautiful.â
You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.
Hours later, youâre both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.
âWhat are you thinking about?â He asks.
âHow different everything is.â
âGood different or bad different?â
âThe best different.â You tilt your head to look at him. âA year ago, I couldnât imagine being happy again. Couldnât imagine feeling safe or loved or ⌠whole.â
âAnd now?â
âNow I canât imagine anything else.â
Garrettâs quiet for a moment. âI love you. You know that, right?â
âI know. I love you too.â
âIâm going to marry you someday.â
Itâs not a proposal â just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.
âYeah?â
âYeah. When youâre ready. When weâre ready. But someday, Iâm going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.â
You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.
But you donât.
You feel safe.
âSomeday sounds good,â you whisper.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.
You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.
Sheâs still here. Sheâs been here all along, just waiting to be found again.
And sheâs got so much left to do.
Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.
But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her â the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all â sheâs exactly where she needs to be.
âGarrett?â You murmur, half-asleep.
âHmm?â
âThank you for answering the phone that night.â
His arms tighten around you. âThank you for calling.â
Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, youâre safe and loved and whole.
And thatâs more than enough.
Thatâs everything.


















