based on this request by @avasversion (i hope i did your idea justice <3)
summary: you (beau's twin sister) and logan are unknowingly perfect for each other, but are feeling hopeless in your respective love lives. with the help of hannah and dean, the two of you get the chance to get to know one another, potentially leaving all those hopeless days behind...
warnings: 18+, blind date set up, first ‘date’ intimacy, making out, fingering, one use of 'good girl', no use of 'y/n'
word count: 4.0k
an: hannah and garrett’s/dean and allie’s stories happened in sophomore year for continuity, i pictured the dress from the performance as sabrina carpenter's dress from the eras tour (melbourne night 1, picture provided), and i hope yall caught the 'bloom' reference (my theatre king antonio cipriano 🙂↕️)
Being Beau’s twin sister meant you grew up in the shadow of your jock of a brother. Playing football in high school certainly scored you more social points than being a music nerd. Even in college, you struggled to socialise to the same extent that came naturally to Beau. The thought always irritated you—that just being passionate about something other than sports made you seem less cool.
None of that seemed to matter anymore when your debut album took off, giving you the opportunity to go on tour. Sure, you missed your sophomore year of college because of it, but it was the opportunity of a lifetime—and, in a dream scenario, your full time job in the future. So, you took every chance you got to further your music career.
After the tour, you were able to return to Briar for your junior year. While you missed touring already, you were also grateful to return to a more relaxed day-to-day. You even met a fellow musician, Hannah, in one of your classes. Funnily enough, you found out she was mutually friends with Beau. You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped you at the information. Even now, Beau was always three steps ahead of you in his social life.
“What is it?” she had asked.
“I’m Beau’s twin sister.”
“Oh my God, that’s why you look so familiar!”
~
Tonight, you and Hannah are sitting in the studio, working on some music. The idea had formed early on—to collaborate on a song—and you had been restless since, tirelessly writing lyrics to try and fit with Hannah’s production.
As you look out the window, the fading September sun staring back at you, you begin to feel frustrated. Since touring, you feel like there’s been something missing in your writing process. It’s like nothing exciting enough is happening. Your lyrics are feeling like less and less of a catharsis, and more and more of a failed attempt at poetry. Throwing your head back, you let out an exasperated sigh that transforms into a groan.
Hannah looks up from her laptop, abandoning her production momentarily to check up on you. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” you groan once more, this time your head falling into your hands. “I just… I feel like my lyrics are boring. Lacklustre. Not worth your amazing production skills.”
Hannah chuckles at that. “I’ll take the compliment, but you also need to give yourself more credit. Everything I’ve read from you has been great.”
“But nothing's exciting! Music is supposed to make you feel things, and right now these lyrics are making me feel like throwing them in the bin.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply. “They’re not good enough. Something is missing.”
Hannah hums in acknowledgment, her brows furrowing in thought. After a minute, she says, “Do you mind if I give you my two cents? I mean, based on my own writing experience?”
“Yeah, please. I need all the advice I can get.”
Hannah smiles sympathetically before continuing, “Last year, when I was writing a song for the pop showcase, I had the worst writer's block. Technically, I had had the writer's block since I was in high school. I hadn’t written anything in years.”
“Oh, wow,” you whispered.
“I know, right,” she chuckled. “Anyways, I realised I just needed to find myself. Work through some things and realise who I really was. Ultimately, my song ended up being about that process, but since then it’s felt so much easier if I ever find myself with a pen and paper in front of me.”
You nod, absorbing the information.
“I’ll be honest, though, I think getting a boyfriend helped, too,” Hannah added, smiling distantly. “The feelings you experience when you’re falling in love… It's unlike anything else. Especially when it comes to Garrett. He understands me so well, and being seen by someone else like that really helped me figure myself out.”
You smile, hiding the twinge of sadness that grasps at your heart. “Garrett got a brother, by any chance?”
Hannah laughed. “No, unfortunately not. But that’s not the point, sorry, I just love bringing him up when I can. The point is, if you really know yourself, the lyrics might find you easier.”
Nodding, you ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. The feeling that you may never find love—it was your unluckiest arena in life, after all. You hadn’t truly connected to someone since your ex, who just so happens to be the reason behind most of the songs on your album. Some for good reason, a lot for bad.
Whether it was self sabotage or terrible luck, you didn’t know. All you know is you haven’t had genuine romantic interaction in over a year. That fear that you’re missing out on something by not having a love life has always nipped at you, and now, it’s more prevalent than ever.
You try to stay sane by repeating your favourite mantra in your head: if it’s meant to be, it’ll be.
~
The boys were lazing around the hockey house after a tiring practice. Tucker was in the kitchen, preparing dinner for everyone, while Logan and Garrett were busy doomscrolling on the couch. Wandering around the room, Dean was on the phone with Allie, grinning from ear to ear.
Logan couldn’t help but notice it. He’s noticed that Dean only ever smiles like that when Allie’s involved. Whatever drug being in love recreates, Logan wanted some pronto. Ending his phone call, Dean found his way back to the couch, flopping down with a satisfied smile on his face.
“What are you cheesing about?” Logan asked, hiding his mild jealousy.
“Nothing,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “I’m just so lucky, dude. I love Allie so much.”
Logan smiles, shaking his head.
He doesn’t think he’s ever been in love. Never had the time for it, really. At least that’s what he keeps telling himself. Deep down, he knows it’s his fault. His life is too complicated to just let someone in, hoping they accept it—accept him—and want to stay. So, he’s always been shut off from everyone. But these days, seeing Dean, and even Garret, so in love… he really feels like he’s missing out.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“How do you do it?” Logan asks, heart pounding slightly with anxiety.
He’s not great with this kind of stuff—admitting he wants advice, or even just to talk.
“Do what?” he replies, brows furrowed in confusion.
“Love.”
Dean blinks, then chuckles softly. “You just gotta find the right person, Loge.”
Standing up, Dean walks over to Logan from behind the couch, slapping his hands on his shoulders aggressively. Squeezing him slightly, he continues, “Don’t worry. Handsome guy like you will have no problem finding love. Trust me.”
Logan stays silent, fixating on a point on the coffee table. He feels Dean’s hands pat his shoulders before walking away, leaving his unspoken fears exactly that—unspoken.
Maybe pretending they don’t exist will make them disappear. Or maybe, they’ll just have been right about everything. Because maybe people like Logan just aren’t meant for love.
~
A few days later, Hannah and Dean find themselves on the couch alone, Garrett in the toilet, Tucker and Logan upstairs.
Hannah hesitates. “I was thinking about setting her up with someone.”
“Funny, I was thinking about setting up Logan with someone.”
Hannah jumps up on the couch. “Dean! I was literally thinking of setting her up with Logan! I just didn’t wanna overstep, but I feel like she’d really like him.”
Sitting up straighter, Dean smirks, a plan already formulating in his head. “Absolutely, I’ve known her her whole life, so I can attest to that. Logan’s just got the perfect balance of chill and excitement that y/n does.”
Hannah squeals, “Okay, we have to set them up, then. This is perfect.”
“She’s performing at the block party coming up, right?”
Hannah nods.
“Perfect. I’ll make sure Logan is there.”
~
The day of the block party rolled around, and along with it, the incessant anxiety of two hopeless hopeless romantics who were unlucky in love.
Logan was already planning on going to the party—nobody can get between him and a few good drinks to get his mind off things—but the promise of a blind date had him so nervous, he almost didn’t go. That was until Dean practically dragged him out of the house by the ear.
You, on the other hand, were obligated to go. Having agreed to perform a couple songs for some live entertainment, nerves at the idea of this blind date Hannah had set you up on weren’t reason enough to stay at home.
Standing in the makeshift backstage—a space enclosed by curtains next to the temporary stage setup—you focused on your vocal warmups to distract yourself. Closing your eyes, you disappeared into yourself for a moment.
The sound of Beau clearing his throat snaps you out of your head.
“Hey, Beau!” you smile, pulling him in for a hug.
“Hi, sis,” he replies, returning your embrace. “You ready?”
“Nervous as shit, but yeah. I’m ready.” You mumble, pulling back from the hug.
“You’ll do great,” he reassured, squeezing your shoulder.
The sound of the band announcing your name signals that it’s time for you to go.
“That’s my cue,” you say, slightly grimacing as you inch closer to the stage stairs.
“Don’t stress, you’ve performed for bigger crowds than this. You’ll be fine.”
Nodding, you finally turn towards the stage and begin climbing the stairs.
Beau’s voice rings out behind you, “Break a leg!”
Moving the curtain aside, you step onto the stage to see a small crowd gathered beneath. They cheer as you make your way to the mic stand at the centre. It’s so weird to think you go to college with these people, but they also know you because of the music you make.
The band begins to play and the cue from your in-ears counts you in. Taking a deep breath, you begin singing, letting muscle memory take over. You’ve done this countless times before on tour, but the new environment (and knowledge that your blind date is somewhere in this vicinity) has your heart pounding faster than usual.
Stage lights reflect off your glittery dress, highlighting you further with the elevated stage. The deep v-neck shows off your cleavage, while the silky, pale purple fabric wraps tight around you, showing off your curves. The hem is unique, cutting off at the top of your right thigh, dropping down to cut off just at your left knee. You feel confident. That’s what matters the most when you’re performing, so you internally thank the fashion gods for this sexy dress that fits you like a glove.
Continuing to sing, your knee high boots carry you along the stage as you dance: half choreographed, half improvised. You look into the crowd when the sight of a tall, handsome man catches your eye. His hair falls in soft curls, framing his face and his beautiful chestnut doe-eyes. Your eyes meet, the contact sending electricity shooting through you. His gaze is fiery, burning into you with an intimacy achieved by few else. You think he may be the most attractive man you’ve seen in your life.
He watches as you continue performing, lips parted slightly in awe as his gaze trails lazily over you. You finally look away, continuing to perform as if nothing happened.
Logan can’t move on so easily. His gaze continues to follow you, mesmerised by your voice. He understands why all those sailors lost their lives to sirens at sea—he would give everything up for you in a heartbeat. Your carefree energy is contagious, radiating off you as you move with a grace and ease that is commendable. He can only liken you to a flower in full bloom, attracting everyone nearby with your sweetness.
He can’t help but drink up the sight of you, perfectly framed by your dress draping off your body that seemed to be hand-carved by the gods. Dean notices the way Logan is unable to turn his attention away from you for your entire performance, grinning smugly at his pre-success in setting the two of you up (with Hannah’s help, of course).
Quicker than expected, you reach the end of performing your two most popular songs, and thank the crowd before heading off stage. Waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs is none other than Hannah.
“You were so amazing!” she squeals, pulling you in for a hug once you’re close enough.
Giggling, you squeeze her back, “Aw, thank you, sweetie.”
Breaking your embrace, she meets your eyes, her hands still resting on your shoulders. “Really quick: I wanna introduce you to Garrett’s best friend, Logan.”
“Okay, just give me one sec.”
You quickly take out your in-ears and grab your phone before Hannah begins to drag you to the main square where everyone is gathered. From here, you can picture how you would’ve looked on the stage from the crowd’s point of view. You realise they probably had a better view than you initially assumed, but that’s not a problem considering you were wearing the most beautiful dress you’d ever seen in your life.
From a little distance away, you see Garrett talking to someone, likely whoever Hannah is about to introduce you to. Once you’re close enough, realisation dawns on you. It’s the hot guy from the crowd.
You begin to panic internally, feeling rusty in the arena of talking to people you find attractive. Willing yourself to be confident, you hear Hannah confirm your suspicions.
“Logan!” she calls out, grabbing his attention.
Hot Guy looks in her direction, then his gaze immediately flicks to you and stays there. You make a mental note: ‘Hot Guy is Logan’, saving the valuable information for later. You smile at him, feeling nervous under his stare, but also welcoming the tingling feeling it gives you.
“This is Beau’s sister,” Hannah introduces you.
His brows lift in surprise, “You’re Beau’s sister?”
“Twin, actually,” you nod.
He looks you up and down, and you take the chance to observe him closer. His brown eyes have a shy glimmer in them you didn’t notice from afar. A rough stubble covers the bottom half of his face, accentuating his masculine appearance alongside his muscular figure.
“Wow, not sure how I didn’t realise that sooner.” He extends his hand to you, “I’m Logan.”
Accepting his hand in yours, you tell him your name. His grip is firm, characterised by his calloused skin and strong hands. Pulling away, you try to fight the feelings that have begun to whisper to you.
“Well, I’ll let you two get acquainted,” Hannah says, lacing her arm in Garrett’s and guiding them away, leaving you and Logan alone.
“Can I get you a drink?” he offers, his eyes still trained on yours.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
~
An hour and two drinks later, you and Logan had really hit it off. You’d found a bench to sit on, and spent your entire time talking about anything and everything. You feel like you really connected with Logan, and he feels the same. At some point, the two of you shifted closer to one another. Now, the side of your legs are pressed together, and Logan’s arm is resting on the bench behind your back.
From this close, you can smell Logan’s woody cologne, making you instinctively inhale deeply, forcing the scent into memory. The two of you have been sitting in silence for the past minute, enjoying the moment.
Logan says your name, breaking the silence.
“Yes?” you reply, turning to face him.
The two of you are somehow closer than before, shifting the moment into something more intimate than you anticipated. Your breath hitches slightly as you instinctively look down at his lips, then back to his eyes.
He smiles before responding, “This silence isn’t awkward, is it?”
“Not for me, no,” you grin. “Why?”
“Good. I was only asking because I’m enjoying this. Just sitting with you, no pressure to talk.” he shrugs as his eyes wander over your face.
He moves the arm resting behind you up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. His eyes flick to your lips, and yours to his.
His voice drops almost to a whisper, “Is it okay if I kiss you?”
Your eyes meet his as you reply breathlessly, “More than okay.”
Wasting no time, he presses his lips to yours, soft and gentle. Your hand finds its way to hold his neck, slightly tugging at the hair that curls at his nape. You use the position to pull him in closer, bringing his chest to press against yours. With one hand still holding your face, he uses his free arm to wrap around your waist, keeping you close. You sigh into the kiss, any leftover tension in your shoulders dissipating at the feeling of Logan’s hands on you.
Pulling back to catch your breath, you rest your forehead on his. He leans back smiling, eyes still intensely looking into yours. “You’re so beautiful.”
This time, it’s you that pulls him in, responding to his compliment with your lips on his. This kiss is more charged than the last, more sure now that you somewhat know your way around. You move both hands to the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair as you pull him close. His tongue asks for admission and you grant it, letting him slip into your mouth. The movement turns the moment more heated, as your tongues begin moving against one another to deepen the kiss.
Logan groans slightly, intoxicated by the taste of you. His satisfied sounds make you moan quietly in response, and you force yourself to pull back, remembering you’re in public.
Leaning into his ear, close enough that your lips brush against his lobe, you whisper, “Do you have a car?”
“Yeah,” he replies, out of breath.
You kiss and nip at his ear teasingly before saying, “Good. Let’s go.”
Understanding your prompt, he stands up and grabs your hand before guiding the two of you to the nearby parking lot. When you reach his truck, he opens the passenger door for you.
Instead of entering, you order him, “Get in.”
He must be on the same wavelength as you because he smirks in response before stepping inside. You follow him in, climbing on top to straddle him while he closes the door behind you.
Your lips find his again within seconds, immediately sticking your tongue in his mouth, feeling much more confident than before. One of his hands moves down to squeeze your ass, while the other holds your waist, gripping you tightly. Pulling back, you move your mouth to begin pressing sloppy kisses on his jaw before working more purposefully on his neck. You suck and nip at the sensitive skin, making his head lean back in pleasure. His hand moves down from your ass to your bare thigh, fingertips tracing your skin teasingly, leaving you burning for more.
Moving your kisses up to his jaw again, you whisper into his ear, “Touch me.”
Recognising the implication, his hand moves from the back of your thigh around to the front, before slipping in to tease you against the fabric of your shorts. You curse the protective fabric, wishing it was just your panties underneath your dress.
‘That would’ve been so much hotter,’ you think to yourself.
Your lips move back to his mouth, kissing him slowly as his hand slips into the front of your shorts.
‘Nevermind. This is hot as fuck.’
His fingers graze your clit before moving lower to run through your folds.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mumbles against your lips.
“You make me feel so good,” you breathe in response.
You continue to kiss him as he slips two fingers inside of you, making you gasp against his mouth. He kisses you soothingly as he begins to move his fingers, pumping in and out of you. Your breathing grows even heavier and you whimper, hips moving into his touch. Curling his fingers, he grazes your g-spot perfectly, eliciting a deep moan from your throat.
Instinctively, your hips continue to roll into his hand, his palm rubbing against your clit as he speeds up his fingers. Gasping, you arch your back, and he moves his mouth to kiss your neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin making you whine in pleasure.
“Harder,” you gasp out, and he obeys, thrusting his fingers into you more intensely than before.
Your hands grasp at his hair desperately, moaning as your pleasure becomes almost unbearable.
“I’m gonna come,” you whimper, overwhelmed with ecstasy.
“Good girl, come on my fingers. Make a mess on me,” Logan coos, pressing a sloppy kiss to your mouth.
With his words pushing you over the edge, you quickly come, moaning loudly. His fingers slow, working you gently through the aftershocks of your orgasm. Your head falls to rest in the crook of his neck as you breathe deeply, coming down from your high. He slowly takes his fingers out, and you look up at him as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks your arousal, maintaining eye contact. Your stomach flips and you feel like you’d be ready to go again if he asked.
“You okay?” His voice breaks the silence as his hands caress you soothingly.
“Mhm,” you nod, kissing him before resting your forehead against his.
“Should we get back to the party?” he asks quietly.
“Probably,” you smirk, leaning back to look at him.
He chuckles. “Whatever you wanna do, I’m there.”
Smiling, you reply, “We should get back. Hannah would kill me for leaving early.”
As if on cue, your phone (which Logan had offered to keep in his jacket pocket) starts to ring. Your hands begin fishing it out, and Logan leans back, letting you. Fixing your hair with one hand, you pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Girl, where are you? I still need to introduce you to your blind date.”
“Oh, shit, sorry. I’m coming, just give me two minutes.”
Ending the call, your eyes meet Logan’s again. You sink into him, pressing one more kiss to his lips.
Hannah has been really excited about setting you up, so you decide you’ll entertain it just for today, but as soon as you’re free: your sights are set on Logan. Absentmindedly, your fingers begin playing with his hair.
“I gotta go,” you say quietly, as if verbalising it makes the obligation any more legitimate.
“Yeah, my friends are probably looking for me too.”
Manoeuvring off him, you open the door and step out of his car.
“See you around?”
He nods, smiling. “See you around.”
~
“There you are!” Hannah beams as you walk up to her. “Where have you been?”
You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Around.”
Hannah side-eyes you, suspicious but playful.
“Well, I’ve left you alone for long enough. It’s time to meet your blind date!” She drags out the last word, using jazz hands to emphasise her excitement. “Me and Dean actually came up with this idea together.”
“Dean? Really?”
“Yeah, I figured he knows you better than I do, so I asked for his input,” she shrugs. “Turns out he had a friend in need of setting up, too.”
“Oh?”
You wrack your head, trying to think of all of Dean’s friends—besides Beau, obviously. There’s Garrett, Tucker, and…
“Here he is!” Hannah says, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Surprise! Your blind date was actually Logan!”
Dean and Logan stand across from Hannah and you, likely a mirror picture of the conversation taking place. You and Logan share the same pleasantly surprised expression, both of you speechless that your blind date actually went so well.
Hope begins to bloom in your chest, the same feeling sneaking up on Logan, unbeknownst to you.
AAHHH SO MANY THOUGHTS!! First of all, how are you so fast???
This is actually way more accurate to the version I had in my head than I thought it would be. I expected people would have their own take but a lot of this actually aligned with what I wrote initially, which is so cool!!
I was having such a shitty night and this just got me so so excited, I ATE IT UP
Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care
Warning: 18+ content
Read part one here
The last agonizing tremor of your climax finally fades, leaving your body entirely boneless against the tangled sheets of Dean’s bed.
You are staring blindly at the ceiling, your chest heaving as you drag oxygen back into your lungs. Your mind feels completely blank, blissfully scrubbed clean of everything except the heavy, throbbing ache between your thighs and the lingering heat of Dean’s mouth.
Dean shifts his weight at the foot of the bed. He pulls away from your wet center with a soft, indecent sound, resting his cheek against your inner thigh for a long second to catch his own breath. His blond hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo, and his broad shoulders rise and fall rapidly.
Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.
He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.
He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.
“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”
“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”
Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”
You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.
Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.
Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.
“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.
“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”
“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”
Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.
“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”
“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”
“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”
“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”
He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”
“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”
“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.
“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”
“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”
“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”
“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”
“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”
The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.
You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.
“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”
“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”
“I do now,” Dean says simply.
“People do not change that fast.”
“Watch me.”
“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.
But Dean is faster.
He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.
“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”
“The conversation isn’t over.”
Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.
You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.
He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”
“I am not scared.”
“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.
“Honest,” he corrects.
He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.
Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.
You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.
“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.
“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”
“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.
You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.
He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.
“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”
“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”
Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.
“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”
He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.
“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”
Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.
Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.
“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”
“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”
“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.
“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”
“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”
Your breath hitches.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.
When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.
“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.
“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.
He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.
“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.
“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.
Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.
You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”
“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”
“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”
“That’s right.”
Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.
You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.
Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.
“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”
“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.
Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”
He starts to move.
The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.
You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.
You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.
The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.
“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.
“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.
“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.
“Yes!” You cry out.
“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”
The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.
Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.
“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.
“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.
He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.
“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.
“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”
You shatter.
Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.
Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.
For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.
Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.
Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.
“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.
You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.
But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.
Let the game begin.
***
The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.
You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.
Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.
“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”
“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”
“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”
You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”
“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”
You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”
“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”
“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”
Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.
The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.
“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.
Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.
You turn your head slowly.
Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.
Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.
“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”
“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”
“I am watching a hockey game.”
“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”
It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.
“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”
“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”
“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”
You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”
“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”
Your breath hitches slightly.
Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.
“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”
“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”
“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”
Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.
“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.
“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”
As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.
The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.
Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”
You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.
For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.
When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.
“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”
“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”
“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”
Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”
“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”
You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.
Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.
The game is officially up.
“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”
***
The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.
You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.
“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.
“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.
The heavy double doors swing open.
The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.
Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.
He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.
“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”
Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.
Logan’s mouth drops open.
Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.
“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”
“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”
“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”
“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”
“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”
Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.
And then, the doors swing open one last time.
Dean steps out into the hallway.
His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.
He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.
A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.
“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”
Dean stops.
He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.
Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.
The silence in the hallway is absolute.
Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.
You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.
“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”
Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.
“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”
Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.
He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.
Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.
Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.
“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.
“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”
“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”
“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”
“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”
“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.
“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”
Garrett actually whimpers.
You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.
Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.
“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”
The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.
And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.
He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.
“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”
The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.
Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”
“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”
“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”
“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”
“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”
“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.
“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”
“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”
As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.
You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.
Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.
They have the exact same posture.
They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.
They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.
You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.
The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.
“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”
“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”
“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”
“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.
But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.
They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.
And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.
“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”
“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”
“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.
They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.
You stand in the hallway, watching them go.
“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”
Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”
“Yes, Garrett?”
“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”
You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”
“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”
“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.
As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.
When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.
Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.
For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.
But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.
Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.
“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”
“Yeah?” Dean asks.
“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”
Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.
“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.
One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.
You really are going to need more deadbolts.
***
The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.
“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”
“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”
“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.
The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.
“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”
“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”
You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.
Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.
“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.
“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”
“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”
“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”
“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.
A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.
“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”
“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.
Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.
“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”
You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.
Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.
“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”
A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.
Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”
“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.
“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.
“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”
Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.
“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.
You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.
Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.
“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.
You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.
“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”
“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”
“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”
“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.
“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”
“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”
“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”
The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.
Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”
The transformation is instantaneous.
Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.
“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.
Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”
“Dean,” you say.
Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.
Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.
“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”
You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.
Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.
“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”
“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.
You look across the island.
LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.
LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.
“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”
“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”
You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.
***
Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.
Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.
It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.
By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.
You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.
Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.
You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.
“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.
“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”
Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.
“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”
Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”
“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”
“Which is?” Shane asks gently.
“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”
You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.
“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”
“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”
“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”
Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.
“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”
“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.
Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”
“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.
“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.
The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.
Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.
“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.
“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”
“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”
“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”
Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.
Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”
You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”
“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”
You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.
Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.
“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.
You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.
The Ottawa winter rages outside, but inside, you have never been warmer.
I’m manifesting that in the next book, SJM makes Azriel and Elain say to each other how dumb they were for trying anything with each other out of desperation and loneliness. Because now Azriel is happy with Gwyn and/or Elain regrets not giving her mate bond a chance a little sooner, because Lucien is her sunshine and makes her the happiest person on earth every day. I hope SJM makes Azriel and Elain regret it so much that they cringe about it.
Even better, it’s so insignificant to Elain and Azriel that they don’t even remember it.
What I like the most about 5sos is that in the end it's just 4 besties goofing around. No agent or producer or whatever put them together into a band hoping they'd get along. They literally have no contract binding any of them to the band. If someone wants a break or to quit the others support it and will help make an escape plan. They all have solo projects and are each other's biggest fans. And the longer they've been around, the goofier they get. Clickbait music videos, skits, sauce. Lots of bands say they're like a family but with 5sos you can also see the close friendship.
I couldn't be a human servant of the Fae Court, if Kieran called me "incorrigible creature" one more time I'd be like, "fuck off pointy ears!" And then I'd be dead instantly.
