Off Limits {Garrett Graham x reader} Part 13
Summary: You never asked to be the daughter of Briar University's hockey coach, and you definitely never asked to spend a week being chauffeured around campus by Garrett Graham. The problem? You can't stand each other.
Warnings: enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity, banter, and a very inconvenient crush, panic attack
The first thing Garrett learned after Coach Jensen found out about your relationship was that being accepted by your father was not the same thing as being left alone by him.
In fact, it turned out to be much worse.
Before, Garrett had only needed to worry about getting caught. Now that everything was out in the open, there was an entirely new problem to deal with.
The hockey team's girlfriends knew.
Even people who had absolutely no business knowing seemed to know.
Which was a disaster all on its own.
The moment Logan Tucker had discovered that you and Garrett were officially together, he had decided that making Garrett miserable was his new favorite hobby. Unfortunately, he had a lot of free time and an endless supply of enthusiasm.
Or at least, that's what Garrett told you later.
You were sitting in the middle of a psychology lecture, trying to focus on a discussion about behavioral conditioning, when your phone buzzed against the desk.
You glanced down and immediately saw Garrett's name.
GARRETT: Your father is evil.
A smile spread across your face before you could stop it.
YOU: Good morning to you too.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Then another message arrived.
GARRETT: He asked how "his favorite son-in-law" was doing.
You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself.
Several students turned to look at you.
You quickly covered your mouth, but it didn't help much.
YOU: You're not his son-in-law.
You were still smiling when another text appeared.
You had to lower your head and pretend to be reading your notes while you laughed.
The image of your father deliberately tormenting Garrett was far too easy to imagine.
Apparently Coach Jensen had decided that if Garrett was going to date his daughter, then he was going to enjoy every second of making him uncomfortable.
Every opportunity became an opportunity to tease him.
During film review, Coach would pause the footage and casually ask Garrett if he had been feeling distracted lately.
During team meetings, he would mention relationships for absolutely no reason and then look directly at Garrett.
At practice, things became even worse.
According to Logan, one afternoon Garrett had missed a pass because he was arguing with a teammate.
Coach immediately blew his whistle.
Then, loud enough for the entire rink to hear, he'd shouted:
"Eyes on the puck, Graham. Not my daughter."
The entire team had lost it.
Several players nearly fell over laughing.
One guy had skated directly into the boards.
Garrett, meanwhile, had apparently looked like he wanted the ice to open up and swallow him whole.
Logan later described it as the funniest moment of his college career.
Unfortunately for him, it wasn't just Coach.
The entire team had become unbearable.
You discovered that first hand when you stopped by the hockey house one Friday evening.
You'd barely stepped through the front door before the room went silent.
Every conversation stopped.
You froze in the doorway.
The silence somehow became even more dramatic.
Then Logan slowly stood up from the couch.
He pointed toward the hallway like he was announcing the arrival of royalty.
And shouted at the top of his lungs:
"GARRETT. YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS HERE."
The reaction was immediate.
A few teammates began clapping.
You seriously considered turning around and leaving.
Before you could, Garrett appeared from the hallway.
He took one look at the room.
A long, exhausted sigh escaped him.
"Why are they like this?"
Logan looked genuinely offended by the question.
"Because we're invested."
The worst part was that Garrett kept falling for their nonsense.
One evening, Logan casually mentioned that you looked stressed.
Garrett immediately texted you.
GARRETT: Are you stressed?
You frowned at your phone.
YOU: Why?
GARRETT: Logan said you looked stressed.
You stared at the message.
YOU: Logan hasn't seen me today.
Five minutes later, another text arrived.
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your phone.
The funny thing was that despite all the teasing, despite the constant jokes and endless commentary from everyone around him, Garrett never changed.
He still showed up with coffee.
He still checked whether you'd eaten lunch.
He still remembered every exam date, every assignment deadline, and every little thing you mentioned in passing.
If you looked tired, he noticed.
If you seemed stressed, he noticed.
If you were having a bad day, he somehow figured it out before you even said anything.
And now that you were actually together, he didn't pretend those things were accidental anymore.
He didn't brush them off.
He didn't act like they meant nothing.
Instead, he simply did them.
Like caring about you was the most natural thing in the world.
Somehow, that made every gesture feel even more meaningful.
One afternoon, you walked out of class and immediately spotted him waiting outside the building.
His hockey bag was slung over one shoulder.
A coffee cup rested in his hand.
The second he saw you, his face lit up.
That smile appeared instantly.
The one the hockey team never stopped making fun of.
The one Logan had officially named "the girlfriend smile."
You hated that he'd named it.
Mostly because he wasn't wrong.
"You have practice," you pointed out as you approached.
Garrett handed you the coffee.
"You looked tired this morning."
Your chest tightened in that familiar way it always seemed to around him.
Garrett looked genuinely confused by the question.
"Of course I remembered."
The answer came so naturally that it almost caught you off guard.
As if forgetting wasn't even a possibility.
As if paying attention to you required no effort at all.
The warmth that spread through your chest afterward lingered for the rest of the afternoon.
That night, you ended up at the rink.
The team was finishing practice.
You were supposed to be studying.
Instead, you were sitting in the stands with your textbook open on your lap while you watched Garrett skate.
Which he found endlessly entertaining.
You glanced up from your notes.
"You haven't turned a page in twenty minutes."
Your textbook was still open to exactly the same chapter.
The sound echoed through the mostly empty arena.
Practice had ended several minutes ago, and most of the players had already disappeared toward the locker rooms.
The rink felt quieter now.
Garrett climbed into the stands and sat beside you.
Close enough that your shoulders brushed.
The contact felt familiar.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The ice reflected the bright arena lights below.
The air carried that familiar chill that always lingered inside the rink.
Eventually, Garrett reached for your hand.
The gesture felt completely natural.
Like something he'd been doing forever.
You laced your fingers through his.
And for a few peaceful moments, you simply sat there together.
Which was probably why it didn't last.
Because after roughly thirty seconds—
Slowly, you turned around.
Logan stood halfway up the arena stairs.
His phone was already in his hand.
His expression was one of pure delight.
Garrett immediately groaned.
Logan pointed dramatically toward your joined hands.
"You two hold hands like an eighty-year-old married couple."
You buried your face against Garrett's shoulder.
Garrett tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling as though asking the universe for patience.
The universe, unfortunately, offered none.
Because Logan had already started taking pictures.
And somewhere below, near the bench, Coach Jensen's laughter echoed through the rink.
"Nope," Logan agreed cheerfully.
Watching Garrett get relentlessly bullied by your father, his teammates, and practically everyone else around him was becoming one of your favourite hobbies.
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The problem with panic attacks was that they didn't care whether you were happy or not.
They didn't care that, for the first time in a long time, things were actually going well.
Your classes were challenging, but you were keeping up. You were dating Garrett. Your father knew about the relationship and, despite all the teasing and interrogation, hadn't tried to stop it. Life wasn't perfect, but it felt steady in a way it hadn't before.
Panic attacks didn't care about good weeks or bad weeks. They didn't care whether you had reasons to be stressed or reasons to be happy. They arrived when they wanted to, ignored every logical argument you tried to make, and left you dealing with the aftermath.
The week started badly, though not because of any single disaster.
It was just one of those stretches of time where everything seemed to pile up at once.
You had two exams scheduled within three days of each other. A research paper that had somehow gone from feeling manageable to feeling impossible. Three separate presentations that all required preparation you hadn't had time for.
On top of that, one of your professors seemed personally offended by the idea that students might occasionally need sleep.
Every day brought another deadline.
Another reminder that there weren't enough hours in the day.
By Wednesday afternoon, exhaustion had settled into your bones.
By Thursday, you were surviving almost entirely on caffeine, determination, and the increasingly unrealistic promise that you'd catch up on sleep over the weekend.
By Friday, you were functioning, but only technically.
You were tired enough that simple conversations required effort. Your shoulders ached from tension. Every small inconvenience felt larger than it should have.
Unfortunately, nobody noticed.
Mostly because you had spent years becoming very good at pretending everything was fine.
You smiled when people talked to you.
You showed up where you were supposed to be.
From the outside, nothing looked wrong.
The first person to realize something was off wasn't Garrett.
Which was deeply unfortunate, because Coach Jensen had an irritating habit of noticing things you would rather keep to yourself. He'd spent years coaching college athletes, dealing with stressed students, and raising you. There wasn't much that slipped past him when he was paying attention.
You were helping him organize paperwork in his office between classes when he glanced up from his desk and frowned.
The look immediately made you suspicious.
You looked up from the stack of folders in your hands.
The question was simple enough, but your reaction was immediate.
Your father hummed quietly.
It was the same sound he made whenever he thought he knew something you didn't want him to know.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a moment longer than necessary.
You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the folders.
For a second, you thought that would be the end of it. Your father looked back down at the paperwork spread across his desk, and the office settled into a comfortable silence broken only by the occasional rustle of paper.
You continued sorting files, trying to focus on the task in front of you.
But the knot that had been sitting in your stomach all week remained exactly where it was.
Because as much as you hated admitting it, he wasn't wrong.
Not just physically tired, either. The kind of tired that settled deep in your bones after too many late nights, too much caffeine, and too many responsibilities piling up at once. Every assignment felt urgent. Every deadline felt closer than it actually was. You kept telling yourself that once you got through this week, things would calm down.
The problem was that you'd been telling yourself that for weeks.
You were sitting together in one of the quieter corners of the library, surrounded by textbooks, notebooks, and enough empty coffee cups to suggest neither of you had made particularly healthy choices lately.
You were trying to work on a paper.
Trying being the important word.
The words on your screen seemed determined to blur together every time you looked at them.
Without warning, Garrett reached across the table and closed your laptop.
"You've read the same sentence four times."
You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms.
"You need a break," Garrett said.
For a moment, the familiar sound eased some of the tension sitting in your chest.
But the amusement faded quickly.
Garrett's expression shifted as he looked at you.
His eyes lingered on your face, taking in details you hadn't realized were obvious.
The dark circles under your eyes.
The way your shoulders were tense.
The exhaustion you had been trying—and apparently failing—to hide.
Which somehow made it harder.
Because if he sounded concerned, you could dismiss it.
Instead, Garrett sounded gentle.
Like he was giving you room to answer honestly if you wanted to.
The lie came automatically.
But the look on his face made it clear he didn't believe a word of it.
His expression softened slightly, and somehow that was even more dangerous.
Because Garrett knew you well enough now to recognize when you were struggling.
And you knew him well enough to know he wasn't going to stop paying attention.
You made it another six hours.
You got through your last class, answered a few emails, and even convinced yourself that maybe the feeling would pass if you just kept moving.
By the time evening rolled around, every small stress from the week seemed to be sitting on your shoulders at once. You were exhausted in that particular way that made everything feel harder than it should. Conversations took more effort. Concentration took more effort. Even pretending you were fine took more effort.
Then everything fell apart.
The hockey house was crowded.
Not in the way it got during parties, with music blasting and people packed into every room. It was just busy. Teammates were scattered throughout the house, a game was playing on the television in the living room, and several conversations overlapped from different corners of the kitchen.
Normally, it wouldn't have bothered you.
Normally, you could tune it out.
Normally, Garrett would have noticed you getting overwhelmed before it reached this point.
Normally, you would have recognized the warning signs yourself and stepped outside for a few minutes.
Tonight, though, you were tired.
Already stretched thin from days of stress and too little sleep.
The laughter around you seemed a little louder than it had a minute ago. The conversations started blending together until you couldn't focus on any single voice. Someone dropped something in the kitchen and the sharp noise made you jump.
You shifted where you stood.
Tried to convince yourself it was nothing.
But the feeling kept growing.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Your chest tightened with a familiar, sinking dread.
You swallowed hard and forced yourself to take a breath.
The panic was already there, curling through your ribs and settling deep in your chest. Cold. Sharp. Immediate.
The edges of the room seemed to blur together.
You stood abruptly from your spot at the counter.
Everyone was busy talking, laughing, moving around each other.
You slipped out of the kitchen and headed down the hallway before anyone could stop you.
The moment you stepped outside, cold air hit your face.
Your breathing shortened anyway.
Your hands started shaking.
The panic arrived all at once after that, crashing over you so quickly it stole whatever control you'd been trying to hold onto.
It felt like being caught in a wave you couldn't fight.
Every thought became louder.
Every sensation became sharper.
Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.
The back porch was empty.
Dark and quiet compared to the noise inside.
You crossed to the railing and gripped it tightly, focusing on the rough wood beneath your fingers.
Trying to stop the spiral before it dragged you under completely.
Your vision blurred around the edges.
Your heartbeat hammered against your ribs.
You knew what was happening.
You'd been through it before.
That almost made it worse.
Because now you knew exactly how quickly things could spiral once the panic took hold.
The familiar thoughts started creeping in despite your efforts to stop them.
What if you couldn't get it under control?
What if someone came outside and saw you like this?
The screen door opened behind you.
You closed your eyes immediately.
Garrett didn't say anything immediately.
You heard the screen door click shut behind him, followed by the sound of his footsteps crossing the porch. They were unhurried, careful, and they stopped a few feet away from where you were gripping the railing.
Just close enough that you knew he was there if you needed him.
It reminded you of the first time this had happened, months ago outside the student union. Back then, Garrett had barely known you. You'd been little more than the coach's daughter and the girl who occasionally argued with him.
He hadn't pushed. He hadn't demanded explanations. He'd simply sat beside you until you could breathe again.
The memory hit harder than you expected.
Not from panic this time.
Your voice came out rough and strained, but Garrett didn't react to it. He never seemed bothered by the messy parts of you.
Garrett moved first, heading toward the porch steps. He didn't reach for you or try to guide you by the arm. He simply made sure you had somewhere to go and trusted you to follow when you were ready.
You sank down onto the steps, and a second later he sat beside you.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It settled around the two of you naturally, giving you space to focus on the things that mattered. You concentrated on your breathing, trying to slow it down one breath at a time. The cool night air brushed against your skin, helping to ground you, and you focused on the steady feeling of the porch steps beneath you.
Most of all, you focused on the fact that Garrett was sitting beside you.
The panic was still there. You could feel it lingering in your chest, tight and painful, refusing to disappear completely. Your heart was still beating faster than normal, and every now and then another wave of anxiety threatened to pull you back under.
But it wasn't as overwhelming as it had been a few minutes ago.
Garrett didn't rush you. He didn't fill the silence just because he felt like he should. He simply sat beside you, patient and steady, letting you recover at your own pace.
Eventually, after several quiet minutes had passed, he spoke.
His voice was low and gentle.
A shaky laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Garrett shifted slightly, and his shoulder brushed against yours. It was the smallest touch, barely noticeable, but somehow it helped.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
The words landed harder than you expected.
Maybe because you were exhausted. Maybe because you'd spent the entire week convincing everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.
Or maybe because he was right.
You didn't have to pretend with him.
For the first time all week, and maybe for the first time all day, you let yourself stop holding everything together.
You stared out into the darkness beyond the porch and swallowed hard.
Garrett nodded immediately, as though he'd already known the answer before you'd said it.
You let out a slow breath.
There was no judgment in his voice. No surprise. Just quiet understanding.
The next words were harder to say.
"I'm trying really hard."
Garrett turned toward you slightly, and the expression on his face softened so quickly it made your chest ache.
The look nearly broke you.
Because there wasn't any pity there.
There wasn't frustration, disappointment, or impatience.
There was only understanding.
Only Garrett looking at you like he wished he could carry some of the weight for you.
"You don't have to try so hard all the time."
The tears came before you could stop them.
You immediately looked away, embarrassed by how quickly they appeared.
It felt ridiculous. You hated crying. You hated feeling vulnerable.
But Garrett didn't react.
He didn't tell you to calm down or insist that everything would be fine.
He just stayed exactly where he was, sitting beside you in the quiet, letting you feel whatever you needed to feel without asking you to be anything other than honest.
Several minutes passed, though you couldn't have said exactly how many.
The panic didn't disappear all at once. It never did. Instead, it slowly loosened its grip, retreating inch by inch until your breathing no longer felt impossible and your heartbeat stopped racing quite so hard.
You focused on the cool night air against your skin and the quiet sounds drifting from inside the house. The noise that had felt overwhelming earlier now seemed distant, muffled by the walls and the space between you and everyone else.
Eventually, you realized your hands had stopped shaking.
The tightness in your chest was still there, but it was manageable now.
You let out a slow breath and stared out into the darkness beyond the porch, feeling drained in a way that settled deep into your bones.
Beside you, Garrett hadn't moved.
He'd stayed exactly where he was the entire time.
Never demanding that you explain yourself.
When you finally turned your head and looked at him, he was already watching you.
A small smile appeared when your eyes met.
It was the same smile he'd given you months ago outside the student union when he'd sat with you through your first panic attack. Back then, everything between you had been uncertain. You hadn't known what he wanted from you, and he certainly hadn't known what he meant to you.
Now there were no questions left.
"Better?" he asked quietly.
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The silence that settled between you wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. It felt familiar, the kind of silence that only existed between people who knew each other well enough not to fill every empty space with words.
Then Garrett glanced sideways at you.
The tone immediately made you suspicious.
His expression remained perfectly serious.
"I've talked you through a panic attack twice now."
Garrett continued looking completely sincere.
"I think I deserve compensation."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
A few minutes ago, you'd felt like you were drowning.
Now Garrett was somehow making you laugh.
The answer came so quickly that it made you smile despite yourself.
Garrett's grin widened immediately, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
As you watched him, something settled quietly inside your chest.
The first panic attack had ended with confusion and uncertainty. There had been feelings neither of you understood and questions neither of you were ready to answer.
This felt completely different.
Because now, sitting beside him on those porch steps, there was no uncertainty left.
The person who noticed when something was wrong before anyone else did.
The person who cared enough to sit beside you in silence for as long as you needed.
The person you trusted with every difficult, messy part of yourself.
Without really thinking about it, you leaned against his shoulder.
Garrett immediately wrapped an arm around you and pulled you a little closer.
The movement was effortless, instinctive, as though he'd never considered doing anything else.
You rested your head against him and closed your eyes.
For the first time all week—for the first time all day—you felt okay.
Not because the stress had disappeared.
Not because your deadlines were gone or your responsibilities had magically become easier.
Life was still waiting for you tomorrow.
But for tonight, you didn't have to carry everything by yourself.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
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