âľă¸ đŠđđ đđđđđđđŁđđŽ đ¨đđđđŠ part. ii âš garrett graham & dean di laurentis
â pairing â garrett graham x dean di laurentis x fem!reader
â synopsis â Determined to leave the hospital behind, she attends the after-party wearing a spectacular blue dress and Beau Maxwellâs varsity jacket. Upon entering the kitchen, her sweet presenceâcombined with the fact that she is wearing the clothes of Deanâs best friendâignites an immediate storm of male jealousy, sparking a silent rivalry between Garrett and Dean.
â authorâs note â This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed, mature language suitable for an adult audience.
â the emergency shift.- part i â the emergency shift.- part iii
The original plan for Friday night was indisputable, perfect, and sacred. It consisted exactly of three non-negotiable elements: an extra-soft pair of flannel pajama pants that were already worn out from use, an absurdly huge mug of hot chocolate with a mountain of marshmallows floating on the surface, and a complete marathon of early 2000s romantic comedies. Your mind was already projecting the iconic scenes from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and 13 Going on 30. You were experiencing that level of absolute exhaustion that seeps into your bones; between the endless third-year clinical psychology classes, the dense case reports due on Mondays, and the grueling hours on your feet at the Briar University General Hospital emergency room, your brain and body were simply begging for a twelve-hour blackout.
But destinyâor rather, the relentless alliance between your best friend Gracie and your own brotherâhad diametrically opposite plans for you that night.
âYou're not staying locked up like a hermit on a game Friday,â your brother had sentenced a few hours earlier, walking into your room without knocking and pulling the blanket off you with that typical, annoying, yet loving authority only older brothers have. âThe whole campus is going to be at the arena today. Beau and the guys from the football team already bought passes for the premium stands, and you need to clear your mind of the hospital, white coats, and syringes once and for all.â
âPlease, I beg you, do it for me!â Gracie had pleaded next, dramatically kneeling at the edge of your bed and giving you the most manipulative puppy-dog eyes in her repertoire. âThe atmosphere is going to be absolute madness. It's the biggest game of the month. I promise that if you fall asleep halfway through the second period in the stands, Iâll serve as your human pillow and protect you from any stray pucks.â
You ended up giving in with a long, defeated sigh, accompanied by that sweet and understanding smile that always characterized you. You didn't have the energy to fight two forces of nature. You put on a pair of comfortable dark jeans, your most worn-out sneakers, and a pastel-colored oversize sweatshirt that looked beautiful on you, loose enough to let the collar subtly slip off one of your shoulders in a completely natural but very cute way. You left your hair down, falling in soft waves over your back, without a single drop of effort.
As your brotherâs car pulled into the parking lot of the sports complex and you walked toward the main entrance of Briar's ice rink, the deafening roar of the crowd and the blast of freezing air characteristic of ice rinks hit your face all at once. The place was absolutely packed; a sea of students dressed in crimson and white crowded the hallways, food stands, and arena entrances. Not a single soul more could fit.
As soon as you crossed the main entrance of the arena, a massive silhouette with incredibly broad shoulders, wearing the varsity jacket of the football athletes, pushed through the sports faculty crowd. It was Beau Maxwell.
âLook who they managed to drag out of the book cave!â Beau exclaimed with a huge, contagious smile that showed his white teeth, walking straight toward you. With the total confidence, familiarity, and affection of having practically grown up together, Beau leaned down toward you without hesitating for a second. He planted a tender, loud kiss on your right cheek while wrapping his massive arm around your shoulders for a brief moment, messing up your hair with his other hand in that playful way that drove you crazy and charmed you at the same time. âIt's so good you came, little one. Your brother promised me that if I convinced you to come to the arena, heâd pay for the family pizzas after the game is over.â
âHi, Beau. I see I was used as bargaining chip and culinary blackmail,â you laughed with your clean, melodious, and soft giggle, giving him a playful nudge in the side of his torsoâa blow that didn't even move him an inch due to his wide-receiver musculature. âIt better be good pizza from the downtown parlor and not the frozen ones from the corner store.â
Your brother burst out laughing, giving your shoulder an affectionate squeeze before looking at his teammate. âSee you in the parking lot or at the house after the game, alright? Stick close to Gracie, , I don't want you getting lost in this horde of savages. Let's go, Beau, the guys from the offensive line already saved us seats down by the glass!â
In a blink, your brother and Beau walked away with large strides among the crowd of athletes and students who greeted them as they passed, leaving you alone with Gracie in the middle of the deafening hustle of the arena. You patiently walked alongside your friend, looking for an open access to the upper stands, dodging freshmen who screamed euphorically with their faces painted in Briar's colors.
As you slowly climbed the concrete steps, your eyes dedicated themselves to scanning the panorama analytically, a habit deeply ingrained thanks to your psychology studies. In the distance, exactly in the premium rows of the lower section, right behind the home bench, you managed to spot Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes. They were sitting together, sharing a bag of popcorn, laughing animatedly, and holding up a couple of light support banners. You dedicated a quick look and an internal smile to them, remembering the subtle tension of jealousy that had dissolved so kindly at Malone's Pub last week when you decided to be completely transparent and sweet with them. They were great girls, and you were perfectly aware of their love stories with the players, staying on the sidelines with impeccable maturity.
That night, the atmosphere inside the arena bordered on collective hysteria for a very simple and powerful reason: Briar's full starting lineup was on the ice, with no rotations or injuries. On the ice, performing their pre-game warm-up at high speed, gliding with a brutal precision that made the frozen surface crunch, were all the guys you had to heal, bandage, or gently scold over the past few weeks.
You could see John Tucker moving with agility, his hand perfectly bandaged and protected under his thick hockey glove, handling the stick with a dexterity that proved your impeccable management in the ER had yielded perfect fruits. A little further back was John Logan, with a look of absolute concentration, patrolling the defensive zone. And, of course, leading the warm-up line was the dynamic duo that seemed to have made it their personal mission to test the patience of your hospital internship: Dean Di Laurentis and the team captain himself, Garrett Graham.
Gracie and you finally managed to find two empty seats in the middle section of the stands, specifically in section four. It was a perfect location: close enough to the rink to see the players' expressions and the fast movement of the black puck with total clarity, but elevated enough to avoid being crushed by the more radical university fans slamming against the lower plexiglass. You settled into the cold metal seat, rubbing your hands together for warmth and letting out a relaxed little sigh as you adjusted your oversize sweatshirt.
On the ice, the regulation ten minutes of the warm-up practice were coming to an end. Garrett Graham, looking imposing, massive, and dangerously attractive in his full hockey gear, protective shoulder pads, and the large Briar dragon crest printed across his chest, was gathering his players near the net to give the final tactical instructions. However, his disciplined captain's mind couldn't help but perform the routine visual scan he always did toward the stands before the initial puck drop. It was a mechanical habit to measure the crowd's energy.
This time, his dark eyes stopped dead in the middle of the section. His gaze froze.
Garrett blinked under the cage of his helmet, completely losing the thread of the sentence he was saying to a sophomore player who was listening to him attentively. He saw you. He saw your pastel oversize sweatshirt, your fresh face devoid of heavy makeup, and that calm, sweet, and genuine smile with which you listened to Gracie's complaints about the cold. An instant flash of pure excitement, surprise, and absolute satisfaction lit up his hardened face. Without thinking twice, Garrett raised his right arm covered by his hockey glove and gave a very hard and none-too-subtle elbow to the ribs of Dean Di Laurentis, who was right next to him distractedly adjusting his elbow pads.
âDean... look up. Section four, row ten. Right now,â Garrett whispered with a sudden urgency in his voice that didn't match his usual focused captain tone at all.
Dean let out a lazy snort, complaining about the unexpected elbow. âDamn it, Garrett, what's wrong with you? I'm trying to focus on not letting Davenport touch my face again and you...â
But as soon as Dean raised his head following the direction of his captain's gaze and his eyes connected directly with your figure in the stands, his body posture changed completely in a microsecond. All of Dean's usual lazy, arrogant, and disinterested expression completely vanished from his face, replaced instantly by a huge, bright, and completely smitten smile that stretched across his lips. The mere fact of knowing that you were there, sitting in the stands, in their absolute territory, witnessing the game (and in the competitive minds of both, assuming you had gone specifically to see them), injected them with a rush of adrenaline a thousand times more powerful, electric, and effective than any locker room motivational speech or scolding from the coach.
Dean couldn't contain his shameless and provocative nature. Completely ignoring pre-game protocol, he raised his hockey stick in the air and pointed the top end directly at you, winking at you from a distance with a totally cheeky and magnetic boldness that caused several female students in the rows below to gasp, thinking the gesture was meant for them. At his side, Garrett, feeling an instant twinge of male jealousy at his friend's audacity, shoved Dean with his shoulder to push him out of your line of sight. Right after, Garrett dedicated a much more focused, gentlemanly, and mature greeting to you: he brought the fingers of his glove to the edge of his helmet in an impeccable military salute, offering you a shy smileâone of those that made his dimples appear and contrasted almost ridiculously with the imposing and rugged game armor he was wearing.
From your position in the upper stands, you noticed perfectly that both were staring intently at you and making subtle yet obvious gestures from the ice just for you. Far from getting nervous, intimidated, or blushing like the rest of the girls on campus, you simply let out a low, clean, and extremely sweet laugh that Gracie noticed immediately. You shook your head with total freshness and naturalness, deeply amused to see that, even dressed like medieval gladiators ready for war on the ice rink, they still behaved like the same twenty-one-year-old college boys doing childish and bold stunts just to catch your attention for a few seconds.
âWell, well, well, look at that...â Gracie teased next to you, giving you a sharp, knowing elbow in the arm and raising her eyebrows with a mischievous smile. âIt seems like the sweet ER psychology intern has a very active and dangerous fan club on the Ivy League's front line. Did you see how both of them looked at you? I swear, , I think Graham almost tripped over his own skates when he spotted you, and Di Laurentis is one second away from biting the ice out of excitement.â
âThey're exaggerating, Gracie, seriously,â you said with a playful and relaxed smile, adjusting the collar of your oversize sweatshirt as you looked back at the rink. âI just hope they play well, keep a cool head, and please, don't end up in my hospital emergency room tonight. Honestly, my only wish for tomorrow is to sleep all day and watch my romantic comedy in peace. I don't want to have to suture either of them at three in the morning.â
Right at that exact moment, the arena's main horn sounded with a deafening blast that vibrated in the chests of everyone present, announcing the official start of the first period of the match. The referees took their positions and the starting players of both teams lined up in the center face-off circle. But before the head referee dropped the black puck onto the white surface, both Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis cast one last, quick, and heavy look toward your seat in section four. Their eyes were burning, their body posture tense and aggressive, and they had the absolute determination to deliver the most perfect, brutal, and spectacular game of their college careers. Just because you were sitting there, watching their every move.
From the exact second the puck touched the ice, the game transformed into a high-intensity tactical slaughter. The rival team, a university known for its physical, aggressive style of play that bordered on the limits of legality, hadn't come to Briar to be a simple spectator to the dragons' winning streak. They came to crush them. But Garrett and Dean were operating under a level of motivation that went far beyond the tournament standings. Every hit against the plexiglass, every millimeter-perfect assist, and every acceleration in the neutral zone felt like a statement of intent designed exclusively to impress the girl in the pastel sweatshirt watching from row ten.
Garrett Graham played like a man possessed by the demon of hockey. As center and captain, he controlled the pace of the game with an unprecedented ferocity. In the first period, after receiving a clean pass from Logan from the blue line, Garrett dodged two rival defenders with a feint so quick it left the opposing men looking for the puck in the wrong direction. With an impeccable and powerful wrist shot, he sent the puck straight into the top left corner of the rival net. The arena erupted in screams, students jumped from their seats making the structures of Malone's Arena shake, and the goal siren echoed loudly. While his teammates rushed to hug him and slap his helmet in celebration, Garrett subtly turned toward section four, searching for your eyes in the crowd with a bright look that said: Did you see that? That was for you.
However, the opposing team responded with redoubled aggressiveness. Capitalizing on a penalty from an accidental trip by John Tucker, the rival team managed to score two consecutive goals in the second period, taking advantage of the numerical superiority on the ice. The scoreboard read 2-1 in favor of the visitors, and the tension inside the arena could be cut with a knife. Whispers of worry spread through the stands, and Gracie was biting her nails next to you.
âThey're playing with too much anger,â Gracie commented, keeping her eyes glued to the rink. âThe rival team is provoking them and the guys are falling into the trap. Look at Dean, he's one second away from jumping at someone's throat.â
She was right. Dean Di Laurentis was playing on the edge of the penalty abyss. His skating was aggressive, fast, and cut through the ice with a dangerous fury. Every time Hunter Davenport or any of the rival players approached Briar's zone, Dean greeted them with a body-to-body shoulder check that made the stadium's entire structure rattle. You knew, from your psychology background, that Dean was channeling all his frustration and his desire to stand out directly into the physical aspect of the game.
Midway through the third period, with the score still against them, Dean executed a spectacular individual play. He stole the puck in his own defensive zone, accelerated down the left wing leaving the rival wingers behind with a speed that seemed unreal, and just as the opposing goalie dove to block the low angle, Dean lifted the puck with a surgical delicacy and technique, slipping it through the only open space available over the goalkeeper's shoulder.
The stadium tore itself down again. The score was tied 2-2. Dean didn't celebrate with the team right away; he skated in circles toward the center of the ice, raised both arms toward the upper stands looking intently at your location, and beat his chest with his glove twice, with an expression of absolute and savage triumph that unleashed collective madness from the female fans in the arena.
From that moment on, the game became an epic back-and-forth battle. Neither team was willing to yield a single millimeter of ice. Briar attacked with Garrett and Logan creating masterful plays, but the visiting goalie seemed to have raised an invisible wall in his net. The regulation time began to run out quickly on the giant digital clock on the ceiling: five minutes, three minutes, one minute. The intensity was so high that the players barely had time to breathe during line changes on the bench. The final whistle blew with a sharp bang. Regulation time had ended with a 2-2 technical tie, which meant the fate of the match would be decided in the dreaded and exciting sudden-death overtime.
The five-minute overtime began with an atmosphere so heavy that the air felt thick inside the arena. In college hockey sudden death, the first team to score a goal takes absolute victory immediately, leaving the opponent with no right to reply. Briar's coach sent his elite line onto the ice: Garrett Graham at center, Dean Di Laurentis and John Tucker on the wings, with Logan securing the defensive rearguard. They were playing with the accumulated fatigue of three brutal periods, but the determination on their faces remained intact.
The first three minutes of overtime were an attacking monologue by Briar. Garrett won the opening face-off with impeccable cleanliness, passing the puck to Dean. Dean broke into the rival zone, combining quick one-touch passes with Tucker. On two different occasions, Garrett was millimeters away from sealing the victory with shots that slammed directly into the metal posts of the opposing net, provoking unanimous screams of frustration throughout the stadium. The puck capriously refused to go in.
Then, disaster struck in the final minute of overtime.
Following a quick counterattack by the rival team, Logan managed to deflect the puck into the corner of the rink, but an opposing forward pressed with excessive force, committing a subtle foul that the referees, due to the speed of the play, decided not to call. The puck was left loose in an extremely dangerous area, right in the center of the slot in front of Briar's goalie. Garrett threw himself onto the ice in a desperate effort to sweep the puck away with his stick and clear the danger, but fate was already sealed.
The rival team's star player anticipated by a fraction of a second, connecting a sharp, low, and powerful shot that zipped past the defenders' legs and nestled into the back of Briar's net.
The final horn sounded, but this time it wasn't to celebrate. It was the dry, cold, and bitter sound of a home defeat.
The visiting section of the stadium erupted in euphoric celebrations, while the rest of Malone's Arena fell into a deathly silence, broken only by sighs of disappointment from the thousands of local students. In the center of the ice, the scene was heartbreaking for Briar's pride. The rival players were jumping and hugging in a human mound of happiness, while the boys from your university stood completely frozen in their positions, heads bowed and sticks resting against the frozen surface in a sign of pure frustration.
You could see Garrett Graham standing near the net, his chest rising and falling rapidly due to physical exertion and pent-up anger. He slammed his stick hard against the goalpostâa gesture of pure frustration from a captain who hated losing more than anything in the worldâbefore forcing himself to maintain his composure to lead his team toward the protocol handshake. A few yards away, Dean Di Laurentis had ripped off his hockey gloves and thrown them with fury against the bench, his face completely red, his jaw clenched, and a look of absolute disappointment. Both had given absolutely everything on the rink, they had played to the limit of their physical capacities just because they knew you were there watching them, and losing that way, in the final breath of overtime, was a devastating blow to their huge and competitive elite athlete egos.
From the stands, you observed the entire sequence with your usual empathetic and analytical gaze. As a psychology student, you knew perfectly well that for guys like Garrett and Dean, who were used to success, applause, and being the undisputed heroes of the campus, a home defeat under the gaze of the girl they liked was the worst possible scenario. You could see the weight of frustration in the way their shoulders slumped and in the rigidity of their movements as they slowly retreated toward the locker room tunnel without looking back up at the stands even once.
âWhat a shame seriously, they played amazing,â Gracie sighed next to you, starting to pack her things as students began to slowly vacate the stands. âThey were so close to winning it. Those guys are going to be unbearable and in a dog's mood for the rest of the weekend. I wouldn't want to be the person who has to talk to Graham or Di Laurentis in the next twenty-four hours.â
âDefeat is part of the sporting process, Gracie, but you're right. They have too much accumulated pride to digest this lightly,â you said with a soft voice, full of a calm maturity as you stood up and adjusted your oversize sweatshirt. âLet's go find my brother and Beau in the parking lot before the crowd collapses the exits.â
The atmosphere in the main parking lot of the sports complex was a mix of cold night air, red lights from cars trying to exit in a line, and a murmur of disappointed conversations among students. Gracie and you walked dodging groups of people until you spotted your brother's car parked near the trees. There, leaning against the metal bodywork, were your brother and Beau Maxwell. Both wore serious expressions, analyzing the technical details of the last goal of the game like good athletes, but they didn't look as devastated as the hockey team guys. After all, they belonged to the football team and viewed the rivalry from a slightly more external perspective.
âWhat a heart-stopping ending,â your brother said as soon as he saw you approach, opening his arms to give you a half hug. âI thought Garrett had won it on that last play of the third period. The puck literally grazed the post.â
âIt was a good game, they played with heart,â you replied with your usual sweet and balanced tone, seeking to maintain positive energy. âThe rival team simply took advantage of the only defensive error in overtime. That's how sports are.â
Beau Maxwell let out a dry laugh, crossing his arms over his broad varsity jacket as he looked at you with a playful smile. âWell, little doctor, get ready, because the night is very far from over for us. Despite the tragic hockey defeat, the guys already had the official post-game party planned at Garrett and Dean's house since a week ago. And knowing those idiots, they're not going to cancel the party just because of a lost game. The alcohol is going to flow at twice the speed to drown the sorrows of the scoreboard.â
âA party at the hockey guys' house?â Gracie interrupted instantly, her eyes shining with excitement and grabbing your arm tightly. â, we have to go! I beg you. You said you wanted to go home and watch your movie, but think about it: the atmosphere is going to be incredible, the whole campus is going to go console them, and we're already dressed and out of bed. You can't do this to me.â
You looked at Gracie and then at your brother, who simply shrugged with a knowing smile. Your mind went back to the image of your warm bed, your pajamas, and your hot chocolate with marshmallows. You really were tired of the hospital and psychology classes. But at the same time, a subtle and intelligent spark of curiosity ignited inside you. You knew perfectly well, after seeing Garrett and Dean's expressions on the ice upon losing the game, that those two boys were going to urgently need a presence that didn't limit itself to praising them or feeding their damaged egos. Your sweet, empathetic, and completely relaxed nature in the face of their campus star status was exactly what could help them come down from the cloud of frustration in which they were submerged.
âAlright, okay. Let's go to the hockey guys' party for a bit,â you finally yielded with an angelic smile and an extremely tender little voice that made Gracie let out a victory scream in the middle of the parking lot. âBut on one condition, Gracie: at the first sign of people getting too intense or the guys starting to break things out of frustration over the defeat, we go straight back to the apartment to watch my romantic comedy.â
âDone! You are the best friend in the entire universe!â Gracie exclaimed, practically dragging you toward the back seat of your brother's car, while Beau got into the passenger seat laughing at the dynamics between the two of you.
The drive to the famous hockey guys' house, located on one of the main fraternity streets near the Briar campus, was quick. As they approached, the music with powerful bass that made the windows of neighboring houses vibrate and the rows of cars parked on the sidewalks confirmed Beau's words: the defeat had not stopped the university's plans. Garrett and Dean's house, an imposing wood and brick structure with a large front porch, was already surrounded by students holding the classic red plastic cups, chatting under the light of the public streetlamps.
You walked alongside Gracie, your brother, and Beau toward the main entrance. You subtly adjusted your oversize pastel sweatshirt that let your shoulder drop in that very cute and carefree way, breathing in the fresh college night air. You knew perfectly well that crossing that door meant finding yourself at the epicenter of Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis' territory; a territory where they used to reign with arrogance and confidence, but which that night was inhabited by the ghost of a lost game. Your presence there, with that sweet, intelligent attitude completely removed from the drama of their love lives with Hannah and Allie, was going to be the trigger for a high-tension dynamic that neither of the elite athletes saw coming.
Retribution on the Back Porch (Garrett & Hannah)
Away from the noise of the living room, in the darkest corner of the house's back porch, Hannah Wells had Garrett Graham cornered against the wooden railing. Hannah stood with her arms crossed, looking at him with narrowed eyes full of a very obvious feminine annoyance.
âAlright, Graham, are you going to explain to me what the hell happened to you during warm-ups?â Hannah dropped without beating around the bush, taking a step forward. âYou froze completely looking at the middle section stands. You almost let a puck hit your helmet because you were distracted. You've been asking about the psychology intern all over campus for two weeks, Garrett. Today you saw her, and you lost control.â
Garrett cleared his throat guiltily, feeling his cheeks tint a tender shade of pink under the moonlight. He tried to use his dimpled smile to calm her down, scratching the back of his neck nervously.
âHannah, please, babe, I was just measuring the crowd's energy... You know I play seriously.â
âDon't lie to me,â Hannah cut him off, pointing her finger firmly at him. âYou played like a madman trying to show off for row ten, not to win the game. The problem is that girl doesn't even try; she was just sitting there in a giant sweatshirt, laughing her head off at how she threw you off balance just by looking at you. She treats you like a regular classmate, and that's what has your captain's ego completely stupefied.â
Tension in the Upstairs Hallway (Dean & Allie)
Meanwhile, in the second-floor hallway, right next to the stairs where nobody would interrupt them, Allie Hayes had Dean Di Laurentis pressed against the wall. Allie's cheeks were flushed with a mix of wounded pride and pure jealousy.
âAre you going to tell me you were 'focused' too, Di Laurentis?â Allie confronted him, letting out a dry, frustrated laugh. âI could swear you almost took a rival defender's eye out lifting your stick to point euphorically at section four. And then you winked at her. It was ridiculous, Dean.â
Dean ran a hand through his blonde hair, maintaining that lazy smirk he always used as a shield, though inside he was praying the matter wouldn't escalate.
âAllie, babe, I was just saying hi to an acquaintance from the hospital. It's just good manners.â
âAn acquaintance? It was her. The same girl from Malone's Pub,â Allie sentenced, crossing her arms in indignation. âI saw perfectly how your face changed the second you spotted her in the stands. You didn't give a damn about the game, Dean; you were playing on the edge of penalties just because she was watching. What bothers me most is that she doesn't even flinch at your star status; it's obvious she has you in the palm of her hand and that drives you crazy.â
The atmosphere on the ground floor of the house was a breeding ground for college hormones, thumping bass music, and the pungent smell of cheap beer mixed with sweat. However, the kitchen functioned as a sort of neutral and silent bunker, illuminated by the white light of the overhead fluorescents.
Dean Di Laurentis was the first to enter, slamming the wooden door behind him. He came down from the second floor with a look that could have melted the rink's ice. He crossed his arms, leaning heavily against the granite center island, letting out a curse under his breath as he recalled Allie's jealousy-filled words. His male pride was bruised twice over: first by the bitter goal in sudden death and now by being cornered in the hallway upstairs.
Just a couple of minutes later, the back door connecting to the porch opened and Garrett Graham walked into the kitchen. His jaw was so tight that the muscles in his neck stood out under his black T-shirt. His brown hair still looked a bit damp from a quick shower in the locker rooms, and his cheeks maintained a subtle trace of pink from the scolding Hannah had just given him outside.
The two boys looked at each other in silence. They were best friends, they knew each other perfectly, but the athlete code prevented them from admitting that their respective girls had just sentenced them for the same reason. Neither opened his mouth to tell the drama that had just unfolded.
âDavenport is a fucking cheater,â Dean spat, desperately seeking to deflect his frustration toward the game as he opened the fridge to pull out a couple of cold beers. âThe ref should've called that foul against Logan in the corner. It's a complete joke.â
âIt doesn't matter anymore, Dean. We lost,â Garrett replied in his captain's voice, gruff and muted by exhaustion. He took the bottle his friend handed him and took a long swig, leaning against the counter. âHell awaits us at Monday's practice with the coach. I just... want to change the fucking energy of tonight.â
Both shared the same silent thought. Their minds were fixed on section four of the stands. On the girl who had looked at them with a mix of amusement and coolness, staying completely removed from their status as campus gods. The frustration of knowing they had only half-impressed her was eating them alive.
It was exactly at that moment of maximum tension that the kitchen doorknob turned.
Beau Maxwell walked in first, with his imposing football player presence, laughing out loud at an inside joke with your brother. Behind them appeared Gracie, who looked around the room with curiosity, and finally, you appeared.
Crossing the threshold, the contrast with the house's chaos was immediate.
You weren't wearing the oversize sweatshirt they had seen you in in the stands. Instead, you walked in wearing a beautiful blue dress that hugged your silhouette with total delicacy, highlighting your figure in a spectacular and elegant way. The blue color made your skin look radiant under the kitchen lights, and your loose hair fell in perfect waves over your shoulders, releasing that subtle and comforting scent of vanilla. But what truly caused a strike of lightning in the room was the item you wore over it: you were wearing Beau Maxwell's enormous, massive, and heavy varsity football jacket. It was giant on you, covering part of the dress, and the sleeves almost hid your hands, giving you an incredibly sweet, sexy, and cozy look all at once.
The second your figure appeared in their field of vision with that clothing combination, silence fell over the kitchen like a liquid nitrogen bomb.
Garrett and Dean's eyes lit up in a millisecond, but for Dean, the blow hit straight to the stomach noticing you were wearing his own best friend's clothes. It was an identical physical reaction in both: Garrett froze the beer bottle halfway to his mouth, his dark eyes fixed on the varsity letters embroidered on your back. Dean, for his part, wiped his lazy expression instantly; he snapped upright from the granite island, locking an intensely possessiva and savage frustration-laden gaze first on the jacket and then on Beau.
Seeing you there, in their own kitchen, looking gorgeous in a blue dress but wrapped in his best friend's clothes, generated a devastating short circuit in Dean's already bruised ego.
âLook who we have here,â Beau said with his usual total confidence, walking toward the fridge and passing a protective hand over the back of your jacket, completely oblivious to (or purposely enjoying) the death glares being thrown at him. âThe fallen heroes of hockey. I brought little  well-bundled because it's unbearably cold outside. Let's see if her psychology skills can fix those sour faces you guys are sporting, brother.â
Your brother laughed, standing on the other side. âYeah, because if we depend on pizza to cheer you up, we're all going to get depressed. Hey, Graham. Di Laurentis.â
You took a step forward, slipping out of your brother's grip with total naturalness, as you pulled up the giant sleeves of Beau's jacket that were slipping over your hands. You took a glance at the two hockey players and let out a small laugh, a clean, melodious, and extremely sweet sound that contrasted with the heavy tension in the room.
âHi, guys,â you greeted with your soft and playful little voice, looking at them intently with that analytical yet tender gaze. âBeau is right, you have faces that could scare anyone. I'll remind you it's just one game and you played amazingly. I don't want to have to treat you in the ER on Monday for excess stress, okay?â
Garrett took a step toward you, ignoring your brother and fixing his dark eyes on your face, making a superhuman effort to maintain his gentlemanly tone, though his voice sounded noticeably lower, raspy, and thick with restrained tension.
âWe're really glad you came, ,â Garrett said, sweeping his gaze down your blue dress before locking intently onto the jacket's collar. âBlue looks good on you. Although... I thought Briar's hockey team had better options to cover you from the cold than the football faculty, even if it comes from Beau.â
Dean couldn't help himself and stepped forward instantly, shamelessly moving into your line of sight to displace his captain. He looked at Beau with a raised eyebrow and an implicit best-friends warning, before locking his eyes onto you with an intensity that goosebumped your skin. His charming smirk returned, but the possessiveness in his voice was impossible to hide.
âGraham is right, babe, and it kills me to admit it,â Dean chimed in, leaning slightly toward you so your vanilla scent would envelop him. âThat blue dress is a masterpiece, but my dearest best friend here has a bad habit of lending his clothes to girls who look way too good in them. If you were cold, you only had to ask me. I bet my team sweatshirt would've kept you a thousand times warmer than Maxwell's, and you wouldn't have to carry around all that excess football fabric.â
Beau just let out a loud laugh, raising his hands in peace but winking at you, thoroughly enjoying seeing Dean Di Laurentis lose his cool for the first time all semester.
You shook your head with total coolness, deeply amused by the immediate and obvious jealousy scene both had just thrown in less than two minutes. The storms of Hannah and Allie were still upstairs, but down there in the kitchen, your subtle, relaxed flirting had just shaken the very foundation of Dean and Beau's friendship for control of the night.
