Please use the correct tags for your oneshots. If I’m looking for Garrett Graham x Reader, I shouldn’t end up reading Dean Di Laurentis x Reader instead and vice versa. Misleading tags just to push your work is really annoying, and I’ve seen a lot of people doing this lately.
I'm sorry. Like... I'M FREAKING SORRY but how come it's the first time - after MANY, MANY, MANY rewatches - I notice Hannah grabbing - ACTIVELY GRABBING - a fistful of Garrett's shirt?! I mean!!! 🤌🏼🔥
I wish he would take better care of himself. He's pushed himself to the brink of burnout.
I know there's no malice in his actions but boy I do feel for the people who've been waiting to see him live this past year and got the show cancelled last minute. People save money and book flights just to see him and it's not fair.
He needed a break, to take some time off and deal with those damn tonsils. Instead he pushed and pushed and pushed and now we're back at square one.
He said he's gonna be good at Bludfest and I wanna believe him, but sure as hell my mood getting on that plane for Prague on Friday will not be the best.
Maybe it's just me but, if people sends you asks with stories ideas, wouldn't it be at least cool to tell them if you don't want to write it? Authors have, of course, TOTAL CONTROL on what they wanna write or not, but at least let people down easy and let them know.
garrett graham x f!reader
Word Count: 5K
Rating: E
Summary: You're the ESPN sports commentator who went viral for your interview with Garrett Graham, and tonight you unexpectedly run into him while you're out dancing with your friend.
Warning: (MDNI 18+), alcohol, flirting, teasing/witty banter, language, fluff, feelings, mutual pining, intense eye contact, sexual touching, pet names, smutty allusions, i don't want to say too much to avoid spoiling the story, but basically garrett's perfect
A/N: I've been writing this ever since I started watching the show. First Garrett fic... I'm very nervous to be posting in the Off Campus fandom! But Garrett is such a green flag, and I really loved his character. Since Belmont is 28, I'm imagining Garrett to be the same age in this fic. And shocker… he's a professional hockey player for the Bruins, and the boys are on the team too. Hope this not-totally-but-kinda canon universe appeals to peeps. GIF found HERE by @tylrgalpins
Support creators. Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
This job was hard. Not just because of the long hours, the travel, or the pressure of live television. Those things were tough, sure. But the harder part? Being a woman doing it.
The sexism was real, and it was relentless.
There were the obvious things—the comments about your appearance, the assumption that you didn't know the sports as well as your male counterparts, the fans who thought your job was to stand on the sideline and look pretty. But it was the subtle stuff that got under your skin more. It was the way some coaches wouldn't make eye contact during interviews. It was the locker room access you had to fight for. It was the producer who suggested you smile more during game analysis. It was the constant need to prove you belonged in the booth.
It had not been an easy road. You graduated from college and paid your dues in the minor leagues first. Small-market radio stations where you'd do play-by-play for high school football games on Friday nights, then drive two hours to cover a college basketball game Saturday. You worked the overnight shift at a regional sports network, editing highlight reels at 2 AM and writing copy that nobody would read. You freelanced for websites that didn't pay, just to build a portfolio. You covered local teams for newspapers that were hemorrhaging money, knowing that one good story might get noticed.
Then came the regional gigs—cable sports networks in mid-sized markets where you finally got on camera. You would anchor the 10 PM sportscast, conduct sideline interviews at minor league baseball games, and file reports from high school state tournaments. You would pitch story ideas constantly and were networking at every press event.
And then, finally, you got the call last year. ESPN wanted you as a sideline reporter.
You cried in your car in the parking lot of your neighborhood grocery store.
A few weeks later, you were still settling into your new Manhattan apartment when your boss handed you a major assignment: cover a critical post-game hockey segment with Garrett Graham. Hockey wasn't a beat you covered often. You spent so much time beforehand digging through tape, studying his nuances, and preparing harder than you'd ever prepared for anything. Partly because you were still trying to establish credibility at ESPN, and because you wanted to show you could handle any assignment thrown your way.
Garrett had a brutal game against Tampa Bay. Sloppy passes, missed assignments, looked like he was playing in slow motion. The kind of game that makes a forward want to disappear into the locker room and avoid the cameras entirely.
The arena air hung thick with the bite of ice shavings and the sour bite of spilled sports drinks on concrete. You elbowed past the pack of reporters, mic in hand, and zeroed in on Garrett just as he tugged off his helmet. Damp strands of dark curls clung to his forehead, and the sharp tang of his sweat mixed with the faint metallic scent of his gear. His brown eyes flicked up, narrowing as he clocked you pushing closer.
"That wasn't the Garrett Graham we usually see out there tonight," you said, voice even despite the way your heart thudded against your ribs. "You missed what—four, five passes in the first two periods alone? Weak coverage on their second-line wingers, zero offensive drive when you had possession. What happened out there?"
Garrett's eyebrows shot up. He blinked once, slow, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh that didn't reach his eyes. His shoulders stayed rigid under the soaked jersey, but something in his posture shifted—like you had just body-checked him.
"Jesus," he muttered, dragging a gloved hand over his mouth. The leather smelled like old sweat and tape. "Damn, straight for the jugular, huh? You actually sound like you watched the entire game."
You caught the way his nostrils flared on the exhale, the low rumble of his chuckle vibrating through the space between you. The crowd noise pressed in, but his focus stayed pinned on your face.
"I did watch. You looked checked out after the second period. Was it the physical play wearing you down, or something else pulling your focus?"
He shifted his weight, skates scraping the floor. "Wearing me down? Nah. I thrive on that. Tonight was just... off. Legs felt heavy, reads were slow."
"Yeah, you were a half-second behind on every play."
He arched an eyebrow at you.
"And heavy legs after a few shifts?" Your fingers tightened around the mic as you stepped closer. "That's your excuse for not dominating the boards like you usually do? You were letting Tampa push you around. What's the real reason you couldn't find your game?" Garrett's smirk widened, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, not wandering down your body like the way other players had done in the past.
"I guess… I got in my own head after that first bad turnover," his gloved fingers started tapping his stick. "Kept trying to force plays instead of playing simple."
The ice shavings crunched under shifting feet around you, the cold air biting your cheeks while you pressed on. "Forcing plays because you were rattled? That doesn't sound like the captain who leads this team. How do you shake that when there's still time on the clock?"
He dragged a hand over his jaw, the leather creaking, and a genuine warmth crept into his expression. "Shake it? You don't always. Sometimes you eat the mistake and keep skating."
You held his gaze, noting the way his posture softened just a fraction. "Whatever's weighing on you, it showed."
Garrett's mouth curved into a small, sincere smile, the cocky edge fading as he met your intensity head-on.
"That was—" you lowered the mic, voice sharpening, "—one of the worst performances of your entire career. You might want to fix that before it drags the team down with you."
Garrett's eyes lit with something appreciative and smiled with all of his teeth. He turned directly toward the camera, and said:
"You heard her. I gotta get my shit together."
The clip went viral. See…Garrett was notoriously private. Guys around the Bruins organization knew it. The media knew it too. He didn't love the press—never had. Short answers were his specialty. A grunt here, a grunt there. But after a loss? Forget about it. He gave you nothing. Just stare at his skates and wait for you to get the hint that the interview was over.
So naturally… social media exploded.
Your boss called you into his office the next morning, and you braced for something—a complaint from the Bruins' coach, maybe, or a lecture about "maintaining relationships." Instead, he grinned so wide you could see his molars. The takes of your interview multiplied overnight. Sports podcasts ran the footage in slow motion, analyzing every micro-expression. Morning shows replayed it on repeat. Your mentions went from a few hundred per week to thousands per day.
The consensus crystallized fast: you were a reporter with a backbone. Most of your peers tiptoed around Garrett Graham, terrified of getting iced out. You didn't let his reputation dictate your questions. You treated him like a professional who owed the fans accountability—not a fragile ego who needed coddling just because of who he was. Or who his father was. The other thing they couldn't stop talking about:
He smiled in the interview.
He even agreed with you on camera.
You'd gotten a version of Garrett Graham that no one else ever had.
You had managed to score tickets from a coworker to an exclusive club—a treat for Kayla, your best friend who you had known since you were kids. She was visiting from Chicago. The night was already off to a great start: dinner at Carbone and grabbing cocktails at Lovers of Today. You two were now sitting in your VIP booth, your laughter filling the air as she shared her most recent 'sex gone wrong' story with some one-night stand. Candles had been involved, and they almost set his apartment on fire. As you doubled over, tears streaming down your face, and sipped on your Piña colada, a familiar melody began to filter through the speakers, causing you to pause mid-sentence.
Your eyes widened in excitement as you wiped away your tears. "No way, is that what I think it is?"
"Yes!" she screamed, as she recognized the opening notes of your favorite song—Dancing On My Own.
Somebody said you got a new friend
Does she love you better than I can?
And there's a big black sky over my town
I know where you're at, I bet she's around
Without missing a beat, Kayla grinned and reached for your hand, pulling you up from your seat. As the song continued to play, a rush of memories flooded back to you, and you were instantly transformed back to being younger, having carefree fun, and not paying any bills.
I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh
I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh
And I'm giving it my all
I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh
I keep dancing on my own, ah
You confidently swayed your hips to the catchy beat, and put on your karaoke voice, intertwining with Robyn. Your body moved fluidly as you ran your fingers through your hair, your eyes closed as you belted out every note.
I just wanna dance all night
And I'm all messed up, I'm so out of line, yeah
Stilettos and broken bottles
I'm spinning around in circles
Kayla's movements become bolder and more seductive, drawing the attention of onlookers due to her uninhibited display. Some chuckled amusedly, while some others cheered her on, and she playfully winked at the audience, inviting them to join in on the fun.
And I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her, oh
And I'm right over here, why can't you see me? Oh
And I'm giving it my all
But I'm not the guy you're taking home, ooh
I keep dancing on my own
And oh, nah
You twirled and spun as you let yourself be consumed by the music. You and Kayla threw your hands up in the air, grinning from ear to ear as you danced with abandon as you got closer to the end of the song.
So far away, but still so near
The lights come on, the music dies
But you don't see me standing here
Your audience erupted into applause, cheering and clapping once you both sang the final notes of the song.
You bowed dramatically, both giggling at all the whistles, and then started walking back to your table. "Damn girl, you looked good out there shaking that ass," Kayla said while adjusting her top to make sure her tits didn't spill out and accidentally flash the entire club.
You snorted as you started to take your seat. Kayla's eyes suddenly went wide, her drink nearly slipping from her grip as she froze mid-adjustment of her top.
"Holy shit," she hissed, voice low but frantic. "Look—over there. That's Dean Di Laurentis. John Logan. John Tucker, too. And—fuck—Garrett Graham. They're right there."
Her gaze locked on the VIP booth diagonally away from you (probably 100 feet away), where suddenly four Bruins players lounged in leather seats, a parade of bottle girls swarming their table. Crystal decanters clinked, ice rattled, and the sharp tang of expensive liquor mixed with perfume and cologne hung thick in the air. Music pulsed through the floor, vibrating up through your white sneakers.
The girls leaned in close, laughing too loud, fingers brushing biceps and shoulders as they poured. Logan grinned wide, accepting the attention with an easy tilt of his head. Tucker smirked, letting one girl trace the line of his jaw. Di Laurentis leaned back with that cocky half-smile, eyes roaming every curve the servers offered. But Garrett stayed still, posture straight, jaw set. He ordered with clipped precision, fingers drumming once against the table before he accepted his glass without a single flirtatious glance.
Kayla's breathing hitched. "Please. You have to introduce me. Especially to him." She nodded toward Di Laurentis, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed tight together under the table.
You shook your head. "I don't know them."
She grabbed your wrist. "You know Garrett. Oh my god, introduce me."
"I interviewed him almost a year ago." A laugh escaped you. "That's it."
"Yeah, and he was giving you fuck-me eyes the entire time."
You hesitated, watching the way Di Laurentis's broad shoulders shifted as he accepted another pour, his laugh carrying across the space. Kayla's fingers dug in harder. You sighed, realizing you couldn't say no to your best friend.
When the bottle service girl approached your table, you leaned close and whispered something quick into her ear. She nodded, tray balanced, and crossed to the players' booth. A moment later she pointed directly at the two of you.
Garrett's head snapped around so fast his dark hair shifted. His gaze found yours across the distance. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth. You lifted your hand in a shy wave, fingers trembling just slightly. The club's bass thumped against your ribs. His stare held, steady and heated, and for the first time, you really looked at him: the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretched over solid muscle, the quiet power in the way he sat completely still while chaos swirled around him.
Damn. He was hot.
The four hockey players crossed the space between booths with that easy swagger. Logan and Tucker slid in first, flashing grins already ordering another round before the conversation even got started. Dean claimed the seat beside Kayla, already leaning close, his hand brushing her thigh as she laughed too loud at something he said. Garrett lowered himself next to you, his massive frame making the seat creak. He kept a respectful distance, one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other resting on his knee. Everyone introduced themselves.
"So, how do you two know each other?" Logan asked.
Kayla smiled. "We grew up playing tennis together. We were on the USTA Junior Team."
"I didn't realize you were a college athlete," Dean said, eyebrows raising in surprise while he looked at you.
You shook your head, a little shy. "I wasn't. I tore my ACL my senior year of high school…"
The table fell into sympathetic silence, everyone giving you that "that sucks" look. You shrugged, trying to brush it off. But then you caught Garrett's eyes, and something about his gaze made you pause. While the others looked at you with the familiar weight of pity (that practiced sympathy reserved for fallen athletes). Garrett was looking at you differently. He was looking at you with complete respect. Like you were still standing, still strong, and still someone. Like your story didn't end when your ACL tore—it just changed direction.
"She was definitely the way better player, though," Kayla added.
"Not true," you rolled your eyes. "Kayla actually got a full-ride and played at Florida."
Dean, intrigued, started talking to her about tennis, asking about her college matches and favorite players.
You winked at her while she mouthed: thank you
Meanwhile, Tucker and Logan quickly excused themselves to head to the bar when they recognized someone. "Be right back," Tucker said, waving as they made their way through the crowd.
You sipped your Piña Colada, the rum and coconut coating your tongue. The air smelled like warm skin.
"Long time no see," Garrett said in the kind of tone that vibrated straight down your spine.
"Uh… yeah," you answered, teeth catching your lower lip.
His mouth curved, slow and knowing. "I figured I'd run into you eventually. You seem to be everywhere these days, covering something."
"Occupational hazard."
"Well… you make it look easy."
You arched a brow. "Thank you, but trust me, it's fucking insanity behind the scenes."
Garrett chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly soft for a man his size. "Fair enough."
The banter flowed easily, his eyes never leaving your face. Then his gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, tracing the way the blue spaghetti-strap mini dress hugged every curve. "I like your dress."
"I bet you do," you teased, tilting your head.
"I liked watching you dance," he added, and the eye contact turned molten. Heat crawled up your neck.
"You saw that?" you shifted, suddenly self-conscious. "God, I'm such a terrible dancer."
Garrett's expression softened, the MVP edge melting into something gentler. "You looked happy. That's all I saw." Before you could answer, a gorgeous woman appeared at the edge of the booth. Massive tits strained against her tiny top, and she flashed Garrett a dazzling smile.
"Oh my god, you're Garrett Graham. I'm your biggest fan. Can I get a picture?"
"I appreciate that, but I'm actually here with friends," Garrett said. He didn't gesture at anyone or make a show of it. "I'm trying to keep a low profile tonight."
You could tell the second the words left his mouth that he meant it. His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, the way they did in post‑game scrums when too many cameras angled his way. It wasn't annoyance…more like resignation. Like this was the part of his life he tolerated, and didn't enjoy.
"Oh my god, I won't tag you or anything. It's just for me," she said quickly, her smile turning almost pleading.
You watched the desperation flicker across her face—the way her fingers fidgeted with her phone, how her eyes had gone a little too bright. She wasn't trying to be malicious. She was just a fan...or maybe a puck bunny.
You stood, smoothing your dress. "I was just heading to the restroom anyway."
Garrett's jaw tightened, clearly unhappy you were leaving, but he offered the girl a brief, polite smile and leaned in for the quick photo (no flash) and then signed a napkin for her. You slipped away through the crowd, the music pulsing against your skin.
Inside the private bathroom, cool marble met your palms as you washed your hands. The door suddenly rattled with hard, impatient knocks.
"Hold on," you called.
The banging continued.
"What the fuck," you muttered, drying your hands and yanking the door open.
Garrett stood there, eyes dark. He pushed inside, kicked the door shut, locked it, and backed you against the wall behind you in one fluid motion. His huge hands caught both of yours and pinned them above your head. Then his mouth crashed down on yours. His tongue pushed past your lips, stroking deep, tasting every corner of your mouth while he groaned low in his throat. You tasted whiskey and mint on him, felt the hard press of his body pinning you in place.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. "Baby," he whispered, voice rough with need. "Missed you so fucking much."
His free hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before cupping your ass and squeezing. He nipped at your bottom lip, then soothed it with another slow, tongue-heavy kiss that left you dizzy.
Your phone had lit up two days after the interview went viral.
A DM on Instagram from garrettg.44: Looks like you're a hit, Ace.
SheSpeaksSports: Didn't realize hockey players checked their own press.
garrettg.44: Only when the sports commentator makes me look good. You free for a drink when I'm in New York next week?
Your stomach did something stupid. You ignored it.
SheSpeaksSports: I don't date athletes.
It wasn't just a rule; it was self-preservation. You had seen a few colleagues over the years blur the lines between objectivity and attraction, had seen the fallout when a relationship imploded. Your credibility was everything in this fucking sports media world.
garrettg.44: Good thing I'm not asking you out. This is a 'thanks for getting my ass in gear' drink. I would never ask a woman out like this. What kind of men have you been dating? A real gentleman always asks in person. Trust me—you'll know when I'm asking you out on a date.
SheSpeaksSports: Still don't date athletes.
Athletes meant groupies, road trips, and a lifestyle built on constant external validation. You had covered enough locker rooms to know how that went. The temptation wasn't even the problem—it was that they didn't see it as temptation. It was just... there. Available. Hockey players specifically. Weren't they notoriously the worst cheaters? Actually, no—that was unfair. All athletes were notoriously the worst cheaters in entertainment. The sport didn't matter. The infrastructure was the same: travel, adoration, and zero consequences for bad behavior as long as they could still score.
garrettg.44: Then I'll just have to change your mind in person.
You stared at that message for a long time. The confidence in it. The certainty. It was like he had already decided how this would go.
Back in the bathroom, Garrett's thumb stroked your wrist where he still held you pinned.
Clearly, you had broken your 'no-dating-athletes' rule.
"Ace, this dress is killing me," he murmured against your mouth, kissing you again, slower this time. You loved the way his body curved protectively around yours. His fingers on his free hand were tracing the hem of your dress, and rising higher. He smiled against your lips when you gasped.
Garrett's mouth curved into that slow, crooked smirk as he leaned back.
"Are you stalking me?" you teased, voice light even though your pulse still hammered from the kiss.
"You wish," he smirked. "Dean wanted to come here. This is a happy coincidence."
The secrecy still felt surreal sometimes. Keeping Garrett at arm's length in public, pretending nothing was there when you wanted to touch and kiss him. The team was currently taking some time off after the Cup Win. Garrett deserved this break. Garrett had been staying with you since the celebration, which had been perfect. The Cup win had been everything a few weeks ago—watching him hoist it, knowing what he had poured into this season.
The way he fucked you that night was like nothing you had ever experienced.
But now Kayla was visiting this weekend, and so Garrett booked a hotel to keep up appearances and pretend he was here for some endorsement meeting. He was hanging out with the boys this weekend. Tucker and Logan were staying with Dean. You almost told Kayla once months ago (almost let it slip), but she shut that down fast. Kayla had seen the risk immediately and understood how it could complicate things for you as a sports commentator when you told her you had fallen for an athlete.
The less I know, the better. Im a blabber mouth and would feel terrible if I accidentally said something.
So, you and Garrett kept your relationship private. There were only two other people who absolutely needed to know: the Bruins coach and your boss. You both were upfront with them once things got serious, and they had been surprisingly understanding and agreed that you should keep things discreet for now.
The rule was simple: You couldn't cover any Bruins games. Which wasn't the end of the world because hockey wasn't your usual segment. But it sucked that you couldn't formally support your man on the air.
You pushed Garrett's chest until he dropped onto the closed toilet seat. The porcelain creaked under his weight. You climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thick thighs, the hem of your blue dress riding high. Garrett groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight between your legs.
A thin strap slipped off your shoulder. His eyes darkened. "Fuck, baby," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Look at you." His hand cupped the bare skin, thumb stroking slow circles. "So fucking beautiful."
Your head tipped back, a wrecked moan shuddering through you under his attentive care. You rocked forward, grinding down against his cock straining inside his pants.
"God, Garrett. You're so... fucking big."
He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking up.
"Christ," he rasped, and mouthed at your breast through your dress. "Dirty fucking girl,"
You shuddered, a low, needy whine escaping your throat. "Only for you."
His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. Those big brown eyes locked onto yours, soft and open and completely unguarded. "Ace," he breathed. "I love you."
"I love you too," you whispered back.
You kissed down the column of his throat, tongue flicking over his pulse point. He tasted like salt and expensive aftershave. His head tipped back, and a broken groan slipped free. But then his body suddenly went still beneath you.
"What's wrong?" you asked, pulling back.
Garrett's jaw flexed. "Ace, you deserve better than me fucking you in here.
"It's not like it's the first time we've have sex in a public bathroom," you teased.
"I think it's time… it's time we announce our relationship."
The words hit like ice water. You slid off his lap so fast the room tilted. Cool marble met your palms as you braced against the mirror. Your reflection stared back—kinda wild hair, kiss-swollen lips, wide eyes. Behind you, Garrett's massive frame filled the space, shoulders tense, brows drawn together in worry.
"Garrett, we've talked about this," you mumbled.
He stepped forward so your back pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. You could feel every hard plane of muscle through his shirt, the steady thump of his heart against your spine. His reflection met yours in the mirror—eyes soft, mouth set in a determined line.
"We've been doing this for nearly a year," he murmured. "I'm tired of hiding and pretending I don't have a girlfriend."
Your stomach twisted. "When people find out, I'm going to be ridiculed."
"You're not," he said, rolling his eyes but keeping his tone gentle. He spun you so you faced him, leaning back against the counter and pulling you between his spread thighs. His hands rested warm and steady on your hips. "You got to ESPN before we ever met."
"But you know how it is for a woman in this industry. One rumor, and suddenly I'm the girl who slept her way to interviews instead of earning them. I've fought for every single segment, every on-air opportunity. I've had to be twice as prepared as my male colleagues just to get half the respect."
Garrett's eyebrows furrowed. "I know I'll never get it. Not really, since men don't go through this bullshit. But I hate watching you shrink yourself for other people's opinions."
"It's not just about shrinking," I said, my voice trembling slightly with frustration. "Do you understand what's going to happen? My colleagues—the ones I've worked alongside, who've finally started seeing me as a serious commentator—they're going to look at me differently. They're already skeptical of women in sports media. Now I'm dating a player? Suddenly every good interview I've gotten, every story I've broken, it all becomes suspect. He helped her. He knew someone. She's only on air because—"
"Because you're talented as hell," he interrupted firmly.
"That won't matter," you said, pulling away slightly. "Not to everyone. And the worst part? Some of them will be nice about it. They'll smile and congratulate us, but in meetings, they'll wonder if I can be objective. They'll second-guess my analysis. They might even pull me off covering certain teams or players. This just wouldn't be a good look."
"Do you not—" Garrett's shoulders hunched slightly, suddenly self-conscious. His big hands flexed on your hips, "—want to be public because it's specifically me?"
"Of course not," you said quickly, reaching up to cup his jaw. Stubble rasped against your palms. "God, no. I love you. But…I've worked so hard to be taken seriously. "We've been in this beautiful private bubble. When it goes public, everyone's opinions is going to get inside our relationship. I know it has to happen eventually, but I'm terrified." You hesitated, hating how vulnerable this made you feel. "Not because it's you—never. I'm terrified of what it means for us. And I hate that I even have to think about that."
He watched the way your lower lip trembled and leaned in, pressing soft kisses across your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose.
"What if people don't react the way you think?"
You almost laughed. "Garrett, come on. You know how this works. You've dealt with people calling you a nepo baby because of your father. You’re objectively one of the best hockey players in the league right now, better than your father ever was. But people still say it."
"Yeah… they do. And here's what I finally figured out after years of letting it get under my skin. It's just noise. Who fucking cares? Anyone who matters will see what I see—a brilliant, driven woman who earned her place through hard work. The rest? Fuck 'em."
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to
"I don't want to take separate flights when we go on vacation. I don't want date nights limited to our apartments. I don't want to pretend we just 'ran into each other' at restaurants my team booked out in advance." Garrett pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't want to leave events in staggered cars or walk into hotels through service entrances. I don't want to hide behind tinted windows, PR-approved alibis, or carefully timed exits. I want to hold your hand in daylight," He watched the corners of your mouth twitch. "I want to sit next to you at an event instead of three seats away. I want to post a picture without cropping you out. I want to kiss you without worrying about who's watching," He swallowed thickly. "I want the whole fucking world to know you're mine."
Your fingers curled into his shirt. "Trust me, I want that too."
"Ace," he said, voice dropping even lower, "the ESPY awards are next month. I want you on my arm that night."
Your breath caught. "That's such a public event."
"Yes," he said simply, still kissing every inch of your face he could reach. "Promise me you'll think about it?"
A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. "I guess it would be nice if people knew, so girls would stop pawing at you."
Garrett huffed a laugh. "That's not gonna stop."
You slapped his arm, the sound sharp in the small room. "I promise I'll think about it."
He grinned, pulling you closer until your bodies aligned perfectly, the heat of him seeping into your skin. His fingers traced slow circles on your lower back while his gaze stayed locked on yours—steady, patient, and so full of love it made your chest ache. The muffled bass from the club vibrated through the walls, but in here it was just the two of you.
And that felt perfect.
SECRET RELATIONHIP!!! (one of my fav tropes lol)
Maybe a part 2?
NPT: @bitters-n-sweets - you're the only person I know in this fandom lmao.
Summary: You are moving into the Leister mansion after tragically losing your father in a plane crash. He worked for William Leister, who immediately offered to take you in. The problem? His son, Nick Leister, who is far from pleased about having a stranger living under his roof.
Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment. The fanfic will likely contain strong language, violence, and adult content. Minors should not engage with it.
five
SIX
Every curious eye in the room follows you and Nick the moment you step into the grand ballroom. The charity gala is already in full swing, the venue glowing beneath crystal chandeliers that cast warm light over polished marble floors and elegantly dressed guests. Conversations soften for a moment as heads turn in your direction. It is impossible not to notice the attention.
Flashes from photographers burst from the entrance, capturing every detail, the confident way Nick carries himself, and the unmistakable chemistry between the two of you. Whispers spread through the crowd of London's wealthy elite as guests subtly glance your way before pretending they are not staring.
Nick's hand remains firmly at the small of your back, a steady presence guiding you forward through the sea of people.
"Don't be nervous," he murmurs against your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear it.
The warmth of his breath sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.
You glance around at the dozens of eyes fixed on you, some curious, some admiring, and some clearly eager for gossip.
"Everyone is looking at me," you reply quietly, forcing a smile as another camera flash lights up the room.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your clutch. Nick lets out a soft laugh beside you.
"Not just you," he says, leaning closer. "They're looking at both of us."
His confidence makes it sound effortless, as if walking into a room full of strangers eager to judge him is something he has done his entire life.
Maybe it is. But standing beside him, with his hand still resting against your back and his attention focused entirely on you, makes the overwhelming attention feel just a little easier to bear.
“Probably you’re used to being watched like that,” you say softly, taking a step back from him.
The moment you create a little distance, Nick catches your hand before you can get far.
“Hey,” he says, his grip firm but not rough, his voice low enough to stay between you. “Stay by my side and I can help you survive tonight.”
You glance up at him, unimpressed despite the way his fingers are still wrapped around yours. “And what do you get out of helping me?”
Nick’s mouth curves into a smile, and for a second you honestly do not understand what is so amusing.
“Your company,” he says, as if that should be enough to satisfy you. “And my father will be pleased to know I am looking after his newest ward.”
You roll your eyes.
"How noble of you."
"One of my best qualities."
Before you can respond, a blonde woman appears out of nowhere, moving straight toward the two of you with the kind of confidence that suggests she has never once been told no. She leans in and kisses the corner of Nick’s mouth right in front of you, catching both of you completely off guard.
Your stomach drops.
“Well, you were starting to look like you were never coming, darling,” the woman says in a smooth voice, her pale eyes flicking over the two of you with immediate, obvious possession.
“Anna,” Nick says sharply, his jaw tightening. “Do not make me humiliate you in front of everyone. We ended that a long time ago.”
You shift awkwardly, already wanting to disappear into the crowd.
Anna barely seems to notice you moving back. Instead, her gaze cuts toward you with open contempt.
“Better than the rumor that you are fucking your new adopted sister,” she says, the words loud enough to land like a slap.
Your face burns.
“I’m not his adopted sister,” you snap, anger rising fast enough to drown out your embarrassment.
Anna’s expression turns sly, cruel.
“Funny,” she replies, eyes dragging over you with deliberate disgust. “Because I’m pretty sure the rumor says you are spreading your legs for him.”
“And if I am?” you challenge, taking a step toward her with a look that is far more threatening than you had intended.
Anna’s expression flickers for the first time. The confidence in her face falters, just enough to reveal the fear underneath.
“You do not belong here,” she says, her voice sharpening again as if she can scare you back with words alone. “You should leave before you attack someone.”
Before the situation can escalate any further, Nick steps between the two of you, cutting through the tension with one firm movement. His body blocks hers from view, and the argument snaps into a dangerous silence.
“Anna,” he says coldly, “do not draw unnecessary attention if you do not want to be remembered as the hysterical ex who could not accept that it is over.”
For a moment, she looks like she might argue. Then the damage of being seen, of being put in her place in front of all these people, seems to hit her at once. Her jaw tightens.
Whatever she intended to say dies on her tongue. Without another word, you turn away from both of them before either can stop you.
The ballroom suddenly feels far too bright, far too loud, far too full of people pretending not to stare. You make your way to the bar at the edge of the hall, where the polished counter and rows of crystal glasses offer at least the illusion of escape.
You rest one hand on the bar and ask for a glass of champagne.
The bartender nods and reaches for a bottle.
Your pulse is still racing when you feel someone behind you.
Nick.
“You do not need to run from me,” he says, his voice quiet as he comes up beside you. A warm touch settles at your back, steadying but impossible to ignore.
You keep your gaze fixed forward, refusing to look at him for too long.
“I do need to,” you reply tightly. “Everyone is watching, and they are probably already gossiping about whatever is going on between us.”
You can feel the weight of the room pressing in from every direction, the eyes, the whispers, the speculation.
And beside you, Nick stays infuriatingly calm, as if being under a microscope is the most natural thing in the world.
After that, he gives you space for the rest of the night, and the two of you spend the party orbiting each other without ever really meeting. Every time you look up, he is somewhere else in the ballroom; laughing with guests he clearly does not care about, shaking hands, enduring introductions, wearing that infuriatingly calm expression as if the whole room does not seem to revolve around him.
And yet, even when he is out of sight, you still feel him. The worst part is that everyone else seems to notice it too.
By the time Mr. William Leister introduces you as his ward and a wonderful new friend to his son, the attention feels almost unbearable.
“This is the young woman I told you about,” William says with effortless ease, one hand resting lightly at the small of your back. “My ward, and, if Nick has been wise, a very dear new friend to him.”
A few polite smiles ripple through the crowd. You manage one of your own.
Nick, standing a few feet away, gives nothing away. But the look he shoots his father is sharp enough to cut glass.
Later, when the masquerade finally ends, you return home with William because Nick had left earlier. The ride is quiet, the city outside streaked with rain and golden reflections from the streetlights.
At the front door, William pauses and turns to you.
“I am not sleeping here tonight,” he says. “Feel free to make yourself at home. The house is yours as much as anyone’s.”
“Thank you,” you reply softly.
He nods once, then leaves you alone with the silence.
You head upstairs, finally relieved to escape the noise, the eyes, the whispered gossip. Your heels click softly against the floor as you make your way toward your room.
When you push the door open, you stop short. Nick is inside. For a second, neither of you speaks.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice careful.
Nick leans back against the edge of your bed, like he has been waiting for this moment for far too long.
“I wanted to see you.”
You shut the door behind you a little too firmly. “You had all night.”
“I know.”
“Then why now?”
His eyes stay on yours. “Because every time I tried to talk to you, you walked away.”
“I was not walking away from you.”
A faint, skeptical smile appears on his face. “You were absolutely walking away from me.”
You cross your arms. “Maybe I was walking away from everyone.”
“No,” he says, quieter now. “Just me.”
The way he says it makes your throat tighten, but you refuse to let it show. You take a step forward, and then another.
“Why are you in my room, Nick?”
He pushes off the bed and straightens, suddenly too close, though he still keeps a careful distance between you.
“I wanted to be alone with you.”
The honesty in his voice catches you off guard.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It probably is.”
“Then maybe that is a bad idea.”
Nick looks at you for a long moment, like he is deciding whether to tell the truth or keep teasing you. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“Everything about you feels like a bad idea.”
You stare at him, the words landing hard.
“That was supposed to make me feel better?”
“It was supposed to be honest.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then your gaze drifts to the back of your dress. You exhale sharply, suddenly aware of how tense and uncomfortable you feel after the whole night. Nick notices immediately.
“You are still stuck in that thing,” he says.
“Thank you for pointing out the obvious.”
His mouth twitches. “Turn around. I will help.”
You hesitate. “Are you always this confident?”
“Only when I have a good reason.”
“And what reason is that?”
His eyes flick briefly to yours. “You have been miserable in it all night.”
You should argue. Instead, you turn. The room becomes unbearably quiet behind you. Nick steps closer, but not too close. His voice is softer now, almost careful.
“Tell me to stop if you want me to.”
That alone makes your pulse stutter.
“I will.”
A beat passes.
Then you feel his fingers at the fastening of your dress, light and precise. The touch is brief, but it sends warmth racing through you anyway.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, because saying anything else feels impossible.
Nick gives a quiet laugh. “I know.”
“It is like you have never seen a zipper before.”
“I have,” he says. “Just not on you.”
The words hang in the air. You close your eyes for a second, annoyed at the way your breathing changes.
“Nick.”
“Mm?”
“Do not make this worse.”
“I am trying very hard not to.”
His voice is almost amused, but there is something else in it too, something restrained, something that makes the silence between you feel charged.
The zipper slides down. Then Nick freezes. You feel it instantly.
Not because his hands stop moving, but because his entire presence shifts behind you, like he has just realized exactly how close he is standing and what that means.
He clears his throat. “That should do it.”
You do not turn around right away. “You sound nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
“Sure.”
He lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “You are enjoying this.”
“No, I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
You finally glance over your shoulder. “You are very full of yourself.”
“And yet you are still talking to me.”
That one almost makes you smile. Almost. Then the mood shifts again, subtle but immediate. Nick’s gaze lowers for just a second before he looks away, as though he has caught himself staring too long.
The air between you tightens. You notice it. Of course you do.
“Nick,” you say, more quietly now.
He looks back at you.
You hold his gaze and ask the question that has been pressing at the back of your throat since the moment he walked into the room.
“Why are you really here?”
His jaw flexes.
For a second, he says nothing.
Then, finally, “Because I could not stop thinking about you all night.”
Your breath catches.
He watches your reaction, and something in his face changes—less confident now, less teasing.
“I tried to leave you alone,” he says. “I really did.”
“That does not sound like you.”
“No,” he admits. “It is not.”
You turn fully toward him now, the dress loosened but still on, your heart thudding too hard in your chest.
“Then why do it?”
Nick’s expression hardens just enough to look like he has made a decision.
“Because you were right.”
You blink. “About what?”
“The room. The gossip. The way everyone looks at us.” He takes a slow step back, putting distance between you in a way that feels sudden and deliberate. “You said people were talking. You said this would get complicated.”
Your stomach drops a little. “Nick—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head once, as if he is cutting himself off before he says something worse. “You are right. And I do not want to make this harder for you.”
That is not what you expected to hear.
He looks at you one last time, and now the restraint in his voice feels almost painful.
“If being alone with me makes you uncomfortable,” he says, “then I will go.”
You stare at him, startled by the seriousness in his tone.
“I did not say I was uncomfortable.”
Nick’s eyes search yours, cautious now. “You did not have to.”
You swallow. “I just said people are already gossiping.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like you did something wrong?”
“Because maybe I did.”
The admission lands between you.
His voice drops even lower.
“I came here because I wanted one thing tonight that was not being watched, judged, or expected.” He pauses. “But if this is too much, I will leave.”
The silence stretches.
You hate how much you want him to stay.
You hate even more that he is giving you the choice.
When you finally speak, your voice is quieter than before.
“You can stay.”
Nick’s face barely changes, but you see it in his eyes—the brief flash of relief he tries to hide.
Then you add, more firmly, “But only if you stop looking at me like that.”
His mouth twitches. “Like what?”
“Like you are about to do something reckless.”
That gets a real laugh out of him, short and low.
“I will try.”
“You are terrible at trying.”
“And yet I am still here.”
For a moment, the tension softens just enough to feel dangerous in a different way. Nick glances toward the door, then back at you, as if reminding himself where the line is.
“I should let you change.”
You nod, though neither of you moves immediately.
“Nick?”
He pauses at the door. “Yeah?”
Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.
“Thank you.”
For the first time all night, he looks genuinely undone.
Then he gives you a small, unreadable smile and steps out, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the strange, unbearable quiet he leaves behind.
Then it happens. Nick comes back.
You barely have time to register it before he is already in front of you, his presence cutting through whatever fragile distance you had just managed to rebuild. There is no teasing in his expression now. No sarcasm.
“Nick...” you start, but the word never finishes.
He reaches for you and pulls you in. The kiss is immediate. Not hesitant. Not uncertain. Like he has been holding himself back all night and finally decided he is done doing it.
Your breath catches in your throat as instinct takes over, your hands moving before your thoughts can catch up, gripping his jacket as if to anchor yourself. For a second, the entire world collapses into the space between you—heat, tension, the sudden sharp awareness of how close he is.
When he deepens the kiss, it is not rushed, but it is intense enough to make your balance falter slightly, forcing you to step back until the edge of the bed hits behind your knees.
Nick follows, but stops just short of pushing further than you are willing to go. When he finally pulls away, it is only enough to breathe. Your heart is pounding too loudly.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice unsteady, more breath than sound.
Nick doesn’t look away from you. Not even for a second.
“Proving something,” he says simply.
You blink at him. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
His jaw tightens slightly, like he is choosing his words carefully for once.
“That if you wanted it,” he says, “I could be the guy who’s actually with you. Not just the one people gossip about when they look at us.”
Your voice comes out quieter now. “You do realize you’re making this more complicated.”
A faint, almost helpless smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“I think it already was.”
Silence stretches between you again, but it is different now. Charged in a way that feels irreversible. Nick exhales slowly, like he is forcing himself back into control.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs.
You don’t respond fast enough. Or maybe you just don’t want to. He lingers for one more second, looking at you like he is memorizing something he knows he shouldn’t.
Then he steps back. Turns. And leaves the room. This time, he doesn’t come back.
You guys I have a theory about the ending of your Fault London. Hear me out!
Please let me know what you think? 🙏🏼
Putting it all under the cut to avoid spoilers for people who still have to watch the movie.
- - - SPOILERS AHEAD - - -
So, basically we clearly see Nick is calm when he first speaks to Michael. But then Michael just can't help himself and rub salt in the proverbial wound. Nick is still fairly calm. Then there's the cut to Noah getting in the car and driving to Michael's house (because she knows Nick is there). Then the scene cuts again to Nick sitting on the curb with his knuckles bruised.
My theory is that Michael must have said something really bad to trigger Nick. I'm not justifying violence, because it's wrong, but I think Nick first went to Michael's house to try and understand why Noah spent the night with him not to punch the heck out of him. If that were the case, he would have kicked the door and downright punch him. Instead he took the time to ask questions.
So maybe Michael said something about Noah that Nick didn't like and he snapped. Again, not justifying his violence here. I thought he was past it.
Also, we don't know who threw the first punch. It would be logical to think it's Nick because of his past, but we can't be sure.
I also think he called the police on himself. The fact that he was sitting down on the curb gave me that impression.
Eta: as someone pointed out in the comments, yes I do also think Briar is a manipulative little bitch who's clearly not over a breakup that for all we know happened at least 3 years prior. Yes Nick apparently cheated on her but he was younger and surely dumber.
And I will reiterate that yes, even though cheating is wrong, in this case it didn't feel like a complete betrayal (like on the Spanish ones, for example) and she didn't sleep with Michael to get back at Nick, but only because she was in a very vulnerable state.
Also someone over on IG argued that they both cheated because they were "on a break" and not "broken up". Potato/potato, in my opinion. Also, Noah clearly uses the words "broke up" in their final confrontation. So yes, we can't call it cheating if two people are not together. Did it hurt? Yes they were both devastated (we are too).
Her voice note to Nick as she's driving when she says "it's a mess and it hurts but we'll figure it out" tells me everything I need to know about these two. They're very much in love and in desperate need to get their respective shit together because yes they both have issues they need to sort out. Noah has huge trust issues and Nick is sometimes too much of a hothead. To be fair, Nick did tell a couple of lies: missing her call because he was getting drunk with Sophia and not telling Noah that Cruz was working with Ronnie.
I see where he came from, I do. He didn't want Noah to think anything happened with Sophia and was trying to protect her from all her past trauma by not telling her about Ronnie. But still, you don't lie to the person you love.
Noah on the other hand is very very jealous and doesn't like being kept a secret. Which, I perfectly understand.
PS: that "I'm sorry Noah, I have to go now" and the police sirens in the background literally broke me.
