tw: swearing, 18+ (sex, sex mentions, dick mentions, dicks, everything in off campus, ed's) reader is sort of depicted as on the chubbier side. Talk of past sexual assault and past physical assault. Heavy eating disorder talk in this chapter. This ED is based on my personal experience, i'm not an expert and am not claiming to be. i read Dean's book and felt like his he experience was kind of brushed under the rug, so I wanted to go into it a little more
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I wake up to the sun pooling in, reaching over slowly, trying not to wake Y/n as i press the button for the blinds to close. She sniffs, sighing in her sleep and nuzzling closer to me, making me smile as hold her to my chest. I brushed my hand over her hair, remembering last night so vividly I could rerun it in my head without missing a detail.
I feel my cock stiffen beneath her thigh that had slid between my legs. I felt a little bad before shrugging it off, she was gorgeous, and I was in- woah.
I cleared my throat, gulping. Was this...?
No. Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, it was. I'd know her for a fucking week and I was in love with her.
Maybe this was another side effect of being a manwhore for so long.
She hums in her sleep, moving again before her pretty eyes peek open and slide up to mine. She smiles sweetly when she sees I'm looking down at her.
"Good morning, beautiful."
"Mor'nin," she slurred, pulling the blankets up more and tucking her head back under my chin. "G'night."
I chuckled, kissing her head. "Goodnight, baby." I murmured, slipping right back into sleep with her.
I wake up again a couple hours later, reaching for her and being met with an empty bed. I groan, dragging a hand over my face. I know she hadn't left, her earrings were on the bedside table- or maybe she had dashed and just forgot them.
I slid out of the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush and brushing my teeth. If she was here, I'd kiss her, and I'm sure she'd appreciate no morning breath. I glanced down by chance and smiled, seeing one of the extra bamboo toothbrushes in the trash. She was here.
I headed down the metal stairs, seeing her in the kitchen. "Getting all domestic on me?" I ask, seeing her pretty face turn to mine, warmth in her eyes. She was dressed in one of my shirts and I smiled again with the knowledge that she'd raided my closet.
"All this is for me, I dunno what you're gonna do." She said, wincing.
"Mm," I slide behind her, running my hands under her/my shirt and pressing a deep kiss to her neck. She sucks in a breath, pushing around the eggs in pan as I raise her shirt before pausing. "Can I touch you?" I ask.
"You're so horny." She snorted.
"Old habits." I muse, making her hum before nodding.
I smile, dipping my fingers between her legs and feeling her bare pussy. I felt her clench around nothing just from my fingers brushing over her lips. "Spread your legs more, beautiful."
She did, making me hold back a 'good girl,' since she seemed to not like it last night. I slid my middle finger between her folds before sinking inside, ring finger following, my other hand slinking around to rub her clit. She gasps, head tilting back as she pushes away the pan, not wanting the eggs to burn.
"Sensitive?" I asked.
"Mhm," she nodded, biting her bottom lip. I pulled my fingers out, lifting her onto the kitchen island.
"Lift your legs, over my shoulders." I say, sinking to my knees and burying my face into her pussy, groaning at how wet she is. Her legs dip over my shoulders, heels digging gently into my broad back.
"Dean, fuck- Dean," she moaned, her hands fisting in my hair, not that I minded. I'd proudly go bald if it meant she had a good time. Though, maybe not because then she'd miss my hair.
I suckle on her swollen clit, the nerves vibrating until my tongue. I can feel her fucking heartbeat as I touch her, my fingers curling inside her and pulling out a guttural moan, one that makes my cock jump. Her orgasm comes just as quick as it did last night and I smile up at her, my lips wet, she squeals when I stand and try to kiss her.
"No!"
"It's yours!"
"Still!" She giggled, making me smile. I huffed and went to the sink, turning the water on and splashing my face, turning it off and wiping my face with a dish towel before going back over to her.
"Now?"
"Good boy." She mused, making me snort.
"Oh, so it's okay for you to say but not me?"
"Exactly, you learn so quickly."
"Enough with you, woman." I huff, kissing her deeply, matching her moan with my own, her tongue sliding languidly with mine. I debate having sex with her right there but decide against it when her stomach growls.
"Mm, hungry?" I muse.
"No, not really." My brow furrows at her answer.
"I just heard your stomach growl."
"No, it just does that sometimes."
"..Yeah, when you're hungry." I chuckle.
"I ate earlier."
"So are you not hungry or did you eat earlier?" I ask, brow raising.
"Uh, both."
"What'd you eat?"
"I had eggs."
I hum, seeing the way her eyes dart away just once, meeting mine again as she swallows.
"...I don't believe you. Do you want to talk about it or leave it be?" I ask, rubbing her hips.
"...Leave it." I nod at her.
"Okay. Let's not lie, though. I'm never going to make you talk about shit you don't want to, so don't feel like you can't let me know something's up."
She nods her head, her eyes distant. I tilt her chin up, eyes meeting hers before I press my lips to her forehead.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly.
"Don't be," I say, shaking my head and pulling away before she speaks up, blurting out,
"I used to have BED."
"BED?"
"Binge eating disorder- I'd um..I would eat a lot of food in a short amount of time. Sometimes I'd try to uh..get it out, and other times I'd just sit with what I'd done and punish myself with starving for a few days after."
I listened to her speak, waiting to see if she says anything else, she does after a minute.
"I got help, kind of. I don't really binge anymore? At least not like I used to. I started going too far in the other direction though, sometimes I just..I feel like I don't deserve to eat? I dunno. I ate a salad yesterday which was good but then I had a slushie which is like 'okay, you had this many calories yesterday, so you can only eat this many today'."
I take a breath. "I..I don't know exactly how to help you, or if you even want my help, you're perfectly capable on your own, we both know that." She nods softly so I continue. "You deserve to eat, sweetheart. Everyone needs food. Balance is good, salad and a slushie is fine- but for the whole day?" She nods and I frown before schooling my expression into neutrality. She didn't need pity, she was sharing this with me, not for help, but so I knew.
"Maybe you eat what you can with me? Eggs are good, yeah? Protein, you need that."
"Yeah." She nodded, making me smile gently. "Protein's okay."
I run my hands up to her jaw, tilting her head up to look at me. "Thank you, for telling me." She smiles, a little shy, but genuine.
We decide to head back tonight, spending the rest of the day watching a few musicals she's forcing me to watch. Somehow, the topic of awful high school relationships comes up ans after she tells me about a guy sending around a girl's nudes, I sigh and start telling her about Miranda.
"She started getting really clingy, constantly texting, calling, showing up. We were at a party and I pretty much got blackout drunk, I just wanted to stop caring about everything for a night. She was drunk too, at least she said she was but she lied about stuff after so I don't know. We slept together that night, I can't even remember it enough to know how I actually felt in it but the next few weeks she got crazy and I finally broke things off."
"She threatened me with saying I took advantage of her- which was crazy because I was the drunk one who couldn't remember anything." I snort, not seeing the horrified expression on Y/n's face as I continued. "Anyway, she told her dad—who was my coach, that I'd gotten drunk and slept with her. She had told me she had sex before but that night, she'd been a virgin and had lied to me before. Her dad punched me, my mom wanted to press charges but there was no proof at all so we just moved schools."
I finally look up, expecting her to laugh like I did when I thought about it, but her lips are parted.
"What?" I ask.
"...I'm sorry- you were sexually assaulted and then physically assaulted by her dad?"
I chuckle, shaking my head. "I was sexually assaulted."
"..If a guy takes a girl up to a room and sleeps with her while she's blackout drunk, no matter if she's saying yes or not, isn't that still non-consensual? Especially if he lied to her beforehand."
"Uh," I paused, "I mean, yeah, but that's a girl."
"There's no difference."
"Yeah, there is, she's- you know." I gesture vaguely.
"She's a girl? So she's not capable of it?" She asked,d making me pause again.
"I mean, I suppose she is, but- I-I never felt like I was assaulted."
"I mean, I guess that's better than remembering it and hating the memory."
"Huh." I wrack my brain with how I'd felt about it over the years. I'd never really dwelled on it but thinking back on it, I did hate it, and that was the last girlfriend I ever had.
"Do you want to talk about it?" She asks, making me shrug.
"I wouldn't know what to talk about, I don't remember it. It's in the far past. I brushed it off back then, no point in bringing it up now and rethink it over." I say, making her nod.
"Okay, good." She smiled, I found myself matching it.
I pulled her into my lap, my boxers the only clothing separating where we connected.
"If you try to fuck me after talking about that—I may think you're a little crazy." She said, making me chuckle.
"Relax, I just wanna hold my girl. My girlfriend." I fix.
"You can call me your girl, I like it."
"I didn't want to sound too possessive."
"I like a little possession. Not too much though." She warned playfully, wagging a warning finger at me.
"I'll hold back as much as I can, babydoll."
"Mm," she winced at the name and I smiled.
"Cross that one off the list?"
"Please." She hummed. I leaned forward to peck her lips, eyes softening when we pulled away and hers met mine. I was in love with her.
That night, we got into the BMW, her dressed in her leggings from the night before and one of my hoodies. I bit my lip every time I glanced at her, this perfect woman, in my car, in my clothes, my hand in hers, was mine. And I was hers.
We switch halfway and I let her drive the rest of the way, taking her seriously when she talks about not driving while tired. Upon finally reaching the house, we see no cars in the driveway. I figured G would come back early, even if I told him not to, he never listened anyway. I was ecstatic he chose to this time.
If I wasn't exhausted, I'd make love to her in my bed tonight, fuck her until my name was the only thing on her lips and hers on mine, but when I looked at her, I saw the tiredness in her eyes that matched mine and decided against it.
"Sleepy?" I ask, arm wrapping around her shoulders as we head inside.
"Getting there. I think I need a shower."
"I'm sure your stuff is still here, Hannah mentioned that you both had the same shit."
"Nice," she nodded, turning to me and biting her lips, hesitating.
"Come to mine when you get out, need you in my arms tonight. And maybe every other night too." She chuckled at that but the blush on her cheeks told me she liked it.
"Shower too, I'm not getting in bed with you if you smell."
"I smell like roses and sex appeal."
"Shower, Mr. Sex Appeal." She ran up the stairs and I watched her, amusement in my eyes as I shut and locked the door behind me, following her up.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ fluff! jealous!dean, party, beer pong, di laurentis being completely normal about another man talking to you, pet names (bun, princess, sweetheart, pretty + no y/n), making bets, lots of male pageantry, dean is down bad + 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊: 𝚍𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 🏝️
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ bonus linked at the bottom || [smut]-> so much teasing, using panties, unprotected p in v, denial, mid-sex banter, roughish + post-sex sweetness
The hockey house is packed. You stand with your friends near the center of it all, mixed drink sweating against your palm.
Across the room, Dean watches you over the rim of his beer.
He’s standing beside Beau near the kitchen doorway, making a pathetic attempt at pretending he isn’t staring.
The problem is that Dean has never been particularly good at hiding it. The two of you are supposed to be casual. No expectations. No pressure. No relationship.
Unfortunately for him, Dean likes you considerably more than those boundaries allow.
You catch him looking and he looks away. Your smile grows against the rim of your cup.
The whole living room erupts around the pong table when the final cup sinks. Water sloshes and Garrett throws both hands into the air, Logan tackling him into a hug.
Garrett smiles, catching his girl by the waist next, kissing her deep enough to have the cheering room break into whistles and catcalls.
“Get a room,” Beau calls. Garrett points at him, smiling like Beau just suggested something that was already decided—and it was.
“What the fuck, bro? We won. The fuck are you goin’?” Logan shouts, but Garrett and his girlfriend are already halfway up the steps. “You gotta stay—”
“Can’t,” Garrett answers simply.
“The hell you mean can’t?” Logan scoffs, but Graham’s as good as gone, leaving Logan staring after him in disbelief. “Unbelievable—Dean!” Logan points across the living room, calling him instead. “You’re up.”
Dean glances up from the lip of his beer—uninterested in anything happening around him but you.
“What?”
“Pong,” Logan yells.
Dean opens his mouth to turn him down, but then he looks across the room, right at you, and you don’t notice. And Dean Di Laurentis can have none of that.
You’re too busy laughing at something one of your friends says, drink balanced in your hand. Dean exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he says before taking another sip of his beer. “I’m down.”
“Let’s fucking go,” Logan smiles.
Dean stands up, stepping toward the table. You’re still deep in conversation when he reaches for one of the pong balls floating in a cup, flicking off the water before he rolls it between his big fingers.
You still haven’t looked over.
He glances away, catching himself staring before he remembers he’s supposed to be pretending he doesn’t do that. He swallows hard, jaw tightening; his entire demeanor shifting in a moment when he looks back.
“Ah, fuck no,” he breathes out a bitter sigh, bouncing the pong ball against the table.
“What?” Logan asks, following his gaze when Dean doesn’t answer. The look on Dean’s face says enough as Hunter Davenport makes his way directly toward you.
The one person on his team Dean has absolutely no fucking patience for. Hate is an understatement. And if Hunter had two working eyes and two brain cells left to rub together, he would’ve noticed Dean’s attention hadn’t left you once all night.
Within seconds the entire group is finding reasons to step away and give you two some space.
“Traitors,” he mumbles.
Dean pinches the pong ball between his fingers, spinning it against the edge of the table as he tries to look unbothered.
Hunter says something and your smile widens. He leans down closer, and Dean straightens immediately. “Need another team over here,” Dean calls out.
It has the intended effect for exactly half a second. Hunter glances toward the table. So do you.
Then he says something else and your attention goes right back to him. “Fucking prick,” Dean mutters under his breath.
“What are you on about?” Logan asks, elbowing him with a laugh, but Dean ignores him.
You laugh again and Dean’s face goes sour instantly.
“He’s not fuckin’ funny,” he huffs, and Logan looks back at him wide-eyed.
“Are you okay?” He laughs.
“Perfect, why?”
“I mean, I have so many questions,” he teases him, “but we can start with why the fuck are you losin’ your shit?”
“Am not,” Dean laughs like it’s beneath him, lifting his drink to drain the rest.
Logan claps a hand on his back, chuckling breathily. “Totally normal reaction, bud. My bad.”
“Shut up,” Dean grumbles as a few underclasses from the hockey team step up to the table. He waves them away, desperate to get you across from him somehow—shit. Dean reaches out fast, grabbing your friend's arm as she walks past.
“You trying to play? Get a friend,” he gestures in your direction just as Hunter’s hand rests on your lower back.
“I think she wants to play with Hunter,” your friend says, tapping Dean on the chest with a look that says she’s figured him out completely.
Davenport nods over to the pong table with a smile, already two steps ahead.
“Good thing you’re not bothered by this, huh?” Logan mumbles against the rim of his drink, watching as the two of you walk closer.
“You tryin’ to play, pretty?” Dean asks with his gaze set on you.
“That okay, boys?” Hunter asks with a smile, cutting in with a response.
“For her, of course. For you, fuck off,” Dean smiles, pointing at Beau instead, waving him over lazily. “You don’t gotta play with him, sweetheart.” The words leave his lips like the punchline to a joke.
“Don’t worry about him,” Hunter bites, his hand settling at your waist, guiding you the rest of the way. “He’s just worried I’m gonna dust his ass.”
Dean just lets out a short laugh as he reaches for a pong ball. He dips it into the cup of water beside him without even looking up.
“Keep talkin’,” he says.
A little smile curls on your lips as you grab the cups in front of you, making a little triangle, avoiding Dean’s gaze for now.
You can’t even remember the last party where some girl wasn’t practically hanging off his arm or finding an excuse to talk to him. Usually he’s the one smiling politely while somebody works way too hard for his attention.
When your eyes lift, Dean's already there, waiting for you. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. His blue eyes fall down your body for the moment as Hunter's hand wraps around your waist, talking strategy, but honestly the contact is more than enough to get in Dean’s head.
Dean sinks a shot, and you answer with one of your own. “Let’s go, princess,” Hunter laughs, bumping his shoulder into yours.
“You good?” Logan asks, his eyes sliding over to Dean.
“M’fine,” Dean answers too fast.
“Well, man who’s fine, everyone’s waitin’ for you to shoot—”
“Fuck off,” Dean mutters, wetting the ball before he shoots, sending the little ball ricocheting into the crowd.
“M’gonna need you to lock the fuck in,” Logan scolds, turning his chest to Dean, the two of them locked up in a staring contest for a few seconds.
Dean sucks his teeth and forces himself to focus again. It lasts all of five seconds. The second his eyes find you across the table, Hunter’s arm is draped lazily across your shoulders while he points at one of the remaining cups with his free hand, getting your opinion on which shot he should take.
You study the cups for a second before lifting a hand and pointing toward the one on the far side of the table, making your choice with a small shrug.
Hunter nods like you’ve just handed him the answer key.
Water sloshes as Hunter sinks it just seconds later. Before the crowd can even react, his arm is around your waist, hauling you clean off your feet in celebration.
Dean rolls his eyes so hard Logan catches it from beside him.
Logan plants both hands on the edge of the table and lets out a slow breath. At this point he’s not sure whether he’s playing against you and Hunter or dragging Dean across the finish line.
Hunter leans down again, saying something you can’t quite hear over the music, you turn into him a little more because of it, your hand landing against his arm as he grins down at you.
Across the table, Dean watches the whole thing and Logan follows his line of sight. “Handle your shit later,” he warns, and Dean doesn’t answer.
You laugh again and ZIP—the ball leaves Dean’s hand a second later.
“WHAT THE FUCK?” Hunter laughs, jerking back when the ball catches him in the shoulder.
Logan slowly turns toward Dean, equal parts baffled and disgusted. He waits a beat, clearly expecting Dean to explain whatever the hell that was.
“He threw that at me,” Hunter says, rubbing his shoulder.
“I missed,” Dean answers, arms crossing over his broad chest while Logan continues staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “Hand slipped.”
“You threw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball at his fuckin’ chest.” Logan stares at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Shoulder,” Dean corrects him. “I was goin’ for his forehead.”
“Disappointed in you,” he scolds.
“Just—Just throw the ball, alright?” Dean blurts, gesturing toward the four scattered cups at the other end of the table and the nearly hopeless situation.
Logan lofts the ball and it swirls around the rim of the cup. You think fast, dipping down and blowing hard. The ball pops back out before it can drop.
“Goddamn,” Hunter praises, looking down at you before snatching the ball off the table. He dunks it into the water cup and lifts it toward your mouth.
You laugh but lean forward anyway, blowing the excess water from the ball.
“Atta girl.”
Hunter snaps the last few drops off with a flick of his wrist, tongue poked out in concentration as he lines up the shot—and splash!
The crowd explodes and Hunter’s arms wrap around your waist, turning into you as the cups are cleared off the table.
People crowd around the table again, drinks sloshing as somebody sinks a cup and a fresh round of yelling breaks out around the game.
Hunter stays planted beside you anyway. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and hands it to you. “Here. Your number?” He hums, and you look up at him. “Before we get caught up in another win.”
Your nose scrunches, giving him a little smile, nodding and punching in the numbers against your better judgment.
Dean’s staring from across the room as the stupid smirk spreads across Hunter’s face.
And suddenly his phone feels very heavy in his pocket.
“Dean,” Logan warns the second Dean pulls his phone from his pocket. “Leave that woman alone.”
“I’m texting—”
“No shit.” Logan snorts. “You’re also jealous. And you’re making an ass out of yourself.”
“I’m not making an ass out of myself,” Dean mumbles, thumbing through your text conversation from last night.
“You tried to hit him in the head with a pong ball.”
“Yeah, and I missed.”
“That’s somehow worse,” Logan whispers, rubbing his back. “You should have seen the way she was looking at you, alright? They’ll lose. Then, you can talk to her. Just put… the phone… away—”
“I’m working over here,” Dean snaps, jerking the phone away as Logan tries to manually disarm his device before he pulls the trigger and says something he’ll regret. “You don’t get her like I do, okay?”
“Fine,” Logan throws his hands up in surrender. “No more throwin’ shit at people.”
“No promises,” Dean mumbles, thumbs tapping against the screen as a little smile tilts on his lips.
Across the room, your phone buzzes against the table beside your drink. You don’t notice, too busy teasing Hunter about a shot he should’ve made.
Whoosh. The text tone sounds and Logan hangs his head, laughing at Dean. “Tell me what you say, at least?”
Dean shrugs, giving Logan a side-eye. “Nah, you don’t believe in me. You don’t get to see greatness.”
“You fucked it up, didn’t you?” Logan asks, cracking open another beer.
“Shut up,” Dean scoffs, sitting up a little straighter when he sees you unlock your phone.
The first text makes you smile. By the second one, you’re laughing. The third one has your eyes lifting to his, the dimple in his cheek popping as he secures even the smallest win.
You stare at the message, thinking of what to say next. Hunter leans in again, whispering strategy. You smile and nod, half-turned toward him as you type back.
“Your turn, princess,” Hunter drawls, passing you the pong ball. You slide your phone in your pocket for the moment and Dean blows out an impatient sigh.
Logan pouts sympathetically, squeezing Dean’s shoulder for support.
“Told you so—”
“Fuck you,” he scoffs, shoving him away with a laugh. “It’s fine—I’m… I didn’t fuck it up. She smiled. Did she not?”
“She did,” Logan chuckles.
“She laughed, am I correct?” Dean states his case.
“Yes, I believe she did.”
“She wants me. Period.” His phone buzzes, and he fumbles it, glancing away from you just long enough for you to have sent something back.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚗?
“Oh shit,” Dean breathes. Logan leans over his shoulder before he can protest, reading through the thread.
“Damn,” he says, surprised by Dean’s game after all that pageantry earlier, curious where he was gonna take this next.
You look up from your phone as that text comes through, and he’s still watching—still holding your gaze from across the room. And for the first time all night, he looks completely serious.
Across the room, Hunter Davenport has your number. He just won a game with you and spent the last hour glued to your side, but suddenly Dean doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by it. Every time your phone lights up, you’re smiling down at the screen, and Dean’s grin gets a little harder to hide.
You sink the final cup to win the round and catch his eye from across the room. The corner of your mouth lifts and that’s apparently all the encouragement Dean needs because he’s already crossing the room.
“Fuck, she wants me,” Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Pleasantly surprised by you tonight, Di Laurentis,” Logan tells him.
Dean looks over at him with a grin, rolling the arm he’d nearly separated trying to take Davenport’s out with a pong ball earlier.
You roll your eyes and bite down on your lip to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work.
A pair of freshmen are already hovering around the pong table by the time Dean gets there, the same ones he waved off before you and Hunter stepped up.
“We can wait,” Logan calls after him.
“No we can’t.”
Dean keeps walking.
He claps one of them on the back, then the other, smiling the entire time as he grabs fistfuls of their shirts and physically steers them out of the way.
“Appreciate it, boys.”
The freshmen laugh as they stumble aside.
“Captain of the year, everybody,” Logan announces, throwing an arm toward Dean. “Some real morale-building leadership.”
Dean doesn’t even bother acknowledging him.
Hunter grabs the balls out of the cups, lazily bouncing them to the guys. “Better luck this time, boys,” Hunter says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.
Dean watches his arm settle there for a second, jaw tightening, before taking the ball from Logan.
“Shoot.”
Logan aims and sinks the first cup, and without missing a beat the second one disappears too. Both balls get tossed back, and Dean tries his best to keep the celebrations in check for a moment, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he watches you lift your cup and take a drink.
After that, every cup came with commentary. Every shot came with a smirk. By the third shot Dean landed in a row, it was looking like a clean sweep.
“That’s tough,” Dean mutters, looking at the state of affairs. You and Hunter didn’t even get a chance to shoot yet.
“We are on a heater, buddy,” Logan smiles. “Six cups back to back. Are you kidding?”
“Sounds like a lot when you say it out loud,” Dean chuckles, winking at you from across the table.
“Just shoot the fucking ball,” Hunter says.
“You know, if I was a betting man, I should have bet… I don’t know. Something,” Dean mumbles, and you fight to keep a straight face.
Logan throws the ball and it hits the rim of the cup, hopping into the other.
By then people were crowding around the table three rows deep, drinks lifted overhead as everyone tried to get a look. Dean rolls the final ball between his fingers and looked across the table at you.
“Not sinking this shit until I get an answer from you, bun,” he chuckles as he lines up the shot. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t break my fuckin’ heart, huh?”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Hunter snaps from across the table, and Dean blows out a raspberry like Hunter is the last person to know.
Dean lets out a breath through his nose. “That sounds a whole lot of none of your fuckin’ business, Davenport.”
Dean’s eyes slide over to you and he gives you the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. “Don’t make me beg, baby. Not here. I’m not above it.”
“Deal,” you chuckle, and with that word he throws the ball, sending it clean into the final cup. And, just like Hunter, Dean doesn’t even wait for the cups to get pulled or the crowd to lose their minds before he’s already stepping out from behind the table, walking toward you.
You barely have time to laugh before his hands find your hips, lifting you off your feet.
His arm tightens beneath your legs as he heads for the stairs without even pretending to care what anybody else thinks.
“You are such an ass,” you laugh, trying unsuccessfully to hide your smile.
“What the fuck?” Hunter calls over the party as he takes the first step.
“What?”
“You can’t just leave.”
“—We absolutely can.”
“Congrats, Di Laurentis. You’ve been waiting all night for this.”
“No shit,” Dean answers honestly. “That’s all you got, Davenport? Cryin’ about her leaving and a half-ass congrats? Waste more time, please—”
“Fuck you.”
“Huh?”
“FUCK YOU!”
“What was that now?” Dean asks, amusement stretching across his lips as he holds a hand to his ear, taking another step up. “You’re gonna need to be a little louder than that, Hunter. Say it with your chest.”
“I’ll be down here, sweetheart.”
The corner of your mouth curls as you bite back a smile.
“You are so fucked, bun,” Dean laughs.
“Me?” You giggle.
“Absolutely you. I—”
“I’ll call you. How does that sound?” Hunter shouts, almost out of earshot, and that stops Dean mid-sentence.
“And I’ll block you,” he calls back. “Everybody wins—”
“Enough,” you breathe, grabbing his face in your hands and turning his attention back to you as he takes the last few steps.
Dean’s grip tightens beneath your thighs. His gaze drops to yours.
“Now,” he says, voice lowering as he leans closer, “where were we?”
does anyone remember when quinn lived in vancouver n had that neighbor who would roller skate in the parking garage n like post there conversations?? or am i like schizo 
There was no logical explanation as to why she wanted to hide her relationship from her roommates… except for the fact that she was afraid they wouldn’t understand why she fell for him. Beau didn’t mind sneaking around though, as long as he got to be with her.
Pairing: Beau Maxwell x Fem! Reader (established relationship)
Warning(s): a few cuss words, maybe illusions to sex, mentions of sex (no smut), coloring date (some may be offended or disgusted? Idk why but..), mentions of future, sneaking around, soft! Beau, best friend! Dean.
Word Count: 3.8k
Request: Yes | No
Note: so I’m tired of all the ☠️ memes and talk. So here’s a cutesy little fluffy post. I love Beau and he’s my favorite. Also my TikTok is flooded with off campus right now and how did I never notice Beau handing Tucker a coconut during the drunk Shakespeare? 😂 This is my first off campus fic so… I guess I’m officially writing for it now. 🤪 (I also read the books like in 2016 or 2017 but I’m re-reading them now so if anything is ever a bit different from the show that might be why)
*Not Edited!* (are we surprised? 🥲)
You didn’t mean to keep your relationship a secret for as long as you had. You meant to tell Allie and Hannah within a few weeks or months after you started seeing Briar U’s quarterback, but then things kept popping up. Allie and Sean kept splitting and Hannah kept her focus on her jobs and scholarship to-do’s. You understood that they had their own issues to worry about and it never seemed like a good time. You didn’t want to seem inconsiderate by flaunting your happiness in front of them.
Fast forward to now, your junior year of college has come and you were currently still seeing your boyfriend. It had been over a year at this point but Beau didn’t seem to mind as long as he got to be with you. He would rather be with you in secret than not be in your life at all.
It wasn’t like you were a secret to everyone, after all, you had met each others parents/guardians (and extended family) and made it clear that you were serious about each other. Dean also knew because Beau couldn’t really keep anything from him even if he tried. The two men knew each other too well.
“Are we still on for girls night?” You had curiously asked Friday morning knowing that the three of you had always planned a night of movies, dinner, and drinks. Especially since Hannah only drank in privacy.
Hannah sighed, “I can’t tonight. I have practice for the showcase and then I have a tutoring session with Garrett.” She gave you an apologetic smile. “Rain check?”
You nodded, “sure. No problem.” You assured giving her a reassuring smile before moving your gaze to a guilty looking Allie. “Let me guess? You’ve got a date with Sean?”
Allie gave a soft smile, “I’m staying at his tonight.” She replied softly. “But I can cancel if you still wanted to have our girls night…”
You shook your head, “No, don’t cancel your plans for me.” You assured. “We have a girls night once a week. I’ll find something to do.”
Allie gave you a knowing look as a smirk grew on her face, “you’ll be here alone… so maybe you should find someone to do.” She suggested.
Hannah let out a little laugh but nodded her head anyways in agreement, “it’s been what? Freshman year since you’ve hooked up with someone?”
You didn’t say anything, but ‘If you two only knew’ was repeating in your head. It hadn’t been freshman year (obviously) but Beau just happened to wonder in your life not to long after your last hook-up. “I’m happy right now.” You admitted honestly to your girls. “I really don’t need to hook-up with anyone.”
Allie huffed, “everyone needs to have good sex once in a while.” She spoke confidently, “it’s only natural.”
“Aren’t you friends with one of Garrett’s groupies?” Hannah spoke up and you slightly nodded. “They’re all good looking so why not him?”
You cringed internally at the thought of screwing Beau’s best friend. You loved Dean but not in any type of romantic or sexual manner. He was someone you could trust and lean on for anything, and a part of you would forever thank Beau for introducing you to that part of Dean.
You shook your head at Hannah’s suggestion once you broke out of your thoughts, “Never going to happen.”
Allie’s face looked like she was lost in a thought for a moment before she looked from you to Hannah and back again, “who was that dude in your ethics class?” She asked trying to think.
“The one who hangs out with Garrett and the hockey team?” Hannah asked, slinging her back over her shoulder. “If you’re talking about him it’s probably—I think Garrett said his name is Beau.”
Allie turned back to you, “how about him?” She asked.
“You two are insufferable.” You muttered before grabbing your bag and heading towards the door so you could get to class.
🫧
Half of your school day was over and you had yet to see your friends or Beau for most of the day. Which it was a given because you had a few different classes and everyone had their own lives outside of the friend group. You were currently grabbing lunch since you had a decent break between classes.
“Hey beautiful.” A soft voice whispered close to your ear before you noticed your boyfriend walk around the table and sit across from you.
A smile grew on your face causing you to bite your lip to keep it from stretching into a grin.
“Hey,” you replied softly. “How’s your day been so far?” You asked knowing some of his schedule.
He shrugged acting nonchalant; “as boring as usual.” He muttered before mentioning something that had happened in conditioning earlier. “You wanna swing by the house before your girls night?”
You huffed a laugh, “about that… there’s no girls night anymore.” You replied. “Allie is staying with Sean and Hannah is tutoring Garrett.”
Beau’s eyebrows shot up, “they bailed?”
You shrugged, “we have them often so it’s not like it’s too important.” You assured while giving him a smile. “That also means that I have the dorm to myself…. So I was thinking that you could swing by for a bit? Hannah won’t be back until late and it gives us time to hang in my space.”
He smiled, “sounds like a plan, baby.” He agreed leaning back in his chair.
You hesitated for a moment before meeting his gaze again, “you don’t have to be in a rush either.”
That grabbed his full undivided attention (not like you didn’t have it anyway) as a look of shock seemed to cross his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t care to finally be semi-public?” A teasing tone could be heard in his voice making you roll your eyes.
“It’s long over due, isn’t it?” You asked softly.
Beau’s eyes softened as they looked over you, “what changed your mind?”
You shrugged and thought about it for a moment, “you know I love you, right?”
“Yeah, and you know that I love you.” He assured softly but also watching you carefully.
“Maybe they’ll understand more than I think.” You mutter as you feel him grab your hand easily from across the table. “and it would be nice if they quit trying to suggest people for me to hook-up with.”
His eyebrows furrowed, “who are they suggesting?”
You pursed your lips, “well the last one they mentioned was you.”
“Can’t argue with that.” He teased causing a scoff and an eye roll to come from you.
“Yeah and the other one was Dean.” You huffed. “But I’m pretty sure she was hinting at me being with anyone in the hockey house.”
“Dean? Really?” He asked and you nodded thinking back to what Hannah had told you.
Before you could say anything a mop of blonde hair plopped himself down beside your boyfriend, “what about me?” He asked flashing his dimpled smile.
You shook your head not wanting to mention what Hannah had said, but apparently Beau didn’t mind. “Her roommate mentioned her hooking up with you.” Your boyfriend muttered.
Dean’s eyes glistened with a teasing in them, “As much as I would love too. I think bro-code out weighs that.” His reply earned a glare from Beau causing him to joking put his hands up in surrender. “Let me guess, Wellsy thinks your lonely?”
You sighed, “something like that.” You muttered; “my roommates think everyone needs good sex at least once a week.”
Dean nodded, “they aren’t wrong.” He agreed with Allie which wasn’t surprising to you.
You rolled your eyes before throwing a fry off your to-go basket at the blonde’s face. “I have plenty of that.” You assured not missing the smirk that grew on Beau’s face.
Dean snorted, “I don’t doubt it.” The teasing tone was still very prominent in his voice. “You got Beau Maxwell to be in a committed relationship…. You deserve a cookie.” He joked.
Beau rolled his eyes, “seriously dude?”
Dean sent the couple a smirk, “what? You know how many girls want to be in her place right now?” He then turned his attention solely on Beau, “you know how many men want to be in your place right now?” He added.
“I know I’m lucky she chose me.” Beau replied his eyes narrowed at his best friend.
“Damn straight.” Dean replied with a teasing smirk.
You let out a breath, “on that note… I’m leaving.” You muttered and stood up from your seat. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“I love you.” Beau called softly after you.
Dean snorted, “you’re so pussy whipped.”
🫧🫧
You sat at the kitchen table three cases of markers laying on the table. Some would say coloring was for children, but it was a stress reliever for you when you wanted something that was simple. Snacks were also lying along the table as well as drinks and your own custom cocktail. Beau was to be over after football practice was concluded.
Allie🌺
Did you find someone?
You:
I’m not hooking up with anyone. I’m a relationship girlie now. You know that.
Allie🌺
Hooking up might be the start of something more 🤷♀️
You sighed laying your phone down. You loved Allie and you knew your friends wanted you happy, but sometimes they need to leave things alone. It’s partly your fault as well, since they don’t know you and Beau are together.
A knock on the door tore you out of your thoughts. You laid your marker down and went to open the door to see Beau looking as attractive as ever. His hair was still wet from his shower in the locker room.
“Hey, baby.” Beau greeted once you opened the door. He walked forward and placed a kiss on your forehead before walking into your dorm.
You smiled softly at the man you were in love with, “hey.” You greeted back while shutting your dorm door.
Beau stopped when he noticed the coloring book, markers, snacks, and drinks laid out on the kitchen table. “Doing a coloring date, are we?” He asked teasingly.
You huffed a laugh, “No. I was just stressed about midterms and I wanted something to calm my nerves.” You explained before going over and starting to clean up the markers.
Beau was right behind you, stopping you from cleaning up the markers. Without saying a word, he sat down in the chair beside your pulled out one and picked a page from your pile. “If my girl’s stressed, then I’m here to help her forget about it.” He spoke softly taking the markers out of your hand.
You felt a blush creep up if the heat radiating from your face was any indication. “You don’t have to color.” You assured as your boyfriend took the lid off a green marker and started coloring a tree that was on his page. “Beau, really it’s fine. You always make everything better anyways…”
Beau huffed playfully moving his gaze to you, “shut up and sit down with me.” He demanded yet his tone was still as soft as it had been.
You smiled to yourself with your heart full of love before sitting down beside him. You were back in your original spot and coloring the page. You two sat quietly, with Beau stealing drinks of your cocktail you had made every once in awhile.
You loved Beau. You truly did because what type of man would willingly sit and color with you. Letting you know that he only cared about being in your presence. Your heart was so full just thinking of him and all the ways that he proved to you that he loved you. Ways that were silent and caring, and not loud or overly sexual.
These are the days that you would remember and reminisce on when you two were old and gray. You smiled thinking about that, even though you and Beau hadn’t exactly mentioned getting married you both knew that you were in each other’s futures.
“What’s got you all smiley?” Beau spoke after a while of silence. Your eyes met his gaze, both of your eyes were filled with love.
You shook your head, “you’re literally perfect.” You mumbled feeling shy suddenly. You dropped your gaze back to your page.
Beau shook his head, “I’m not perfect.” He promised. “I’m far from it, honestly, but you on the other hand? Definitely perfect.” He replied with a cheeky grin on his face.
“I’m serious.” You defended your compliment. “I’d marry you right now if you’d ask because you’re so…” you trailed trying to find the right word to describe him.
Beau looked away for a moment before moving his eyes back over to you. You finally raised your gaze back up to meet his, “you’d marry me?”
Your brows furrowed, “Yes! Is that shocking or something?”
Beau bit his own lip for a moment to stop a grin from forming, “I’m holding you to that.”
You grinned, “is that your way of saying we’re going to get married?” You asked playfully.
Beau nodded, “oh, totally.” He promised and his voice held seriousness. “We’ll get married and have at least two babies… I mean, only if you want children.” He assured
“You sound so sure of yourself.”
“Baby, I’ve had my life planned out with you since I saw you crying in the library freshmen year.” Beau mumbled as he went back to coloring his page. You knew he was using it as a distraction for dropping his truth-bomb on you.
Your eyebrows creased again, “freshman year? But that’s….” You trailed.
“The first time we met and you told me that your first college crush broke your heart.” Beau whispered letting you know that he remembered.
You looked at your boyfriend shocked, “Beau Maxwell, are you telling me that you were pining after me all of freshmen year?”
“Why are you so shocked?” His voice raised slightly but not in anger. It sounded like disbelief.
“Maybe because that’s a truth bomb I wasn’t expecting?” You explained with your hands waving around frantically seeing as you were shocked. “You’re Beau Maxwell.” You elaborated.
“So?”
“So—how can you say so? You’re the quarterback of the football team.” You explained more in depth. “You have had girls falling at your feet since high school and you just tell me that you were harboring a crush for almost a year prior to us sleeping together.”
Beau pursed his lips while nodding, “We’re together now… so why does it matter?”
You huffed, “what would you have done if us having sex didn’t turn into anything?”
His eyebrows furrowed at that because he honestly didn’t know. He had just been lucky and the plan him and Dean had come up with worked. Which now that he thought back may not have been the best idea.
“I don’t know but it did work so I’m not thinking about it.” He shrugged and turned his full attention back to the picture in front of him.
🫧🫧🫧
It was now 9pm and Hannah was still tutoring Garrett and you hadn’t heard from Allie in a moment. You and Beau had finished coloring and you had picked up the pages and markers while Beau helped clean up the snacks and drinks.
You two had moved to the couch as a movie played on your laptop that sat on the coffee table. You weren’t really paying attention to what was happening on your laptop. Your mind kept going over the conversation you two had talked about earlier.
It was definitely more of a glimpse of the future than what either of you had previously admitted. It didn’t scare you or anything, but you just wondered if there was anything that could change his though process. You honestly didn’t think that there was, because like you had stated earlier, he was the perfect boyfriend.
“I’m so in love with you.” You spoke softly as you broke the silence that had settled over your cuddling figures as the movie played. You moved your head to where you could look up at him and see him.
He wore a soft smile on his face, “where’d that come from?”
You shrugged slightly, “I just—I’m lucky to have you.” You settled for that even though it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.
His hand softly came up and rested on your jaw and neck, “I’m in love with you too.” He replied softly and leaned his head down just a bit to capture your lips with his.
The kiss had been soft and full of love, something that you were use to Beau doing. It didn’t take long for things to heat up, especially not with how the two of you were talking and feeling.
You blamed your hormones for not being able to hear your phone buzz on the kitchen table. And twenty minutes after your phone went off, You blamed yourself for not hearing the door unlock or open at first either.
“So I know we bailed on girls night, but I was thinking—OH MY GOD!” Hannah screamed before quickly turning around.
You shoved Beau away with more force than you meant too and quickly stood up to find your shirt that said man how thrown across the room. You huffed and rolled your eyes knowing that Hannah was a bit dramatic because neither of you were naked. You both were just shirtless and making out, so it wasn’t like she had walked in on anything.
“You can turn around now.” You sighed as you handed Beau his shirt.
Hannah slowly turned around and faced the two of you before giving an awkward smile, “so you took Allie’s advice on…” she trailed as her eyes flickered to Beau and then back to you.
You gave her a small smile, “not exactly.” You replied before Beau pulled you into him. Hannah’s eyes kept flickering back and forth between the two of you. “We’ve been dating for over a year…”
A flicker of hurt passed through Hannah’s eyes, “and you didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”
You shook your head quickly, “no. It’s not like that. I trust you and Allie completely.” You assured as you finally relaxed against your boyfriend.
“Then why not tell us?”
You shrugged, “it never felt like a good time.” You mumbled knowing that wasn’t an excuse. “Allie and Sean kept breaking up and I didn’t want to flaunt my relationship in front of her, and then you were worried and busy with the showcase and your scholarship list that I didn’t want to seem like I only cared about my relationship.” You explained hoping that she understood where you were coming from.
Hannah was silent for a moment before she finally nodded. “Okay, I understand why you hid it.” She accepted. “But don’t put your happiness in the closet all because you’re worried about us.”
You gave her a smile and nodded, “okay. No more secrets.” You promised and grinned when you felt Beau kiss the top of your head.
Hannah smiled back, “now I’m going to my room and I’ll put my headphones on as loud as the go and close the door.” She assured and shot you a wink as she walked off to her room.
You smiled turning back towards Beau and pulled him towards your room.
“That went better than you thought?” He asked causing you to nod in response.
“Way better.”
🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
You hated the idea of getting out of bed. Beau had finally spent the night without worrying about sneaking out the next morning. Which means you woke up in his embrace for the first time in weeks. It was something that always made your mornings feel complete and it made your heart swell with love.
You could’ve stayed in bed for hours, but you were hungry from not having a full dinner last night. So, reluctantly you got out of Beau’s embrace and found some clothes to slip on before making your way to the small kitchen. You started the coffee maker before pulling out some (protein) pancake mix and getting the add-ins.
“Are those pancakes?” Allie’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned and watched her walk out of her room and towards you before hopping up on the counter.
“It is.” You nodded and turned back to the pan on the stove. “I thought you were at Sean’s?”
Allie sighed, “we got into a fight late last night—or early this morning—it doesn’t matter. I just came straight home.” She muttered placing her head in her hands. “I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”
You turned and gave her an apologetic smile, “we’re always available for you.” You promised causing her to send you a small smile.
The kitchen settled into a comfortable quietness for a bit before Hannah came out of her room. She joined you two with a smile on her face which dropped as soon as she noticed Allie’s face. You listened to the two girls quietly as you finished making breakfast. You had listened to Allie’s story about Sean, which always was the same, but you couldn’t convince her she deserved better. She had to figure that out for herself.
You had cooked a few sides to go with the pancakes while Allie had went on-and-on about Sean and Hannah had put her input in every once in a while. You didn’t know what to say, mainly because you had a great boyfriend. Someone who truly loved you and you never had to guess or wonder if he did.
Once breakfast was done you told the girls and the three of you made plates and sat at the kitchen table together.
“We seriously need a girls trip away from this place.” Allie groaned taking a sip of her drink.
You nodded, “I’m down.” To which Hannah agreed too.
You three were talking and making plans to take a trip together eventually, until Allie went quiet mid sentence causing you to look her way. Her fork was frozen mid-way to her mouth and her eyes wide. You followed her line of sight to see her staring at Beau casually padding out of your room and into the small kitchen and living area.
“Morning baby,” he greeted softly as he walked over and gave you a kiss on the head. “Ladies.” He nodded in recognition.
You smiled, “morning. There’s breakfast I fixed a few minutes ago.” You offered
He sent you a thankful smile and gave you a soft “thank you, babe.” before going to fix himself some food as well. You turned your attention back towards Allie who had closed her mouth now but was still looking at you.
“What the hell is Beau Maxwell doing in our dorm and why the hell did he call you baby?”
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
synopsis. as a sister of the infamous hughes, they were extremely protective over you— common brothers! they hated the idea of you dating a hockey player… they knew how they worked. luckily for them, you were never interested in them, until will came around. he swept you off your feet and soon you were dating him. you kept it a secret for a while… until luke goes snooping.
notes. reader is luke’s twin! reader also does all star cheer— idk much ab that so don’t mind any incorrect things but it’s not mentioned a lot. fluff, brothers being overprotective like always, mack appears ofc. maybe some angst… 2 year age gap but they don’t meet until wills on the sharks!
Sometimes you wondered how you were ever related to the brothers you were, even as a young child as you sat on the curb after too many games of road hockey and gave up, watching them as they continued playing without breaking a sweat like they were built for it— which they really were with your parents being into hockey. But they never pressured you into anything hockey, of course you played with your brothers because they always dragged you into the game to even a team between them… and you always did because you were tired of watching from the sidelines.
Your mom wanted you to be into sports, so as a child she looked into other things for you to do. Especially when you ran into the house crying your sweet eyes out because the boys were leaving you out, it wasn’t on purpose but it still always happened. That was the day she decided you needed something for yourself like the boys had for them.
You tried ballet but cried in the backseat of the car because it was too hard and the teacher was mean. She made you finish out the year saying, “Give it a year and than we’ll come back.”
Tears of relief came out of your eyes when you ran into her arms after your last recital. A summer went by of the boys playing hockey and you playing in the yard, watching with a frown wishing to be apart of that. Ellen came to you one day, sweat beading down your forehead in the heat but refusing to leave your brothers, Luke looking at you, with a flyer of a new cheer place opening in the town. She never imagined that’s what would be your thing, but it was. Cheer stuck with you throughout elementary school, even as you tried soccer with your best friend— you did that until the last year of middle school. Ultimately giving soccer up so you could focus on cheer in high school, and you were pretty damn good at it.
It was hard for the family though, hockey games between the three boys and practice’s with you that lasted hours, plus the games you performed at, then the big competitions. And it was really hard on you, when your brothers weren’t there in the stands, nor was your mom. It was usually your father when the family couldn’t be there, but his cheers were loud enough for them.
Your brother have always been protective, you knew that. In elementary school, Quinn and Jack both got in trouble for punching a boy at lunch because somebody yelled that he was your boyfriend.
“They punched him, mom! He was bleeding!” You cried in the back seat of the car, Quinn was sitting in the front with a glare as Luke sat between you and Jack with wide eyes after just witnessing you jump over to wack Jack in the head repeatedly.
Ellen sighed loudly from the driver seat, she looked in the mirror to see you— eyes blood shot red and a permanent frown on your face. She looked at Quinn quickly, his fist were still clenched in his lap as he looked out the window.
“Yeah, he deserves it.” Jack grumbled from his seat, Ellen was ready to pull over and yank you off of your brother but instead of throwing punches you yelled.. something that never really left the four of your guys mouth during arguments. The two Hughes parents had seen a lot of fights between the boys and you, arguing though… never happened often, just opting to use your fists, legs, and teeth sometimes.
A sob tore through your mouth, Luke was watching your carefully. A hand on your leg, trying to calm you down but nothing seemed to help.
“I hate you!”
Ellen gasped so loudly, she coughed. Quinn unclenched his fist in shock, Luke’s jaw dropped watching as you sucked in a deep shaky breath as your mom pulled into the driveway, you hiccuped through your sobs and yanked your leg away from Luke, he frowned. Jack’s lip parted and snapped his head towards the back of his mom’s seat.
She yelled your name, you sobbed louder trying to unbuckle yourself but couldn’t see through the tears, Luke noticed and put his hand between the two of you and pressed his finger down and unbuckled you. Not bothering to grab your book bag, you threw your door open and slid out with another sob and ran into the house.
That was the first time, more followed, especially when you grew older. Your mother worried when you grew into your beauty, how overprotective the boys came when you entered high school… then the first boyfriend— the break up was worse. You didn’t show up to school for a week.
They were all protective in their own ways, you loved them for it but sometimes truly hated it. Quinn was protective in a way with words, a threatening sentence towards somebody and they froze… wondering if it was true or he was giving out wordless threats. Jack was protective in a physical way, he always had been. Sometimes it scared you: the way he easily got himself into trouble for you.
Luke though was different, being your twin. He was a mix between the both of them but usually it was never with the other person— it was with you. While Quinn was glaring at the person and speaking lowly to them or Jack was throwing them against a wall or throwing punches, Luke was standing beside you, making sure you were okay, protecting your feelings.
So when hockey came around and more boys came into your life because of them, one night they all came into your room. Well, Jack and Quinn did— Luke was already lying on your bed, in his pajamas under your comforter as you sat at your desk trying to study. Key word, try. Luke barged into your room an hour before, freaking out about some girl from school.
The trying to study went out the window when the other two barged in and got comfortable by their brother, you tried to focus on the paper you had been staring at for the past ten minutes but their eyes were burning a hole into you.
“What?” You spat, slamming your pencil down and turning to look at them, Jack raised his eyebrows at you as Quinn shook his head. Luke was scrolling on his phone, you assumed he stopped being a pussy and was texting the girl.
Jack raised his shoulders, “Just wanted to come hang with our favorite sister, is that such a problem?”
“I’m your only sister… and you never wanna hang out with me.”
Quinn frowned for a second, Jack’s eyebrows raised at the sudden bluntness in your words. And Luke’s fingers paused on his screen, side eyeing you.
You stared at them, noticing their facial expressions. “Not like that! Just you guys are so busy with hockey—“
“You’re busy with cheer.” Jack cut you off, sitting up a bit. You saw the panic on his face, god, he was so dramatic sometimes.
“I know.” You gritted out, leaning back into your chair, “I’m just saying— it doesn’t matter—“
“Yes it does.” Quinn jumped in, you glanced at him. “Why haven’t you said anything?”
“Oh my god. Because I didn’t mean it like that! What do you want?” You sighed out, throwing your arms out in front of you. Quinn looked at his brothers quickly, you bit your inner lip watching as it seemed like they were communicating with their eyes— right in front of you.
You love them, so much. More than you could ever put into words but sometimes it felt like you were on the outside looking in, Luke always tried to include you but sometimes it was so hard. They spent so much time together, while you were out at practice for hours after they got home from theirs, them sitting on the back porch together. You were too tired to bother saying hi to them, going straight to the shower and then your bed. They had a different bond, as boys and brothers, and players— something you’d never be apart of.
They were your brothers but it was different.
Swallowing roughly as Jack nodded sharply to his older brother, you straightened in your seat. They all looked at you, eyes softening just a bit.
“We just wanted to say… you know, us joining teams and all soon— our hockey friends are… y’know…”
You furrowed your eyebrows, shaking your head with a shrug. “No, I don’t know. Use your words.”
Jack grabbed a pillow from behind him and chucked it at you, grunting quietly as you stopped it from smacking you in the head.
“You know… off limits.”
“Ew. I don’t want your hockey friends.”
That night, you and your brothers ended up in the kitchen arguing back and forth as your parents watched… attempting to soften it.
But you were right, you never batted an eye at them. Not when you walked in from practice and said hey to your brothers, nodding your head politely at their friends sitting in the living room, watching as you went into the kitchen where your mom stood in front of the stove cooking dinner, you grabbed a water and went up to your bathroom. Not when they attempted to flirt with you, ignoring your brother’s warnings to not do that.
Before you knew it, Quinn and Jack were in the NHL— something they’d always dreamed of. Quinn was in Vancouver, something that broke your heart.. him being so far away from home and his family. But nothing beat watching him score his friend goal of his NHL career, nor did it with watching Jack’s.
It was the year Luke got drafted, it was the year you parted away from your home, under the same roof as your twin brother and parents to leave to join California all stars. Of course, you came home for his draft! How could you not?
You could never miss the moment when the announcer said his name, Luke Hughes for the New Jersey Devils— the same one as Jack. How Jack practically leaped over you throwing himself around your brother with excitement, tears filled your eyes as you were squeezed between the three of them.
The four of you were all away from home and it was really hard sometimes, you guys were so close but couldn’t be more proud of each other. You texted the group chat every morning and night, especially when you knew you day would be busy, just to say something to them. It was harder with Luke, you and him had never been separated since your mom gave birth to the two of you, it took a long time where you or him didn’t burst into a tantrum when you were separated for more than a few hours… sleepovers rarely happened because by bed time you or him were running to your friends parents crying for each other.
Luke called every day, knowing your schedule after the first week of you and him being separated. You and him tried your best to talk as much as you did before but you weren’t used to him being so busy in the NHL and he wasn’t so used to you being miles away from him and different time zones. Plus, the training the two of you went through and barely had the energy to pick up your phone once you walked through your front door.
The first year was the hardest.
But eventually, you and your brothers were used to the difference. It didn’t make it any harder but it worked. They constantly bugged you about any boys, especially when one time some random boy answered your phone. Sitting in your living room. His face popped up on the group face time where your brothers stared at him in shock for a few moments.. questioning if they accidentally added somebody else but it was the siblings group chat.
It was a friend from cheer.
You honestly hadn’t truly dated somebody since high school, before the world only knew you as the Hughes sister. You attempted to go out on a date from somebody you met at the grocery store, seeing it as somewhat of a normal interaction. Not meeting them at an event or on social media. They didn’t recognize you as a Hughes or being related to the famous hockey brothers.
And then….
“I’m a huge fan of your brothers work.”
You were a bit dramatic about it, sighing loudly but nodded and apparently that gave him a signal to keep talking about them— he even asked if you could call them! The rest of the date until you cut him off as the waiter began approaching the table, quickly turning around when she heard the sharpness in your voice and stood up, walking away.
He yelled for the whole restaurant to hear about the check!
You rolled your eyes as you pulled open the doors with tears in your eyes, opting to call Luke but knew he would just run into Jack’s room so you kept your phone in your purse as you walked through the streets of California.
After that night, you declined anybody who asked to take you out. Just imagining yourself sitting in the middle of a restaurant of somebody asking something about them.
You never went on a date again after and never told your brothers. They pushed you that night when you never called after the date, you decline the first call as you laid in your bed, curled into yourself watching your comfort movie, tear stained cheeks. They immediately blew up your phone and told you to answer right now.
Sending a quick text and told them you were about to take a shower, which you did so you could look a little less crazy and the crying wasn’t noticeable. You made up some lie that all he did was talk about himself, your phone set on the counter of your bathroom as you lazily did your nighttime routine. And for some odd reason, they believed you when you lied to them. You never were a good liar and they always knew your twitch when you did lie, but apparently they couldn’t see when your face was in and out of the camera.
It was one night, your roommate who you cheered with wanted to go to a hockey game. She didn’t know anything about the game until she met you, sitting with you as you watched your brothers play and answered her questions or explained what was happening. She soon learned most of it and enjoyed for when she would hear your yell from the living room that the game was starting.
“There’s a game here! It’s like an hour away, we should go.”
That’s how you found yourself at a San Jose Sharks game, your brothers couldn’t believe you were going to be cheering another team on but you just rolled your eyes and told them the Canucks and Devils would always be the team you cheered for the most. It was a good game, your friend in her element as she could watch the game and actually understand… only a couple times did she lean over and ask you to explain something.
Then… you and her were at every Sharks game, as long as you were both free. She literally cancelled a date one night when she learned there was a game, you convinced her to just invite him and you would stay home.
“No way, girl. This is our thing.”
You ended up buying a third ticket the morning of the game and gave it to her, she kissed your cheek with a bright smile. You kind of regretted it when he arrived at the rink and the two were snuggled into each and you sat by yourself, arms crossed around your chest trying to warm yourself— usually, she was snuggled into your side, shivering about the coldness she was not used to. You guessed you’d just gotten used to her warmth.
After the game, you stood behind them as they talked, “I don’t wanna go home.” He smiled at her, intertwining their hands, you rolled your eyes as she said that for the hundredth time of the night.
Digging in your purse, you grabbed your car keys and chucked them at her back. She stopped and turned around sharply, squinting her eyes at you, looking down at your keys at her feet, she slowly picked them up with furrowed eyebrows.
“Take my car and go enjoy the rest of the night.” You smiled softly at her, her smile somehow grew larger.
The guy beside her furrowed his eyebrows, “What about you?”
“I’ll just call an uber.”
Which was the stupidest thing you could’ve offered, they left you quickly after that which was an hour ago. You were still sitting outside of the rink, of course no Ubers were available, they were all picking everybody else up from the arena. A pout formed on your lips when the first one cancelled, then when the second one did— tears formed in your eyes.
Sitting on the curb, curled into yourself as you leaned your chin against your knees watching as players drove out of the arena! You could’ve cried again but you didn’t, just watched as people walked by without blinking at you. You checked your friend’s location, you could tell she was still out with the boy so you kept the messages quiet.
You were watching as people cheered across the street, all dressed in Sharks gear. Smiling softly as somebody jumped onto another person’s back with a loud ‘whoop!’
Gravel crunched beside you, you snapped your head up and saw two boys staring down at you, they looked your age. You squinted your eyes at them as they blinked at you, like you were some animal that was standing in the middle of a road.
“Yes?” You questioned slowly, one of them straightened their back when you spoke.
“Are you okay?” The other asked, hands shoved into his pockets. Their hair was damp, they were dressed nice. You moved your head so the light wasn’t blocking their faces anymore and recognized them as two players on the Sharks.
Will Smith and Macklin Celebrini.
“Oh, yeah. I’m just waiting for the Ubers to start picking people up again.” You shrugged with a tight smile, Macklin nodded softly as Will ran his hand through his damp hair, the light shining on the side of his face, he looked like an angel… you clamped your parted lips shut as you stared at him.
Macklin stepped beside the other boy, “Do you need a ride? Ubers usually take a long time to start getting people after a game.”
You sighed and looked down at your phone, you were usually in bed by now and your phone was at ten percent.
“I don’t live around here and I can’t ask for you to drive an hour after playing a hockey game.” You said softly, looking up at them again. They both shrugged, Will jerked his head and offered his hand.
“We don’t mind, c’mon.” You looked at his outstretched hand carefully before taking it with your soft hands, he squeezed yours before pulling you up, you squeezed his back before slowly pulling away. Smiling as you looked between them as they watched you tug your jacket closer to you,
“Uh, you guys have a car right?” You asked after a few moments of you three standing there, Macklin’s eyebrows shot up before he nodded.
You thought that would be the first and last time you ever saw the two, besides at the games. But that night, when Will walked you to your door, you did your nighttime routine scrolling through his social media. Something you’d never done. And it was noticeable, when your finger accidentally double tapped a picture from too long ago. You screamed as your tooth brush stopped it’s movement in your mouth as you quickly took the like back and spit your toothpaste out, running int your roommates room, ignoring the guy sitting on her bean bag.
The next morning, as you scrolled through your notifications on your balcony, a smile graced your face. He followed you.
That was just the beginning, soon after a couple dms back and forth… Will seeked you out after the game with no Macklin by his side which surprised you.
“Wanna go get some celebratory food?” He asked softly, with that boyish grin that made your stomach flip. Your friend squealed from the other side of the car, you and Will laughed at her as she muttered an apology.
You leaned closer to him, tugging on the bottom of his jacket. “I’d love too… but I do have a friend that needs a ride home.”
“She can drive, I’ll take you home.” Will shot back with a smirk, you shook your head biting back a smile and called out your friends name who rounded the car with a wide smile, Will stepped back as you threw you keys at her.
“Have fun!” She sung with a giggle, watching as the two of you walked away, fingers brushing against each other before he flexed his hand and grabbed onto yours, she squealed again before shutting your door and driving off as Will lead you to his car.
It was sudden, the change between you and him. Before, you knew it was never about being just friends but there was also no rush to be anything more. It had been a few months since the first time you and Will went out, now he was coming over and spending the nights accidentally, the two of you falling asleep watching a movie or staying up late trying to finish putting together the legos you and him bought that day when he went shopping with you, sleep was written all over his face and you told him he could stay.
Macklin came over a lot, you and him became really close too. Your roommate got along with both of them, the four of you playing uno after dinner that you and Will made in your kitchen earlier. You soon realized how competitive Mack was, almost as competitive as your friend. You and Will would watch the two of the bicker about the cards they just put down, you just leaned into Will’s touch and waited for them to finish— sometimes you and him would have to intervene.
You met the rest of the team at a barbecue he invited you to, that was the night he took you to his home and kissed you.
You felt bad. Not telling your family about him but god you loved having him without anyone knowing, but now Mack and your friend knew… and the whole Sharks team. Now you just felt like the worst sister ever. But not even did your parents know, until your mom walked into your apartment with your dad shuffling in behind her tiredly, it was supposed to be a surprise, you had a cheer event coming up and they wanted to be there.
Your father jumped when your mother screamed, you jumped up in your bed hearing the yell.
Will stood shirtless, only in his pajama pants, in your kitchen in front of your stove as he attempted to make the two of you breakfast. You threw off the comforter, running out into the living to see your parents standing in the entryway in shock as Will stared back at the.
Your mom turned towards you when you gasped, standing in his t-shirt and your pajama shorts.
“Oh my God.” You heard your friend say, assuming she came out because of the murder like scream from your mom.
The breakfast was awkward. You ended up ordering from somewhere so Will didn’t have to make more food for everybody, he attempted to leave but your mother forced him to sit at the table. It was halfway through the silent eating, the only sound being your friend’s loud gulps of her drinking. You and her kept glancing at each other every few minutes, your dad was staring at Will as he sat beside you.
“So…”
Your mom broke the silence, “How’d you two meet?”
You and Will smiled softly, turning towards each other and that’s when your parents softened up. Especially, when your whole body softened up when you looked at the boy beside you, of course they already knew who he was before that day but after that morning, they knew him personally and loved him. They were happy it was him.
You made your parents promise not to tell your brothers, they understood but told you to tell them soon… You wanted to, but you didn’t even know how to bring it up anymore— you and Will had been together for a while. Neither of you had posted anything about each other, obsessed with having nobody having their eyes on you as a couple. Nobody had seen you guys together when you went out, luckily. But you knew your luck would run out soon.
Now the hockey season was over and the family immediately made the plans to go to the lake house.
You were standing in the kitchen beside your mom cutting up vegetables for dinner, music was playing softly throughout the house as the boys sat at the table playing a card game. You and your mom would laugh when one of them would groan loudly. It was a perfect day, everyone went out on the boat together, the five of you stayed out there almost all day.. eventually you took your parents back but you and your brothers went back out. Once you came back, your mom was starting to prep for dinner, you and your brothers took showers before joining your parents in the kitchen area.
It was perfect.
Until Luke opened his mouth, “Who’s pretty boy?“
You stopped your movements, everyone paused for a moment to look at him confused. Glancing over your shoulder, Luke’s hand was wrapped around your phone, bringing the phone closer to his face.
You slammed the knife down on the cutting board and darted towards him, snatching the phone from his hands. Now everybody was watching, cards down on the table and Ellen stepped to stand behind you.
“Y’know, Luke it was cute when we were 12 and you snooped through my shit but it’s not anymore.” You gritted out, gripping onto your phone by your side.
“Language!” Both your parents sighed out, eyes snapping between their twins, Luke’s jaw dropped at your words and the scowl on your face. Jack and Quinn looked between the two of you with caution, wondering what the hell was going on. They both just assumed it was some twin fight.
Luke looked over your shoulder, your mom shrugged. “Luke, you know it’s not nice to go through your sisters phone.” She said softly, putting her hand on your elbow and pulled you back, closer to her. She practically felt the anger coming off of you, Luke’s eyebrows furrowed.
“But who’s pretty boy? He said ‘I love you’!” Luke exclaimed, you felt both of your parents look at you with soft eyes.
This is not how you wanted your brothers to find out.
Jack shot up in his seat, bee lining for your phone in your hand. He reached over your body, not expecting a hand to his face and pushing him into the table. Ellen gasped from behind you, gritting out your name.
“No, mom. I’m tired of them thinking they have to know everything!” You cried out, she softly rubbed the back of your arm with a knowing look, the three brothers froze at your words.
Jack grunted as he fell back into his seat, “So there is something to know?” Quinn kicked him under the table when you rubbed your forehead in annoyance, he was always the one to soften to argument or fight between the four of you.. not always, mostly. Only when the four of you were older, when you were kids it was all of you throwing punches and legs.
“No.”
“Yes.”
You snapped your head to your mom, “Mom!”
She gave you a look.
“Oh my god.” You muttered and sat down as she ushered you towards the chair at the head of the able, across from your father and between Jack and Luke. She looked back at the kitchen before taking a spot beside her husband who reached out and grabbed her hand.
You put your phone under your thigh, ignoring the buzz against your leg. Your brothers stared at you, Luke had hurt in his eyes knowing there was something hidden between the two of you. You couldn’t even act like there ever had been, you kept plenty of secrets between your brothers— never Luke though.
Quinn waited patiently, watching you carefully as you picked at your nails. Jack wasn’t looking at you.
“I have a boyfriend…”
Chaos erupted around the table, you dropped your head into your hands with sigh as their voice overlapped with each other and your parents voiced trying to calm the boys down.
“Who is it?” Jack turned towards you, seemingly remembering what this was about. “Who’s pretty boy?” He mocked, lowering his voice and you wanted to smack him. You almost did but your mom said you name softly, she warned how no matter what or who.. this would be the outcome of keeping this from them. Now it was time to find out how they would react about who.
You bit your bottom lip, “Will Smith.”
“Will Smith?! Men and black Will Smith?!” Jack yelled, sitting up, almost out of his chair. You slowly looked at him with a confused face. “He’s like fifty! This is illegal! Oh my god!”
You kicked his leg, “Ow!”
“Will Smith? San Jose Sharks?” You spelt it out for him, gesturing with your hands, the room went silent. Deadly silent. You couldn’t even bother to look at any of them, the dramatics of them having betrayal written across their face. You stared at the scratch on the table from the first summer at the house.
Then chaos erupted around the table, Quinn and Jack snapped their heads towards each other— eyebrows flying up so fast you bit back a chuckle, Luke’s eyes were on you though.. eyebrows raised and parted lips.
“This is absurd!” Jack yelled turning towards you finally remembering who this was about. “Since when?” His voice softened a little, eyebrows pinched together like it was all coming to him, why his little brother was much quieter.
You swallowed glancing between all of them, “A while.”
It went oddly quiet. A quiet you’ve never been used to, not with them or your home in California. You and your roommate were loud together, and growing up it was always chaos. You heard Luke swallow roughly as he clenched his fist in front of him as he looked away from your face, Quinn just stared blankly at you.
Jack broke the silence with a scoff, “You know how hockey guys are?”
You laughed bitterly, “What? Just because you three hoe around doesn’t mean he does.”
Your parents yelled your name, you rolled your eyes as your brothers looked at you with shock.
“He’s nice to me and we love each other.” You fought even though they had pretty much been silent, “I’m sorry for not telling you but this is exactly why.”
“You know we’d support you about anything… even if it was a hockey player— you know that was just a joke.”
“Bullshit.”
Ellen gritted your name out, Jim giving up on correcting you a long time ago.
“Listen, when we told you that.. yes we were being for real but not actually! Not so for real that you can’t come to us for months.” Jack said, leaning forward with a brotherly look but also anger.
Luke stayed silent.
You swallowed, “Luke?”
“I don’t— I can’t believe you kept something from me for this long.”
The room went silent again, everyone’s eyes on Luke as he looked at you. You swallowed roughly, your throat tightening. “I’m sorry.”
There was nothing else you could say, your brothers said nothing either. What else could they say? The family separated, well more of you leaving the table to go to your room and call Will while your family still sat at the table, as soon as your door shut you heard the hushed voices of your brothers and your parents trying to calm them down.
It was another hour until you appeared from the stairs, your brothers gone onto the back porch while your parents continued the paused dinner. Ellen looked up from the stove at the sound of your soft footsteps, smiling softly she gestured for you to go outside.
Holding back an eye roll you walked towards the back door and opened it gaining the attention of your older brothers, stopping their conversation. You felt small under their gaze, hand still on the handle like you might run back into the house. Quinn noticed and scooted to the side on the small couch on the porch and jerked his head, you smiled softly and sat beside him, the oldest dropped his hand onto your shoulder and squeezed it.
“So,” Jack quickly said, smacking his hand onto his thigh and looked at you with a look you’ve seen one too many times. “When do we get to meet him?” He tapped his fingers against the table, they all looked towards you, waiting.
You messed with the strings of your devils hoodie, “I don’t know, didn’t really plan on seeing him until I went back to California.”
“You can invite him to the house, Sissy.”
It was a nickname they’d call you when you were younger, it kind of drifted when you grew up, it lingered with your parents but they’d call you anything but that— unless they were feeling nice.
“I don’t know… he probably has a bunch of plans.”
“Well, ask him anyway. Just for a weekend or something.”
Two weeks later, Will was flying into Michigan and you had never been more nervous as he texted you he landed, you were sitting in the pick up line, constantly messing with something in your car or looking at yourself in the mirror or camera on your phone. You were currently looking in your console, it was messy and you cringed but couldn’t think of that when a soft knock interrupted your thoughts.
You flinched, snapping your head up and Will stood at your window with a large smile on his face— you smiled widely back. He glanced down at the handle and your eyebrows raised as you blindly reached for the handle to unlock the door.
Will slid into the seat smoothly, tossing his duffel bag into the back seat while also leaning over the middle console to pull you closer and you melted into his touch, awkwardly pulling him into a hug but it fit. He kissed your hair, than your neck, and pulled away, hand on your neck and pressed his lips against yours.
You made a small noise of relief in the back of your throat, he smiled on your lips. “Missed you so much, baby.”
You kissed him one more time before you fell back into your seat and turned your car back on, he buckled into his seat and immediately reached for your hand, your intertwined hands rested on the console the whole ride— music playing from your phone connected to the Bluetooth.
Will and you caught up on the past two busy weeks, he was spending time with family and so were you, plus a lot of the boys friends were in town like usual— luckily only Trevor and Cole were around for the weekend Will would be. You could deal with them.
You’d known the two as much as you know you’re brothers, they treated you like a sister and they were just more brothers.
“You nervous?” You asked, pulling into the familiar area of your Michigan home, glancing towards him.
Will shook his head, only humming in response. “You’re squeezing my hand pretty hard.”
He immediately loosed his grip, you chuckled bringing your joined hands to your lips and kissed them softly, Will responded by rubbing his thumb against the back of your hand, you kept his hand rested against your lips, Will felt his shoulders relax even as you pulled into a neighborhood and he knew it was yours.
“I think I’m gonna pass out.”
You shook your head, suppressing a smile as you drove down your street seeing the large house your brothers bought together all those years ago.
“It’s gonna be fine, they’ll barely talk to us.”
Will shook his head, leaning back into his seat with tense muscles. “No, like seriously, why am I doing this?”
“Because you love me?”
“Yes, very much. But—“
You pulled into the driveway, “Listen, they seriously—“
“Baby, I’m not scared of them.”
You stopped, “Then… what is it?”
“No, I am terrified of them actually… but like I’ve— I’ve played against them and looked up to them— fuck, not like— I don’t want you to think I’m dating you for them— I swear…. Oh my god. Take me back to the airport— I—“ Will rambled, you covered your mouth trying to hide your smile and he thought you were crying.
“Oh my god— oh my god. Baby, I’m—“
A laugh cut through his panicking, he stopped. “Will, you have to chill or they will make fun of you and they’re sitting on the front porch, you assumed they’d been waiting since you left after they begged to come with.
He actually slid down into the seat, you laughed loudly. “I’m making fun of you. Will, get up.” You grabbed his shoulder, he groaned as he straightened. “C’mon, scaredy cat.”
“Don’t call me that.” He grunted as you both opened the door, he reached bag and pulled his bag from the backseat.
Your three brothers just sat on the porch, watching as you and Will walked up the steps, his hand intertwined with yours— they didn’t feel or sense the death grip he had on you. Smiling softly, you tugged him to your side as he attempted to stand behind you.
You knew it wasn’t because he was nervous, that’s where he always stood with you. Pressed against behind you and arms wrapped around you, sometimes around your waist but usually wrapped around your shoulders and your hands held onto his wrists, every few minutes pressing your lips to his forearms.
“Brothers.”
“Sister.”
You chuckled, “You guys all know each other…. So I don’t need to do introductions.”
They all said their hello’s, you squeezed Will’s hand three times and he quickly mimicked. “So, I’m gonna show him the room and then we’ll do dinner?”
“Okay, we’re grilling.” Jack said, tipping his beer to the two of you as you stepped back with a wide smile. The three of them couldn’t deny the way their chests warmed at the sight.
But Quinn paused as your hand went on the door handle and turned, “Wait…” And you did, hand frozen against the handle and both of you slowly looked at your oldest brother. “What’s his room?”
“Mine?” You stated but it sounded more like a question, all of their eyebrows shot up and their backs straightened.
“Your room?” Luke choked out.
You rolled your eyes and opened the door, “Ugh, yes! Its only for a weekend and he always sleeps in my bed back in California—“
“We don’t need to know that.” Quinn cut you off, eyes squeezed like he was trying to forget that. “Just… no foolishness.”
You laughed, “Yes, dad.”
After showing Will your room and laying down for a few minutes, body on top of his to calm him down, the two of you stepped out onto the back porch where all the boys were, and your parents sat on the couch together, listening to something Trevor was saying.
But they all stopped when you shut the sliding glass door, Will immediately grabbed onto your hand. “Hey.”
Trevor and Cole lit up at the sight of you, Cole reached out and pulled you onto the couch next to him, your hand yanked away from Will’s, he could’ve sworn his heart was about to stop as he made eye contact with all three of your brothers and you fell into a conversation with Cole.
“C’mon.” Jack clapped a hand against the younger boy’s shoulder, Will joined them by the grill, hands in his pockets awkwardly and shy. Will could admit he’d never been shy or this awkward before, not even when he met your pants— and that was awkward.
But after they talked for just a few minutes, Will’s hands were out of his pockets and his laughter was his usual one that you loved, a small smile gracing your face even though your back was faced towards him— Trevor and Cole needing your full attention like usual.
By the time dinner was finished, Will was back by your side at the table, his focus was on something Trevor was saying from across the table, hands thrown around in the air as all the boys pitched stuff into the conversation— something about hockey, that’s all you knew before you drew yourself out of the conversation, turning to your parents. But Will’s hand rested on your thigh, your hand on top of his, he occasionally squeezed.
Soon, your mom yawned and your dad took her to bed, leaving you and the boys, you leaned back into your seat and brought your leg up.
“So…”
Cole said, leaning forward to see you, you rested your head against your hand, just observing their conversation until he did that and now everyone was looking at you.
“What?”
“How’d you two meet?” He asked, a smirk on his face, the question gained a lot of commotion, Trevor giggled. Your brothers leaned back into their seats, eyes on the two of you.
“Uh—“
“Well—“
Will smiled, “Go ahead.”
And you simply told them, how he found you on the side of the street, curled into yourself like a homeless person. Trevor laughed as he imagined the sight, you kicked him from beneath the table, and how he found you after every game until one time he finally asked you out.
“Still can’t believe you kept it from us for so long.”
You swallowed, Will squeezed your thigh. “Yeah, well it was easier being so far away.”
Jack smiled, a breathy laugh leaving his lips.
“Well, we like you, Smith.”
Will chuckled, “Thanks.”
The weekend with Will went smooth, a day spent on the water, skin burnt and limbs tired as everyone walked back into the house. You and Will fell asleep on the couch together, his head pressed against your stomach and arm draped across your waist, Quinn found you two when he went to find y’all for dinner, he smiled softly before waking you up. The next day, it was calm, games played throughout the day, movie night before you brought Will up to your room as the boys went out on the lake for a late night swim. You were glad they left, you felt wrong doing anything with them in the house— too scared they would walk in.
But Will couldn’t leave without feeling himself inside of you.
The next day, you went on the lake for a short time and spent the day in the yard with your brothers and Will, they welcomed him the open arms… by the time he left— there were inside jokes between the boys and numbers exchanged.
You were glad you had those times they didn’t know but you were more than happy they knew now and Will was apart of your family.
Used to the whispers when you answered too many questions in class. Used to the boys snickering when you carried around novels thicker than their textbooks. Used to eating lunch in the library because it was easier than pretending empty seats didn't exist.
And somehow, despite all that, you'd still fallen for Will Smith.
At first, he was just another hockey player. Another popular guy who walked through the halls with his friends like they owned the place.
Then he'd started sitting beside you in chemistry.
Then borrowing your notes.
Then texting you random questions at midnight.
Then showing up at your locker.
Then smiling at you like you were the only person in the room.
And somewhere between study dates and late-night drives and stolen kisses behind the rink, you'd made the mistake of believing him.
Believing he actually saw you.
Believing you were more than some joke.
Prom night shattered that illusion.
The gym glittered with cheap decorations and fairy lights. Music echoed through the room while couples danced beneath the streamers.
You'd spent two hours getting ready.
Two hours trying to convince yourself you belonged there.
Will hadn't stopped staring at you all night.
"You look beautiful."
You rolled your eyes.
"You've said that six times."
"And I'll say it seven."
His hand found yours.
The familiar warmth should've comforted you.
Instead, something felt off.
Maybe it was the way his friends kept glancing over.
Maybe it was the way Ryan and Gabe kept looking guilty.
Maybe it was the knot in your stomach that refused to disappear.
You excused yourself to get a drink.
That was when you heard them.
A group of hockey players standing around one of the tables.
Laughing.
Talking.
Not realizing you were right behind them.
"Dude, best twenty bucks I've ever spent."
Your stomach dropped.
You knew that voice.
Ryan.
"What was it, anyway?" another guy asked.
"You don't know?" Connor laughed. "Beginning of the year. We dared Will to ask her out."
Silence.
"No way."
"Swear to God."
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
"No, seriously. Twenty bucks. We thought she'd say no."
Someone laughed.
Someone else muttered something about how insane it was.
And then came the sentence that made the entire room tilt.
"Crazy thing is he actually fell for her."
You couldn't hear anything after that.
The music blurred.
The lights blurred.
Your vision blurred.
All you could think was:
Twenty dollars.
Your relationship had started because someone thought you were worth twenty dollars.
You turned and walked away.
"Hey!"
Will's voice echoed behind you.
You ignored it.
"Y/N!"
His footsteps followed.
You pushed through the gym doors and into the empty hallway.
"Stop."
You spun around.
"What?"
Will froze.
Because he'd never seen you look at him like this.
Like he was a stranger.
"What happened?"
You laughed.
The sound was horrible.
Broken.
"How much was I worth?"
His face went white.
Immediately.
And that told you everything.
Everything.
"No."
"How much, Will?"
He didn't answer.
You nodded.
"Right."
"Y/N—"
"How much?"
His jaw clenched.
"...Twenty."
The number hit harder than you expected.
Because hearing it made it real.
You swallowed.
"Twenty dollars."
"It wasn't—"
"Twenty dollars."
"It was a stupid dare."
You stared at him.
The boy you'd loved for almost a year.
The boy who knew your favorite books.
The boy who kissed your forehead when you were stressed.
The boy who knew exactly how much you'd been hurt by people.
And he'd started all of this as a joke.
"You asked me out because your friends paid you."
"No."
"That's literally what happened."
"At first."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
At first.
You laughed again.
A tear rolled down your cheek.
"Oh my God."
His face crumpled.
"No, no, that's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
"That was before I knew you."
His voice cracked.
"I didn't know you."
You looked away.
Because if you looked at him any longer, you'd cry.
"I was an idiot."
"Yeah."
"I know."
Silence.
Will took a shaky breath.
"After the first week I forgot about the dare."
You said nothing.
"After the second week I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Still nothing.
"After a month I was completely screwed."
His voice was quiet now.
Raw.
"Do you know how many times I tried to tell you?"
That made you look up.
His eyes were red.
"I wanted to tell you."
"Then why didn't you?"
Because that was the question.
Will looked miserable.
"Because I was terrified."
You scoffed.
"Of what?"
"Of losing you."
His answer came instantly.
"You would've hated me."
A bitter laugh escaped you.
"Well congratulations."
The words hit him like a slap.
You could see it.
The hurt.
The panic.
The realization.
Because for the first time since you'd met him, Will looked like he might actually cry.
"I love you."
The hallway went silent.
You froze.
His voice shook.
"I love you."
Another step.
"I know I don't deserve you."
Another.
"I know I screwed this up."
Another.
"But every single thing after that stupid dare was real."
Your heart broke a little.
You believed him.
That was what made it hurt so much.
You believed him.
And you still loved him.
Which was honestly the most infuriating part of all.
Will stopped a few feet away.
Close enough to reach you.
Not close enough to touch.
"You don't have to forgive me tonight."
You stared at the floor.
"You don't have to forgive me at all."
The crack in his voice nearly undid you.
"But don't think for one second that you were ever worth twenty dollars."
Slowly, you looked up.
His eyes met yours.
"You were the best thing that ever happened to me."
The tears you'd been fighting finally escaped.
And for the first time all night, neither of you knew what happened next.
Only that whatever came after this would have to be built on the truth.
pairing : garrett graham x reader
rating : nsfw
warnings : unrequited love, angst, sexual descriptions
wc : 5.1k (edited)
part I part II
You weren’t the luckiest when it came to your love life. Or rather, your lack thereof.
It was as though you were hardwired to fall for the worst of the worst, bypassing and ignoring all the bright red flags they waved in your face. You were colourblind, it seemed.
It was a routine of sorts. Meet, fuck, fall in love, fuck some more, get dumped, cry about it, repeat. There was never a point in that routine where an actual relationship existed and that deeply hurt you. You felt as though you weren’t worth loving, just good enough to sleep with.
You were academically gifted, but when it came to matters of the heart, you were as slow as a sloth in the cold. So slow in fact, that you decided that messing around and crushing on Dean Di Laurentis was going to not end as badly as it did. For you at least.
You watched from the other end of the living room as Dean grinded on a gorgeous girl adorning a bold green dress that told you she dressed as Jennifer Lopez. Your jaw clenched as your throat closed up. As the tears welled in your eyes, you turned away and rushed out of the house. You accidentally bumped into your friend’s shoulder, making her follow you after noticing the scene before that prompted such a reaction from you.
“Hey, hey, sweetie, it’s okay,” she said, pulling you into her arms as you began sobbing.
“Why does this always happen to me?” you asked through the tears.
All your friend could say was “I’m sorry” as she caressed your head and led you to your car. She took the keys and drove you back home.
As you calmed down, guilt settled in as you realised that you ruined your friend’s night. Mentally cursing yourself, you took your friend’s free hand and kissed it.
“I’m so sorry, we can go back if you want. We’re not far yet,” you said.
“Go back? No, let’s go home and have a little girls night,” she said with a small smile.
“But you were really looking forward to this party,” you countered, “I can handle myself. Come on, let’s go back.”
“You sure?” she asked hesitantly.
“Of course, I’m a big girl.”
She glanced at you momentarily before muttering “okay” and turning the car around. Thankfully, the parking spot you’d left was still empty and the both of you were back in the house in no time.
You managed to find a chair in the living room, where you sat nursing a beer. You noticed that Dean wasn’t with the green dress girl anymore, but had another girl on his arm. It irked you to no end that he could so freely flaunt his endless roster in front of you and you’d feel every negative emotion imginable, but if you were to do the same with any guy, he would likely not even notice.
Suddenly one beer turned into five and your inhibitions had been lost. You were on the dancefloor with your friend — you didn’t even know where she had spawned from — and the music fuelled the adrenaline pumping through you.
You felt a large presence behind you. You wondered if you had caught the attention of the only man that mattered to you. You turned around and to your surprise, it was none other than his best friend instead. Garrett Graham.
Your bodies kept moving in unison. He smirked down at you and in your haze, you flirtatiously smiled back. He didn’t know you, or at least it seemed like he didn’t. You weren’t sure whether it stung that you weren’t even worth mentioning to his best friend but you weren’t given enough time to think about it.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?” he asked. You responded with a sultry tone brought upon by your semi-drunken state.
“Pretty name for a pretty girl.”
“Really? I thought a guy like you would have more game than that?” you teased.
“A guy like me? How do you know me?”
“Everyone knows you,” you stated matter-of-factly.
“Ah. Then I should let you know that I have game where it matters.”
“Oh yeah? And where is that?”
“I can show you if you’d like.” You hadn’t noticed how close you were until his breath hit your lips, almost like a request to proceed. There was a tension brewing in the middle, one that you broke by reaching up and connecting your lips.
“Show me then,” you breathed out in the second your lips left each other.
He took you hand in his and led you upstairs into a random room. The door had barely shut and he was on you already. You didn’t know if it was the buzz of the alcohol but you heated up fast as he kissed you slow and deep.
His hand roamed your body before lifting you top over your head. He gently pushed you back onto the bed, removing your skirt and knee high boots, leaving you only in your underwear.
He looked at you with a prowess that sent chills down your back to your core. He removed his clothes before joining you in the bed and getting back to the kissing program.
You felt his hand move down your torso, stopping between your legs. You opened them further as an invitation to continue, which he took.
Pushing your underwear to the side, his slender fingers rubbed your wet lips achingly slowly, purposely avoiding your throbbing nub.
“Stop teasing me and actually do something,” you said firmly, growing more wanting.
“I am doing something,” he smirked.
“Then do more,” you bit back, “or I can just find some willing to.”
That seemed to have done the trick as his fingers quickly entered you, finding your sweet spot in no time. He stroked it fiercely. You moaned loudly. Neither of you cared about being heard.
You clenched around his fingers, signaling to him that you were close. Like the tease he was showing to be, he pulled his fingers out.
You looked at him shocked. “What the hell?”
He didn’t respond. Only rolled off of you, removed his boxers to reveal his erect shaft and laid back.
“Get on,” he instructed.
“Such a gentleman,” you grumbled sarcastically, but straddled him all the same. You sank down on him, moaning softly as you adjusted to him.
“You always make the ladies do the work?” You asked.
“Only the more mouthy ones,” he responded wittily.
As you began slowly moving up and down on him, one of his hands made its way to your covered breast and the other to your hip. His eyes flickered between your face to where your bodies joined.
He bit his lip at the sensual sight of your hips rolling against him, your jaw slacked and head tilted back. You looked even more astonishing.
Your legs grew weaker and weaker as you felt yourself get closer to the edge. Your movements began to slow, so he flipped you onto your back to let you “rest” and enjoy the ride as he set a faster pace.
“Fuck” he moaned, pressing his forehead against yours. He took a hold of your legs and placed them over his shoulders. His eyes focused on you as your eyes rolled back. He was determined to prove himself to you.
His hand slid in between your bodies to your clit. He rubbed it rapidly, watching, pleased, as you lost yourself even further. Your eyes were squeezed shut so you missed the shit-eating grin on his face as he looked down at you.
Your moans grew louder as you felt that familiar pressure building up in your gut. As his movements grew sloppier, you knew he was close too. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, thighs trembling and toes curled as you reached your climax.
Right on time for him as he pulled out not wanting to finish in you, and stroked himself before releasing onto the sheets beneath you.
You both heaved as you came down from both your highs. You sobered up as you looked at Garrett who now laid beside you.
Oh no.
Regret was a feeling you were most definitely familiar with. Actually it happened more often than you would like to admit but that never stopped you from getting into situations that would make you feel it again. You got dressed and rushed out of the room with Garrett stunned quiet watching you leave without another word.
Questions raced in your head. Did Dean see you with his friend? Did he get jealous? Will Garrett talk about it to him?
Fuck! You probably ruined what you had with Dean by sleeping with his friend.
You grabbed your friend, who fortunately didn’t drink on account of being the designated driver, and left.
The drive home was quiet as you decided to pretend to sleep the whole way to avoid being questioned. Soon enough you were in bed with your thoughts and struggling to sleep.
—-
Standing in front of his house felt pathetic. You stood there, staring at the door, pondering if you should go in or not.
With a deep breath and a count of five seconds of bravery, you went in. John Logan and a couple of other guys sat on the sofa playing some hockey game.
“Hey Logan,” you called out, “Where’s Dean?”
“His room,” Logan responded without looking at you.
You made your way upstairs to his room. You knocked on his door, and entered after hearing a soft “come in” from the other side.
Dean was laying on his bed, smiling at his phone. Your heart tightened as you thought that he was likely texting another girl.
“Hey…” Dean greeted with his brow arched inquisitively.
“Hey,” you breathed out. Your hands began to sweat and your heart raced so fast that you could feel it in your throat.
“What are you doing here?” He set his phone aside, giving you his full attention. That action made you even more nervous.
“I wanted to talk to you,” you responded meekly, still standing awkwardly by the door.
“About what?”
‘Us.”
He crunched his face in confusion. “Us?” He asked.
“Yes, us.”
“Okay, go on…” he trailed off.
You cleared your throat trying to recall the speech you had practiced for hours the night before.
“I really like you, Dean,” you began. You noticed he wanted to interrupt you but you stopped him. “I really, really like you. I know this was meant to be casual and everything, but I thought I’d be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t at least try to see if you’d be up for something more between us.”
“Fuck,” Dean muttered. You looked at him dejected as he slowly made his way to you. He took your hands in his and you looked up at him as he seemed to struggle to find words to respond. “Look Y/N. I like you too but I’m not really a relationship guy. You know this. Plus, I thought you were seeing Garrett.”
“It was once and it was casual,” you said defensively, “I-I… I really want to be with you.’
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“We can try —”
“Y/N…” he sighed.
You didn’t realise you had started crying until his thumb swiped away the tears that you’d spilled. The feeling of humiliation washed over you like a wave. You burst out of his room and rushed back to your car. He called out to you from the hallway, not even bothering to follow you outside. Once in your car, you burst into loud sobs. You leaned against the steering wheel and cried your heart out.
You really did it to yourself. The never-ending cycle of heartbreak that you submitted yourself to every few months was pushing you to the edge of your wits. You truly believed that you were unlovable. Fuckable, for sure, but not more than that.
You were startled out of your weeping by a knock on your window. Much to your dismay and embarrassment, it was none other than Garrett. You hurriedly wiped your face before opening your window to Garrett’s concerned face.
“Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?” He asked, leaning against your car door.
“I’m fine,” you feigned a smile.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I need to go. Bye Garrett,” you said, starting your car.
“Hey, no, wait,” he stopped you, “how about we go to Malone’s and grab something to eat…or drink?”
“Look Garrett —”
“Please?” He insisted. You sighed before nodding and motioning him to hop into your car.
The drive was awkward. You knew Garrett wanted to ask why you had been crying, but you appreciated that he didn’t.
The pair of you sat in a booth in a corner, silently waiting for your orders. The air was heavy, loaded with a question that ached to be asked. When your food arrived, you nibbled on it, not really having the appetite to indulge.
“This is really good,” Garrett said with his mouth full, slicing through the tense silence between you. You just nodded in response.
“Are you feeling better?” He asked, to which you nodded again. “Wanna talk about what happened?” You shook your head.
You had a feeling he knew. You didn’t know why, but you had an inkling considering the context clues he already had. You zoned out thinking about Dean and what had happened. You cursed yourself for sleeping with Garrett in that moment of weakness. It likely cost you a relationship with the man you truly loved.
“What are you thinking about?” His voice pulled you away from your thoughts.
“You ask a lot of questions,” you responded very straightforwardly.
“I’m a curious guy,” he shrugged.
“Some people might call it nosy, actually,” you retorted.
“Same difference.”
“Look, I don’t want you to think that what happened is —”
“I know it doesn’t mean anything. I just figured you’d want some company,’ he clarified, much to your relief as you weren’t sure how you’d word out that you didn’t want anything with him.
“Great! Yeah… um” you stumbled through your words.
“I don’t wanna seem mean or anything, but as a quick word of advice, Dean isn’t a serious relationship guy. He’s a cool dude, for sure, but the sooner you realise that it’s really just sex for him, the better off you’ll be.”
You stared at him agape. The numbness that had settled in your chest began throbbing into an ache again.
“I know that now,” you croaked. “Um… I’m gonna leave now… uh…thanks for the— this, I guess.” You gather your things, abandoning the barely eaten food on your plate.
“Hey, I didn’t —”
“Please stop. I get it okay. I’m not worth a relationship.” You got up and left the diner, not even thinking about how Garrett was going to get back.
Unfortunately for you, the man was persistent, so he followed you out. You expected him to call out to you, or do something to stop you but no. He followed in silence and got into your car with you.
You looked at him, shocked at his audacity.
“So? Are you gonna drive or?” He asked.
“I’m going to my dorm,” you said.
“Cool,” he responded.
“I’m not really in the mood to detour.”
“That’s fine. We can go to your dorm.”
Rolling your eyes, you decided you were too drained to argue with him so you just drove to your dorm. You weren’t even surprised when he followed you out of your car, into the building and all the way to your room. Kimmy was away, thank goodness. You didn’t want to have to explain Garrett’s presence.
“Okay, you’ve made it this far. Can you leave now?” You asked plopping down on your bed, taking your shoes off.
“Nope,” he said, sitting next to you. You groaned as you hopped to get a nap in.
“What do you want?” You asked. He stared back, his eyes telling a tale you weren’t sure you wanted to hear, but your body reacted before you could stop it.
You lurched onto him, fiercely kissing him. It was clumsy, messy and desperate. Before you knew it, clothes were flying off.
You straddled him, slowly grinding on his erecting shaft. His hands rested on your hips, guiding your movements and squeezed every now and then. His lips left yours, trailing down to your neck and gently sucking on it. The tenderness of the area drew a moan out of you. His hands trailed up your body to your breasts, playing with your erect nipples.
You could feel yourself growing wetter by the second. You grinded your hips harder against him. Both of your moans filled the air, your head falling back as you felt a tension brew at the pit of your stomach. You moved faster, desperate to reach your peak, subconsciously arching your back which pushed your breasts into Garrett’s face. He took the opportunity, taking your right nipple into his mouth. He sucked, bit and flicked it.
Your mind drifted off to your time with Dean, comparing the two. When Dean had found out how aroused you got when your breasts were played with, it was game over for you. It did take him longer to figure it out than Garrett though.
“I’m close,’ you whined.
Without warning, Garrett flipped you over onto your back and nestled himself between your legs. Like the gentleman he was, he quickly lowered his head between your legs and dug into you like a starved man.
Your hands found themselves in his hair as his tongue slithered through your lower lips. You felt his finger breach your entrance that was already soaked in anticipation. Again, you couldn’t help but compare how the two were quite similar in their methods but Garrett had a subtle aggression, or rather, passion.
Back arching off the bed, legs shaking around his head. You were unraveling. You took deep breaths, trying to ground yourself from the high. Shame and guilt settled in as you thought of Dean again, and what you just did with his best friend.
“Fuck!” You groaned feeling tears sting your eyes. All of a sudden you felt more exposed, and you tried to quickly and fully cover yourself with your blankets. You couldn’t bear to look at Garrett.
“Oh shit, did I do something wrong?” he sounded panicked and no doubt looked at it as well.
“No, it wasn’t you. Can you please leave now?” you cried.
“Y/N, please talk to me,” he pleaded.
“I don’t want to. Just leave,” you all but screamed at him.
“What did Dean do?”
You went quiet for a second. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Why do you care? I don’t even know you,” you spat quite aggressively, growing tired of his persistent presence.
“Well, you know me well enough to fuck me,’ he countered.
“Oh please,” you threw the blanket from over your head to look at the now half-dressed man. “Like you haven’t fucked a bunch of girls and dumped them without even knowing their last names! You guys are all the fucking same. You use girls and then dump them like nothing.”
“I don’t —” He began but stopped mid-sentence at the look you gave that screamed ‘don’t bother lying to me’.
“Fine, but they know it’s casual too, so it’s not like I’m going around hurting them.”
“You don’t know that, do you? Maybe they want more but they know you wouldn’t give them a chance so they just settle for what you’ll give them.”
“If I don’t know that then what can I do? I make shit clear from my side, they should do the same. It’s not my fault they want something more and won’t tell me,” he said defensively.
“And you’d say yes if one of them did?” you asked with a hint of skepticism.
“Uh…I,” he stuttered. You rolled your eyes at him.
“Exactly.”
“Wait,” he said with wide eyes. You knew from the look on his face that you had given yourself away but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You just wanted him away from you.
“Is that why you’re upset? You told Dean how you felt and he rejected you?” You felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment but nodded nonetheless.
“Oh,” he said dejectedly.
“Look Garrett, we can’t do this again, okay? It doesn’t feel right, especially since Dean knows,” you say in a much softer tone.
“Right…” he trailed off. “Yeah, um, cool. I’ll leave then.”
“Thanks, and I truly am sorry for… um… I don’t know, I’m just sorry, okay?” You said rubbing your eyes. Garrett quickly got dressed and left your room but not without looking at your sad laying figure one more time.
You waited to hear the main door open and close, but it never did. Furrowing your brows, you got out of bed and as you reach for your door handle, it bursts open revealing Garrett, the man who didn’t leave.
“What are you still doing here?” you whined.
“Do you wanna go to the movies with me on Friday?” he said almost breathlessly.
“What?” You were confused at the very random request.
“Do you wanna go to the movies with me? On Friday? It actually doesn’t have to be the movies. We can go anywhere really but like…do you want to?”
“Garrett,” you sighed.
“Please?” You looked into his eyes, feeling bad for pulling him into your emotional wreckage. “Sure.”
“Great!” he cheered. “I’ll let you know the details tomorrow, cool?” You nodded with little to no enthusiasm.
“Nice! I’ll leave now.” he quickly pecked your cheek before skipping out of your dorm.
—
Friday arrived quicker than you wanted. You had confirmed with Garrett to go out in the evening to watch a play on campus and then grab something to eat. You hoped it wouldn’t be at Malone’s since that’s where everyone usually hangs out but you didn’t ask further, so all you could do was wait.
Garrett was going to pick you up from your dorm. You were finishing up with the final getting ready touches with your friend lying on your bed, trying to make sense of the situation.
“I’m so lost right now,” she said for the umpteeth time.
“Girl, so am I,” you sighed.
“So like? At the party where you literally cried over Dean, you also happened to have slept with his best friend?” she questioned. Again. You cringed at the thought as you did recognise that it didn’t sound good at all. “Then three days ago you decided to confess your feelings to Dean and when he rejected you, you again messed around with his friend? Babe, you know how fucked up this sound, right?”
You groaned, pulling at your hair as you did so.
“Yes, I do. But like, it wasn’t my fault! He’s the one who keeps coming to me!” you squeal defensively.
“You can literally just say no,” she backfired. “I think you want to make Dean jealous, but babe, let me tell you now, you won’t. He could care less as you’ve seen and you’re messing around with his best friend now.”
“I was exhausted when I said yes to going out with him, but this will be the last time. The less I’m around him and Dean and anything related to them, the better,” you said with finality.
“Except, you probably already like Garrett’s attention and soon enough you’ll fall for him too. You do this all the time. Mess with a guy, fall for him, get rejected and monkey branch to the next. It’s not healthy and though I know you really want a relationship, you need to focus on yourself for a bit.”
Her words stung but they were true. You did have a habit getting with a new guy right without giving yourself the time to rest and heal from the last.
You got a text from Garrett saying he was outside. The sight of it filled you with shame as you took in your friend’s words.
“Babe, I’m not here to tell you how to like your life. Matter of fact, I’d love it if you were in the streets with the intention of being in the streets, not to find love. Just be careful, okay?” she got up to hug you from behind and left your room.
Unable to wait any longer, you responded to Garret’s text, grabbed your things and out the door you went.
You weren’t in the best mood with your friend’s musings weighing down on you but there wasn’t much you could do. It would’ve been extremely rude of you to cancel right when he was outside and you’d feel guilty over it.
“Hey,” Garrett smiled as he got out of his Jeep to open the passenger door for you.
“Hi,” you responded softly, with a small smile.
“How’re you doing?” He asked, hopping into the driver’s seat.
“Good and you?”
“Great.”
You made small talk on the way to the movies. You both decided on watching Frankenstein. You opted to share a large popcorn since you didn’t want to ruin your appetite for the dinner afterwards.
You felt a bit awkward, and you wondered if Garret felt the same. Soon you got your answer as Garrett’s fingers grazed yours as though to ask for permission to hold your hand. The action was cute and brought a fuzzy feeling in your stomach, nothing like Dean had ever done.
You softly intertwined your fingers into his, your eyes stuck to the big screen but you could sense with glazing at you.
Throughout the movie, you shared small gestures of affection. You leaned your head on his shoulder, he caressed the back of your hand with his thumb. You felt like a real couple as the discomfort you felt over the situation faded.
You only let his hand go when you were in the car, driving to the restaurant he had picked out. And even then, his hand was glued to your thigh.
It was a slightly fancier restaurant with great food. You thanked yourself for having the foresight to not eat too much popcorn as you were looking forward to indulging in the meal you had ordered.
“So then, I there like ‘dude, the actual fuck?’ and he’s just looking at me like a fucking idiot half-naked in the middle of the backyard,” Garrett said, recounting a funny story of his and his friends’ adventures.
Your cheeks hurt from how much you were laughing. You were really enjoying Garrett’s company. Unfortunately, the moment of ease didn’t last and Garrett’s phone buzzed on the table, signalling that he had gotten a message. You both look down at it to see none other than Dean’s name pop up on the screen.
Your smile dropped instantly and you felt a grey cloud hover over you. He ignored the text and turned his phone over, but he noticed the shift in your mood.
This was going to be the last time.
“Don’t worry about him,” Garret said, taking your hand in his.
“I feel horrible,” you confessed.
“Don’t. He doesn’t mind. Probably doesn’t even care,” he tried comforting you but it felt worse to hear that.
“But I do. It’s not nice to sleep with the friend of the guy you like.”
“What if that friend actually likes you?” he asked. You looked at him shocked. He liked you?
“Do you?” You responded, still somewhat stunned.
“I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while now actually. Um… that’s actually why Dean kinda just stopped… um… seeing you,” he grimaced.
“Oh? Oh!”
“I didn’t know you were with him though until after the party. When I was telling the guys that I got with you and he mentioned that you guys were casually seeing each other, but that he noticed that I was constantly staring at you and…” he rambled on to the point of awkwardness.
“Oh.”
“Please say something other than that,” he begged.
“Isn’t it, like, against bro code or something like that?” You asked, still trying to make sense of the mess the situation had become.
“Uh, no?”
“So Dean knows?”
“Yes.”
“And he doesn’t mind?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t think I’d be able to go further though,” you said, looking away from Garrett. “It’s really not you. I just feel that I need time to sort myself out.”
“I get that. Really I understand. Take whatever time you need and if you still don’t want to see where this goes, again, it’s completely fine with me.” Your heart warmed at his maturity and understanding.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
The rest of the night went with the pair of you trying to get back to the carefree vibes you had going on. You couldn’t quite get them back but it was a good night regardless.
Being the gentleman he was, Garrett walked you up to your dorm room. You lingered there for a bit, thinking about what to say after tonight’s revelations.
“Um… I had lots of fun tonight,” you said meekly, “I wouldn’t mind hanging out every now and again.”
“I had lots of fun too,” he smiled, “and I will definitely hit you up to go out some more.”
“As friends though,” you quickly added.
“Yes,” he chuckled, “as friends.”
“Thanks again,” you said.
“No need to.”
You felt that the night would end perfectly if a kiss was shared to wrap it all up in a pretty bow, but no. You didn’t want to dive head first into your doom again, so friends you’d remain for now. You reached up to peck his cheek just to not feel incomplete, and giggled a bit at the hue of red on his face.
You went into your room, thanking the universe that your friend wasn’t in to interrogate you. Once you were in bed, your thoughts kept you up but not in an entirely bad way. You felt a bit giddy, but still, there was some guilt mixed in.
You finally had someone who wanted you, but you didn’t really want him back. You were willing to get to know him but you wondered if it was your desperation for a relationship pushing you or if it was a genuine desire to pursue things with Garrett.
Your phone buzzed next to your head. You picked it up to see a text from the new man that plagued your mind.
Garrett: Good night and sleep tight <3
You smiled. Dean never really bothered with these sorts of things. I mean, it was casual so why should he send you goodnight texts. You figured it wouldn’t hurt to build a friendship with Garrett for the time being and just let it flow naturally.
Summary: You're tired of hiding your feelings, but when a guy mocks your insecurities, Garrett's brutal defense proves you're more than just friends.
Friends to Lovers / Hurt/Comfort / Angst
Warnings: not proofread yet, mentions of imposter syndrome/academic insecurity, graphic violence, swearing, Protective! Garrett
A/N: I really hope you like it! I wrote it in a rush bc I kinda feel the need to deliver, so I hope there are not so many mistakes bc English is not my first language. Anyway, starting today and until the 16th I need to lock in hard and study a whole semester worth of crazy engineering classes (mixed feelings abt engineering rn, it needs a lot of work but i kinda love it). so i will be a bit absent. all the requests will be written after the 16th. if you request something and feel like you can't wait for me, it is totally fine by me if you send the request to someone else. but i would appreciate if you give me the heads up first. Feedback is appreciated, as always! Take care of yourselves xx and lots of love 🫶🏻
Words: a lot
Requested here!
You had perfected the role of the platonic best friend over the years. You knew the layout of the perpetually messy house he shared with his teammates like the back of your hand. You were the girl who spent Thursday nights sprawled across his massive mattress, stealing slices of his bacon-and-sausage loaded pizza while he grumbled about his history assignments and the two of you debated Breaking Bad theories.
You knew the real Garrett. You knew that beneath the arrogant, untouchable exterior there was a guy who harbored a vicious resentment for the expectations his father, Phil Graham, placed on his shoulders.
And you knew exactly how to bite the inside of your cheek and look the other way when a starry-eyed puck bunny did the walk of shame down his stairs.
Garrett had made his boundaries crystal clear long ago: he didn't do relationships. Hockey was his entire life, and casual, no-strings hookups were his only speed. You were the sole exception to his rule about letting girls stick around, but only because you were safely, immovably boxed into the friend category.
Tonight, however, the walls of that box felt like they were shrinking.
The hockey house was currently vibrating with the force of way too many drunk college students, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. You had retreated to the kitchen for a momentary breather, hoisting yourself onto the counter next to the sink.
"Here you go, darlin'." Tucker slid a freshly poured red plastic cup into your hand. He leaned against the counter beside you, watching the chaos of the living room with an amused smirk. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"I love being shoved into drywall by sweaty frat boys," you replied dryly, taking a sip. "It's my favorite Saturday night activity."
"Hey, Y/N/N," Dean drawled as he wandered into the kitchen. His green eyes scanning the room before locking onto a blonde hovering near the fridge. Dean was an unapologetic slut, and he treated the house like his own personal playground. He shot you a lazy, devastating wink before zeroing in on his target. "Looking good. Try not to let G scare off every guy in a ten-foot radius tonight."
You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your stomach tightened. Dean wasn't wrong.
Speak of the devil.
Garrett pushed through the swinging kitchen door a second later, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the throng of bodies. He was nursing a single Bud Light, strictly adhering to his self-imposed, one-drink limit for the hockey season.
He crossed the room and planted himself right between your knees, boxing you in against the counter. He smelled like his familiar, woodsy aftershave, and the sheer heat radiating off his large frame made your pulse betray you.
"I still don't get why you're insisting on mingling downstairs," Garrett muttered, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "We could be upstairs watching season two right now."
"I wanted to be social," you sighed, trying to ignore how naturally his hand rested on the denim of your thigh. "And I actually wanted to talk to some people tonight."
"Talk to who? That pretentious guy from your psych seminar?" Garrett scoffed, his jaw ticking. "I’m telling you, Y/N, the guy is a walking disaster. I saw him in the quad yesterday and he looks like he showers in liquid arrogance."
"His name is Harry, and he asked me to come find him tonight," you snapped, exhaustion seeping into your bones. "And for the record, you said the exact same bullshit about the last three guys I tried to date."
"Because they were all walking red flags!" Garrett argued.
It was an exhausting, toxic cycle. He didn't want you, but the second you tried to scrape together a dating life of your own, his fiercely protective streak mutated into full-blown sabotage. He actively blocked every attempt you made at moving on, hovering like a giant, muscle-bound guard dog while offering you absolutely nothing but friendship in return.
"Stop fucking hovering, Garrett," you fired back. You hopped off the counter, forcing him to take a step back to avoid a collision. "I'm going to go find Harry. Alone."
You didn't wait for his response, pushing your way out of the kitchen and into the sweaty bodies to escape the heavy weight of his stare. You just wanted five minutes to breathe, five minutes to pretend your chest didn't ache every time he touched you.
But as you stepped into the living room, your night was about to collide with a very different kind of disaster.
You scanned the room, looking for Harry. You had met him in your advanced literature seminar, and he was exactly the kind of guy you should be focusing on—smart, ambitious, and completely disconnected from the hockey ecosystem. He was supposed to be the guy who finally helped you pry Garrett Graham out of your heart.
You finally spotted him near the makeshift beer pong table set up over the dining room table. He was holding a plastic cup, laughing with two guys you recognized from the honors program.
You took a breath, pasting on a smile, and started to weave your way toward him. But as you closed the distance, the loud thump of the music dipped between songs, and Harry's voice carried over the ambient noise of the crowd.
"...yeah, I told her to come find me tonight," Harry was saying, taking a casual sip of his beer.
"Isn't she in your advanced lit seminar?" one of the other guys asked with a laugh. "I heard that class is brutal."
Harry scoffed, a cruel, dismissive sound that made you freeze in your tracks. "It is, and she is completely drowning in it. Honestly, it's painful to watch her try to keep up with the rest of us. I basically had to explain the entire reading list to her on Tuesday."
"So why'd you tell her to meet you?"
"Are you blind? Look at her," Harry chuckled, a slick, arrogant sound. "She's hot. And she's so desperate for help with her midterm, it’s basically a guaranteed hookup. All I have to do is pretend her thesis isn't completely pathetic, tutor her a little, and she'll be all over me. It's almost too easy."
The words hit you with the force of a physical blow.
Your lungs seized. A hot, suffocating wave of humiliation crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. It was your darkest, most deeply buried imposter syndrome dragged out into the open and weaponized. You spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over your writing, terrified you weren't smart enough to be at Briar, and Harry had seen that vulnerability and decided to use it as leverage to get you into bed.
Tears prickled the back of your eyes, hot and sharp. A strangled breath escaped your throat, and before Harry or his friends could turn around and see you standing there, you spun on your heel and bolted.
You veered into the hallway leading to the front door, moving so fast you didn't even see the two silhouettes pressed against the wall until you collided hard with a solid back.
"Whoa, hey—" a familiar voice muttered.
You blinked the tears away just enough to realize you had crashed right into Dean, who was in the middle of hooking up with the blonde from the kitchen. Because of course he was. Dean had a notorious habit of hooking up everywhere but his bedroom.
"I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking pathetically.
Dean pulled back from the girl, his light-green eyes widening as he registered the tears spilling over your lashes. "Y/N/N? Hey, what's wrong? Wait—"
"I'm fine, sorry," you gasped out, pushing past him and shoving the heavy front door open.
The crisp October air hit you like a bucket of ice water, but it didn't numb the stinging humiliation. You stumbled down the porch steps and pulled your phone out of your pocket with shaking hands, swiping furiously at your screen to pull up the number for the campus taxi service.
Before it even began to ring, the front door burst open behind you.
"Y/N!"
Garrett’s voice was sharp with panic. He marched down the porch steps, his heavy black boots thudding against the wood. He grabbed your elbow, spinning you around to face him.
"Dean said you ran out of here crying. What the hell—" Garrett froze, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat as he took in your wet cheeks and trembling bottom lip.
The annoyance that usually shadowed his features when you fought was instantly wiped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying protectiveness. His large hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from your skin.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did he touch you?"
You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut because looking at him only made the shame burn hotter.
"Nothing," you choked out, pulling out of his grip. You wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting a losing battle against your own tears. "I'm not telling you what happened just so you can give me the whole 'I told you so' speech. You were right about him, okay? Can we just leave it at that?"
Garrett stared at you for one long, suffocating second. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, putting two and two together. The silence that stretched between you was terrifying. His eyes darkened to the color of a storm, and the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.
He just turned on his heel and stalked back up the porch steps.
"Garrett!" Panic seized your chest. "Garrett, no!"
You scrambled up the steps, chasing him through the front door, but he was moving with the blinding, aggressive speed he usually saved for the ice.
"Garrett!" You yelled his name, pushing past confused partygoers, but he was an unstoppable force. "Garrett, stop!"
He found Harry exactly where you had left him, still leaning against the beer pong table.
Garrett grabbed the back of Harry's shirt, spun him around, and swung.
His fist connected with Harry's face with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. The guy didn't even have time to scream before Garrett hit him again, the sheer force of it lifting Harry off his feet and sending him crashing backward into the beer pong table. Red plastic cups and cheap beer went flying in every direction as the table buckled beneath them.
The crowd erupted into shrieks, scattering backward to form a wide circle.
Harry hit the floor, groaning, but Garrett wasn't finished. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling his fist back to deliver another devastating blow.
"Garrett, stop!" you screamed, finally breaking through the circle of onlookers.
You lunged at him, grabbing his thick bicep and trying to haul him backward. But he was two hundred pounds of pure, sculpted muscle fueled by blind rage. You couldn't even budge him. Your fingernails dug into his arm, but he didn't even flinch.
"Graham, enough!"
Suddenly, Logan and Tucker burst through the crowd. Logan, a bruiser of a defenseman, wrapped his massive arms around Garrett's chest from behind, hauling him backward. Tucker grabbed Garrett’s other arm, digging his heels into the sticky floor to help drag their captain away from the bleeding guy on the floor.
"Get the fuck off me!" Garrett roared, thrashing against his teammates, his chest heaving wildly.
"Cool it, man!" Logan shouted, straining to hold him back.
You planted yourself right in Garrett's line of sight, placing both your hands flat against his chest. His heart was hammering violently against your palms.
"G. Look at me," you commanded, your voice shaking.
His wild, silver eyes finally locked onto yours. The lethal fury in his gaze flickered, the fight slowly draining out of his posture as he registered the sheer panic on your face. He stopped fighting Logan and Tucker, his heavy, ragged breathing filling the tense silence of the room. His knuckles were already turning a vicious shade of purple.
"We are going upstairs," you said, your tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Now."
You didn't wait for him to agree. You grabbed his wrist and turned, dragging him away from the wreckage, up the narrow staircase, and straight into his master bedroom.
You slammed the door shut, leaning your back against the heavy wood as if it could keep the rest of the world out. The chaotic bass of the party was instantly muted, leaving only the sound of Garrett’s ragged, heavy breathing.
He stood in the center of the room, staring blindly at his split knuckles. The skin was already swelling and bleeding, identical to the brutal bruises he brought home after playing dirty teams like St. Anthony's.
"Are you insane?" you choked out. Your voice trembled, the adrenaline crash finally hitting you and leaving you hollowed out. "You could get suspended for that! Coach Jensen will bench you, Garrett!"
"I don't give a fuck about Coach Jensen right now," he snarled, spinning around to face you. His gray eyes were stormy, flashing with a volatile, untamed fury. "He was using you, Y/N. He was standing there laughing with his buddies about manipulating you."
"And you think I don't know that?" Your voice broke. "You think I didn't hear him? God, G, you didn't have to throw a punch to prove how pathetic I am. I already knew!"
Garrett flinched as if you'd struck him. "What are you talking about? You aren't pathetic."
"I am!" you yelled, pushing off the door. The humiliation from downstairs was a living, breathing thing inside your chest. "I'm the idiot who thought a guy actually liked me for me. I'm the idiot who's failing her seminar, who trails after you like a lapdog, exactly like he said! And you charging in there to fight my battles like I'm incapable of defending myself only proved him right!"
"He's a piece of shit who felt threatened by you," Garrett argued, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "He knows you're brilliant."
"Stop it!" You shoved both hands against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Stop pitying me! I can handle the fact that you don't want me. I can handle sitting on the sidelines watching you bring home a different girl every weekend. But I cannot handle you treating me like some fragile charity case you have to protect!"
Garrett didn't move. He absorbed your shove, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.
"Pity?" he repeated, the word tearing out of him in a harsh, jagged exhale. "You think I pity you?"
"Garrett—"
"You think I sit up at night, listening to you talk about other guys, watching you dress up for dates with assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, out of pity?" He grabbed your wrists—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull your hands off his chest so he could step directly into your space.
His heat surrounded you, smelling of sweat, adrenaline, and his familiar woodsy aftershave.
"I don't defend you because I pity you, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate rasp. "I do it because I am completely, out of my fucking mind for you."
The air vanished from the room.
You stared up at him, your heart slamming violently against your ribs. "What?"
Garrett released your wrists, bringing his hands up to cup your face. His thumbs gently swept over your wet cheeks, his bruised knuckles resting warm and rough against your skin. The arrogance and swagger he wore like armor were completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.
"I have been in love with you for years," he confessed, the words pouring out of him like a dam breaking. "I told everyone I didn't want a girlfriend because the only girl I wanted was my best friend, and I was too terrified of ruining it. So I kept my mouth shut. I watched you look for someone else, and it tore me apart."
"Garrett," you breathed, a fresh tear slipping down your face.
"You are the smartest, most beautiful person I know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips with heavy, agonizing intent. "And if you want me to back off, I will. I'll walk away right now. But don't you ever, ever think I pity you."
Your brain was short-circuiting. The secret you had buried so deep, the ache you had carried for years, was suddenly reflected right back at you in his intense gray eyes.
"You're the biggest idiot on this entire campus," you whispered, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping your throat.
He froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Y/N—"
"I've been in love with you since high school," you interrupted, sliding your hands up his chest to tangle in his short dark hair.
Garrett’s breath hitched audibly. "Are you serious?"
"You really think I hung around all this time just for the free pizza and your terrible taste in TV?" you asked, a blinding smile breaking through your tears.
A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips, the dimples you loved so much finally making an appearance. "Well, damn," he breathed.
The hesitation vanished. Garrett’s hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his body. He crashed his mouth down on yours, and it was a messy, desperate collision of everything you had both held back for years.
He kissed you like he was starving. His lips were demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a hungry, possessive heat that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine. Your fingers gripped his hair, anchoring him to you as he backed you up against the door, his large frame pressing you into the wood.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours.
"So," Garrett murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. "I guess this means I don't have to share you anymore."
You laughed, pulling his mouth back down to yours. "No, G. You definitely don't."
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.
warnings – 18+, smut, alcohol, jealousy, secret hookups, hockey violence/injuries, swearing.
notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! this was so cute i got carried away lol <3
word count – 9.4k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about keeping Garrett Graham a secret was that Garrett Graham was, in almost every available category, a terrible secret.
He was too tall for it, for one. Too broad. Too recognisable from the back, from the shoulders, from the mess of dark curls and the stupid confident way he moved through a room like gravity had signed some private agreement to make him look good from every angle.
He was also, tragically, friendly. Friendly in that Garrett-specific way that meant everybody on campus felt like they knew him well enough to yell his name across a party, slap his shoulder at Malone’s, stop him in the hall to talk about last night’s game or next week’s line-up or whatever else men said to one another when they wanted to bask briefly in proximity to a local legend and pretend it was a conversation.
And she wasn't exactly anonymous either. Not anymore. Not after Dean.
Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.
Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.
But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.
She knew that. She had known that then, technically.
Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.
Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.
Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”
That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.
Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew.
It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.
He had sat down beside her instead.
Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.
Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.
“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.
She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”
Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”
The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.
Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”
“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”
He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”
“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”
“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”
She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried.
The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.
His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder.
His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.
“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”
His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”
She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly.
It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.
“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”
She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.
Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
She bit the inside of his palm.
His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”
She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.
“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”
She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.
“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority.
He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.
Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.
Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”
Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.
For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.
He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.
His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.
Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.
She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.
In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”
A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”
“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”
Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.
Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”
She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”
“It was the first thing that came up.”
“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”
He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”
“That’s not the same as being good.”
“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”
She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.
“Too close,” she murmured against him.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”
“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”
“Because you’re loud.”
“Because you’re annoying.”
His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”
She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.
The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.
The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.
She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.
Garrett: You good?
It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.
She typed, yes.
Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.
Then typed, yed.
Then stared at that for a long time.
Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed.
She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.
Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.
The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote.
“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”
The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.
The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice.
Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.
So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.
The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.
The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”
Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.
“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.
The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.
The blonde blinked. “What?”
“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”
The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.
“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”
Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.
“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”
Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached.
Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.
Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.
Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?
She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.
Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.
His response came almost immediately.
Garrett: What
She squinted at the screen.
Garrett: Baby where are you
The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.
She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.
“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”
She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”
Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”
“Like the whole night.”
His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”
“So that girl is a liar.”
A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”
She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”
His brows jumped. “Did I?”
“Garrett.”
“What? I feel like I’d remember.”
She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”
“Sounds like it.”
“She looked me in the face and lied.”
Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”
She stared at him.
His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Baby,” he whispered.
“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”
“She asked how I knew.”
“Okay.”
“And then I left.”
“Good call.”
“I almost said because you were with me.”
His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”
“The mission?”
“Our secrecy mission.”
“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”
“She started it.”
“Sure.”
“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.
“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”
Her face fell. “Yes.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”
“You know that?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re a slut.”
“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”
She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.
The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.
It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.
Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.
She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything.
No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.
And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.
So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be.
She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.
Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”
“I’m being supportive.”
“You broke into my room.”
“I prefer… entered creatively.”
He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.
For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.
“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.
She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”
Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.
The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being.
One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.
She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.
“Baby,” she whispered.
Nothing.
“Garrett.”
A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.
“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”
Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited.
“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”
“No,” he mumbled into her hair.
She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”
“M’sleep.”
“You’re talking.”
“Sleep talking.”
She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm.”
She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.
The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.
He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.
The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.
She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.
She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.
Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.
Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.
For one full second, neither of them moved.
Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”
Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”
That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”
He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.
Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”
Oh.
The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.
“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”
Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”
Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”
“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”
Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”
“Do you… need anything?”
The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”
“Okay.”
Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”
“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.
She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.
He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.
Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”
“Tucker caught me downstairs.”
That woke him a little more. “What?”
“He thinks I slept with Dean.”
Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”
“I had to go with it!”
“You had to?”
“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”
“Because of Dean!”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”
“I was asleep.”
“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”
Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”
“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”
Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”
She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes.”
“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”
She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”
“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”
Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”
“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”
“You’re so easy.”
“I’m injured.”
“You’re possessive.”
He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”
She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”
His breath left him slowly. “Good.”
“You still should’ve gotten me water.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re mean.”
“You broke into my room.”
“You let me in.”
“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”
The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.
It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders.
The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.
“Don’t,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”
“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”
“You were not.”
Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.
It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.
His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.
At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.
She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, you’re doing the face.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”
That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.
Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”
“Yeah?”
“You should be embarrassed.”
He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”
“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”
He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”
She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.
“Graham?”
Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.
A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.
“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”
The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.
Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.
No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?
Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.
Nervous.
She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.
“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.
Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”
“Had to get off campus for a minute.”
The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.
Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.
“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.
Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.
So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”
She closed her eyes.
Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”
Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.
Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.
She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”
She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”
His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”
His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”
She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”
“Yeah.”
“And you were nervous.”
He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”
“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”
“My jaw itched.”
Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”
“Itched too,” he shrugged.
“And your hair?”
“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”
She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.
“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making it weird.”
“It is weird.”
“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”
The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”
“I didn’t call you that.”
“You kinda did.”
Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.
She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half.
The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.
Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable.
She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.
But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period.
Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.
He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.
She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.
Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.
So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.
The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.
She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.
He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.
Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”
His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.
“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”
She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by.
“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”
Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.
“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.
He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.
“Baby,” he murmured.
That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.
Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.
The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.
She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”
“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.
Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.
Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”
They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way.
His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.
Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.
Garrett kept holding her.
Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”
“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.
Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”
Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”
But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”
The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.
She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.
For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest.
Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”
Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”
She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”
His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.
This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was.
He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.
Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.
Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.
Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”
She groaned. “Don’t.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”
“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.
Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”
“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.
She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.
Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”
“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”
Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.
Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”
Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”
“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”
Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”
“Nope,” Garrett said.
“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.
She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.
“Three weeks,” she said.
Garrett’s head snapped toward her.
“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”
Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.
“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.
Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”
Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”
Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
She winced. “That was strategic.”
“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”
“Yes.”
Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”
Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”
Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”
Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”
“What? That was supportive.”
Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”
“No, we’re not,” she called back.
“We absolutely are.”
Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”
“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.
The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.
Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.
“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”
His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”
“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”
The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”
She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”
His arms tightened. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.
This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.
