can y'all tell i've been listening to olivia's new album, be honest
pregnancy, swearing
"Fuck." I murmur, looking down at the test, 'pregnant' visible on the small digital screen. I feel like the breath escapes me and I can't take in another, my chest feeling too tight. I realize I actually had stopped breathing and make myself look up and inhale sharply.
"What's it say?" Garrett says from outside the door. I open it quickly and he doesn't even need to look down to know it's positive. He hugs me, pulling me to his chest. "Baby," he murmurs, smiling at his unintentional pun. "Baby." He repeats, his palm pressing to my stomach.
"You're so corny." I sigh, running my hands through my hair, pulling away.
"Do you want to keep it?' He asks, making me give him a look.
"Of course I do."
"I'm making sure, you know I'd never make you-"
"I want to, Gar." I say, making him nod, his hands hovering over my hips before pulling me in again.
"Okay. Are you happy?" He asks, sliding one hand to my head, tilting my head up to look at him.
"I-I'm..in shock, I dunno. We've always been safe, I just...I knew there was obviously always a possibility, I just...I didn't expect it. So soon too."
"We graduate in two months, you won't even be showing then. I'm set for the Bruins, so you won't have to worry about anything but growing our baby." He beamed. "Our baby. Holy shit."
I smiled then. "Yeah? You want me to be a sexy housewife? Fresh banana bread when you get home?"
"Please don't tease me like that. I might get you knocked up with twins."
"I don't think that's how that works, honey."
"I'd make it happen."
"You're so dumb." I scoff, squealing when he lifts me into his arms, grabbing the test before walking us out and taking me downstairs.
"I'm gonna be a dad!" He yells, Logan's eyes wide, Dean's like saucers before they see we're excited at it and jump up, tackling Garrett, who had set me down just milliseconds before.
"Congratulations," Grace says, standing up and hugging me.
"Thanks," I sigh, chuckling as the three guys hug. Allie comes up, hugging me as well.
"Do you know how far along you are?"
"I'm at least two weeks, I'm pretty sure the test can't detect anything earlier."
"Are you excited?" She asked.
"Kind of." I smile shyly. "I can't wait to drag him along to shop for baby clothes."
"I'll do that happily!" Garrett says, making me roll my eyes, amused.
"Well, if there's anyone who's set to be the one of the best dads, it's him." Allie said, Grace nodding.
"Yeah," my eyes soften as I look back to him, smiling wider when he blows me a kiss before getting dragged outside by Dean and Logan.
.
That night, I lay in Garrett's bed, watching as he read out his stats to my stomach, shirt lifted just enough to run his hand over the skin.
"I'm pretty sure they don't even have ears yet."
"What's two weeks look like?" He asked, getting a shrug from me.
"You're holding a phone, dumbass."
"Shh, they could hear your swearing!"
"Again, no ears."
"You don't even know what two weeks looks like," he rolls his eyes, "they could have ears."
"You're so sassy for a man whose girlfriend is carrying his legacy."
He stiffened, sitting up and cupping my face. "You're so right, my queen. How can I make it up to you, make sweet, sweet love to you?"
"Oh, so they can hear that but not 'dumbass'?"
"Making love sounds sweeter than 'dumbass.'"
"Cry me a river." I roll my eyes, them fluttering closed when he kisses my lips gently.
"I love you." He says, pulling away.
"I love you too, Gar." I match his volume, feeling his hands drag back down to my stomach.
"What do you think it is?"
"Mm, I dunno."
"What do you want first?"
"First?"
"I mean- uh.." he floundered before realizing he didn't really have a cover.
"I think a girl would be cool first. Like me."
"She'll be just as smart and confident as you." He hummed, his hands sliding up my sides.
"Maybe we'll have twins. Or triplets." His eyes shot to mine and he looked more terrified as the number went up. "Quadruplets. Quintuplets, Sextuplets?"
"My love, please stop." He said breathlessly, expression panicked enough to make me laugh.
He smiled when I did, laying down next to me, pulling me to lay more on his chest.
"I'd be okay with twins, they do run in my family."
"How many do you have again?" He asked. "I know your cousins on your mom's dad's side."
"Cousins and my great uncles, dad's mom."
He nodded. "Right, now I remember. How many kids do you want?"
I hummed. "Maybe three? Seems like a good number."
"We'd be outnumbered." He muses.
"We'll have to be super strong. No folding under pressure," I wag my finger at him.
"Sweetheart, if they have your eyes, I'll never be able to say no."
"Grow a pair, Graham. We're about to be real adults."
"I have nine months to figure that out."
I roll my eyes dramatically, groaning.
"Relax, I'll get it together by the time they start talking."
I gape at him. "That starts at like seven months!"
"Seven months?! I thought it was a year!"
"I started at seven."
"I think you were advanced."
"Maybe you were just a loser."
"You little-" I shriek as he jumps on me, tickling my sides until I'm panting, bright smile on my face. We calm down in silence for a bit before I speak up again.
"Do you want them in hockey?"
"I'll probably take them to the rink and shit, yeah, but I won't put 'em in classes like I was. If they like it later and want to get into it, hell yeah, I'll put them in the best classes. But I want them to like it for the game, not because I do."
I nod, feeling his hands drag up my spine.
"Thank you." He murmurs, looking down at me.
"For..?" He smiled, nudging my nose with his.
"This, the baby. For...for choosing me, being with me. I'm never—I am never going to disappoint you when it comes to our kids. Ever."
"...You haven't disappointed me to begin with." I murmur, getting a small smile.
"Just...I want to be the dad I never had. Calm, firm but still gentle."
"You're gonna be an amazing dad, Gar. I know it."
He sighs, his eyes meeting mine once more before he kisses me deeply, one hand raising to tangle in my hair.
"I love you," he says, pulling away.
"I love you more."
He moves down, pressing a kiss to my stomach, making me giggle.
Summary: when a ridiculously sized water bottle hits you in the back of the head during your first week of college lectures. you never expected the culprit to become your best friend, his roommates to become brothers, and a crowded table to feel like home. everyone knew that what you and garrett had was something special. well, everyone except the both of you.
Warnings: best friends to lovers trope. no mention of y/n, but the nickname Missy is used a lot to refer to the reader. found family. seriously, so much fluff. one kiss. two rather stupid idiots in love.
a/n: i’ve risen and written this as a comeback fic. admittedly, i wrote this in a span of three days, and you can tell when i was hungry while writing it. or the fact cherry coke is my favorite. also my inspiration for the nickname came from an off campus interview where i heard stephen say missy. (let me know your thoughts on this! i would love to hear them:)
Word count: 6.9k
masterlist
Music blared as you walked into the Boys’ house, which was home to Dean Di Laurentis, John Tucker, John Logan, and Garrett Graham. A blur of drunken college students and bodies pushed together in random small spaces that they thought fit for privacy passed by as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a drink.
You checked in the fridge, knowing there would be a stock of mini cherry Coke cans waiting for you. A grin grew on your face as you reached for one.
“Missy!” you heard someone call from behind. You grabbed a can and turned away from the fridge to the sound of the voice. “Missy, Missy, we were wondering when you were stopping by,” Dean tutted as Beau and Logan were beside him with smugness written across their faces.
“As if I would miss seeing drunk Tucker and Logan,” you joked as you walked towards them. “Maybe we can convince Tucker to make ricotta tortellini for dinner tomorrow. You know he’ll feel bad if he agrees tonight and doesn’t go through with it.”
“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.
“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.
“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.
Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”
"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.
“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.
Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner.
“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”
“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”
You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.
“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face.
Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”
“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.
“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”
“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”
Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated.
“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.
“G, not cool, man.”
Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”
“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder.
Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”
“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear.
“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”
Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair.
“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused.
“Great, G!”
“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.
Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.
You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk.
“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.
Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”
“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out.
Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”
You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”
“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him.
“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.
Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.”
“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.
Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.
The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.
The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.
Thunk.
It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.
“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.
You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.
The expression on his face caught you off guard.
He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime.
You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad.
Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed.
“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”
You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large.
Then back at him.
“Yes, totally.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“I just hit you with my water bottle.”
You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”
He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
He frowned.
You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again.
“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”
“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be.
“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped.
“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.
“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.
“Officially?”
He paused, confused, “What?”
“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”
His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”
“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.
“You’re very observant.”
“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.
He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”
“That sounds right.”
“So let me make it up to you.”
“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Coffee,” he offered.
You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.
“Coffee?” you repeated in question.
“I owe you.”
“You really don’t.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”
You smiled, “Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Sure,” you answered again.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.
He followed right behind you.
The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.
Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed.
The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”
Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”
The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”
“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”
You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”
The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.
You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, beautiful.”
You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett.
Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”
From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it.
Cute. You thought to yourself.
Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”
You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”
Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”
Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”
“He basically has,” you snorted.
“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”
“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.
Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.
You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”
“What?” he tried to play it off.
“You have that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” you insisted.
Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”
That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.
Dean nearly choked.
“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.
“Don’t what?” he responded.
“That.”
“What?”
“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing.
Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing.
Garrett just shrugged.
You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.
“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.
“Coffee,” he agreed.
Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.
By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.
At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.
Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.
Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.
No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.
To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,
Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester.
You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.
Bingo.
You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her.
The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in.
The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.
The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.
“There she is!”
You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”
“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.
Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”
“She still answers it.”
You hated that he was right.
The grin he gave you says he knows it too.
A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan.
The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.
“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room.
“Excuse me?”
“I expected worse,” he shrugged.
You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”
Each of the boys quipped a response.
“A lot.”
“Enough.”
“Some would say too much.”
“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.
“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.
By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.
You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.
At some point, you realized something.
You didn’t feel like a guest.
It was almost like you’d always been there.
And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.
It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume.
When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”
“I won't forget perfume.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“Baby, it’s there just in case.”
He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room.
You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.
Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself.
As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family.
Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head.
You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.
It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds.
Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand.
“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts.
You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”
You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there.
Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.
He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester.
“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes.
You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.
You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”
“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge.
“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.
Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.
“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”
“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back.
“Whatcha got, Logan?”
“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes.
“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile.
He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy.
“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.
You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted.
“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted.
“Up in his room.”
“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.
“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.
The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.
“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter.
Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table.
“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.
“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.
You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move.
The meal was perfect.
You took one bite.
Then another.
Followed by another.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.
Tucker laughed, “What?”
“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.
“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.
“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”
You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”
“Obviously,” Garrett stated.
“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.
“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.
You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”
“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.
“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.
The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness.
The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.
If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.
Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible.
It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving.
You felt like you always belonged there.
The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.
“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular.
Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”
“A little.”
“A little means yes.”
You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”
“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.
“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it.
“It does,” Garrett nodded.
“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.
“I’m supporting you.”
“More like interrupting,” you kid.
Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”
You blinked at him, “What?”
Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”
Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”
“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.
“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.
The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”
“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence.
“You have an idea.”
The other three just watched the banter between you two.
“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.
“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.
You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.
It felt natural.
“Okay.”
“Done.”
By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed.
Every Sunday.
One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.
Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.
Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three.
The dinners became routine. Then tradition.
Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.
Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.
Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.
By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends.
Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.
Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.
Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.
You saved him a portion when he was running late.
The pair of you always sat beside one another.
Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.
But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing.
That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other.
“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.
Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.
“A shot,” Dean answered.
“Very informative.”
You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”
Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”
“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.
“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath.
Dean wiggled his shot.
You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.
“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.
“Probably.”
“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.
“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots.
“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.
“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished.
There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.
Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other.
The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot.
The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.
“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.
“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.
“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett.
“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.
Logan nearly doubled over laughing.
Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.
Dean looked personally offended.
And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met.
The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.
Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out.
Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.
Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.
You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.
You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside.
You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs.
The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall.
There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore.
Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom.
He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours.
Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other.
Neither of you said much for a while.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.
Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“Did you have fun tonight?”
“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.
Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses.
“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.
You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away.
Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too.
Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”
The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore.
His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.
Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”
Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”
“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”
You blinked, “We are fine.”
“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”
You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second.
Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”
“Wow.”
“What?” he quirked his brow at you.
“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief.
“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.
“It definitely did.”
“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”
Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.
Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you.
Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.
Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship.
Every time he remembered something small.
Every time he made space for you in crowded places.
Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal.
Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day.
You already knew, but hearing it made it real.
“What?”
You smiled, “I know.”
His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”
“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.”
“In my defense–” you cut him off.
“You gave me a drawer.”
“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.
“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”
The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”
You snickered. “Seriously?”
“I just want confirmation.”
“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”
He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.
“So?”
“So what?”
You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”
“Missy.”
“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”
Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” you repeated.
Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time.
When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”
You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”
“They’re going to be unbearable.”
“Especially Dean.”
“He’ll claim responsibility.”
“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”
He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
The agreement lasted less than eight hours.
The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon.
Logan was standing at the stove.
Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands.
Dean was eating cereal directly from the box.
Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual.
Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual.
Nobody paid attention.
Logan continued cooking his bacon.
Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.
Dean kept munching on the cereal.
Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.
He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.
“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.
“Morning,” You replied.
You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.
And not normal.
The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”
You immediately dropped your head. “No.”
“YES.”
“It has been like six hours.”
“I KNEW IT.”
Garrett groaned.
Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”
“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked.
“I brought you together.”
“You really didn’t,” you laughed.
Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”
Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.
Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled.
“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.
“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off.
“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett.
Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”
The room erupted.
Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”
Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”
Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”
Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two.
And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back.
You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family.
Garrett was still your favorite person.
The only difference was that now everybody knew it, including you and Garrett.
He’s always watching you when you shop. Not in a controlling way, no hovering, no hovering over your shoulder with a credit card limit lecture. Just… quiet, intense observation from across the boutique or from the car outside, dark eyes tracking every swipe of the black card he gave you last month. The one with no visible limit. The one he handed over with a low, amused “Go wild, baby. I want to see what you do with it.”
Tonight you’re in the dressing room of a high-end department store, trying on a silk slip dress that costs more than most people’s rent. The fabric clings like liquid, deep emerald against your skin. You step out to show him, barefoot on the plush carpet, twirling once. He’s leaning against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The moment you step into view, his jaw tightens, filled with hunger.
“Turn around again,” he says, voice rougher than usual. You do, slow and deliberate, letting the hem flutter against your thighs. When you face him again, his pupils are blown, breathing visibly shallower. He shifts his weight, adjusts himself in his tailored pants without bothering to be subtle.
“You like it?” you ask, innocent, knowing damn well what you’re doing.
He doesn’t answer right away. He steps closer, fingers brushing the silk at your hip like he’s testing its weight. “I like what it does to you,” he murmurs. “The way you light up when you spend my money. The way you walk out of here knowing every piece you’re wearing was bought with my card.” His thumb drags along the strap, voice dropping. “It’s fucking intoxicating.”
You tilt your head, smiling slowly. “So… should I get it?”
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “Get it. Get the black one too. And the heels you were eyeing earlier. And whatever else catches your eye on the way to the register.” He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a new card, matte black, your name embossed in gold foil, and presses it into your palm. His fingers linger, curling yours around it.
“This one’s fresher,” he says quietly, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. “No limit. No questions. I want you to burn through it. Buy things you don’t even need. Wear them once and donate them. I don’t care. Just—” His voice cracks the tiniest bit, raw. “—keep spending. Keep looking at me like that when you hand the card over. It gets me harder than anything else.”
You step closer, chest brushing his, lips hovering near his ear. “Then watch me,” you whisper. “Watch me max this one out too.”
His hand flexes on your waist, hard, possessive. A low groan slips out, muffled against your hair. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Go. Buy everything. I’ll be right here… waiting for you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, then turn toward the register, new card already warm in your hand. Behind you, he adjusts himself again, exhales shakily, and smiles. He's already ruined and loving every second of it.
summary: in which allie, y/n, sabrina and grace chase a sunset from the hockey house roof, only to end up stranded while the boys swing wildly between panic, frustration, and overwhelming relief trying to get them down safely.
notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request, this was such a fun idea to write! i love incorporating moments where the girls are completely unfazed and oblivious while the boys are losing their minds trying to keep them safe. i hope you all enjoy!! 💌
✩.* found family fics!
✩.* found family masterlist
ꪆৎ
the sunset idea had sounded significantly smarter forty minutes ago.
back when the four of you were tipsy on cheap wine, sprawled across the living room floor while grace insisted the sky looked too pretty to waste from ground level.
“we should go on the roof,” allie had declared immediately from where she was sat on the couch. which, looking back now, should’ve concerned everyone a little more.
instead, grace had gasped dramatically.
“oh my god, yes!”
you had already started grabbing blankets from around the hockey house before anyone could question the plan, and suddenly all four of you were climbing out through the upstairs bedroom window.
the roof was perfect for sunset.
warm summer air brushed softly against your skin as the sunset stretched pink and orange across campus, the sky painted in streaks of gold that reflected against the windows of the dorm buildings nearby.
grace's speaker played quietly beside you, music low enough that your laughter still carried loud across the roof.
grace lay flat on her back with one arm thrown across her eyes, her half-empty wine glass balancing dangerously against her stomach.
sabrina sat cross-legged beside her trying to tell a story that kept getting interrupted because she physically could not stop laughing at her own retelling.
allie lay beside you, curled beneath a blanket while animatedly talking about how some girl in her tutorial thought dean was 'intimidating'. you smiled softly to yourself, knees tucked beneath your chin while the skyline glowed around you.
there was something so peaceful about being with your people. the kind of closeness that only existed when friendships had crossed so far beyond casual that they’d become something permanent.
your cheeks hurt from laughing, your body pleasantly heavy from alcohol and summer heat, the sunset so pretty it almost didn’t look real.
it felt warm.
safe.
which was probably why none of you noticed the window sliding shut behind you. not until nearly twenty minutes later.
sabrina was the first one to realise.
she’d leaned backwards toward the window to refill her drink from the wine bottle that had been sitting just inside the bedroom, before stopping abruptly.
“…guys?”
allie looked up immediately, “yeah?”
sabrina frowned slightly, pushing at the window once, then harder. to her dismay, it didn't budge and a strange silence settled over you all.
grace slowly sat upright, “why are you making that face?”
“the window’s locked.”
another pause.
“what do you mean locked?” grace asked slowly.
sabrina laughed uncomfortably, her eyes widening in realisation.
“i mean it's shut...it doesn't want to open”
allie crawled over immediately, “let me have a go.” she grabbed the handle, pulling on it, but nothing happened.
the window didn't budge.
her expression shifted almost instantly.
“…oh shit.”
you stared at her, your eyes widening in realisation. “allie, what exactly do you mean by ‘oh shit’?"
she looked back at the four of you and despite the situation, started laughing.
“i think we’re stuck up here.”
you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol coursing through your body or the way the moment felt too warm to properly hold onto, but before you could say anything, laughter spilled from your lips.
because of course this had happened, of course you had somehow found yourselves locked out from the house and stuck on the roof.
the boys were going to kill you.
“okay,” you managed eventually. “it's okay we'll just call one of them”
silence.
grace checked her pockets first.
“…i left my phone downstairs.”
“mine too,” sabrina admitted weakly.
allie slowly grimaced, she had too.
you reached into the pocket of your hoodie before stopping.
“…no.”
grace immediately collapsed backward onto the blankets again.
“oh guys.”
-
the boys knew something was wrong almost immediately, mostly because the house was quiet.
far too quiet.
logan walked through the front door first carrying takeout bags in one hand before immediately narrowing his eyes. “why does it feel haunted in here?”
“y/n?” garrett called out behind him.
nothing.
dean dropped his bag beside the stairs with a frown, noticing allie’s purse abandoned on the kitchen table.
tucker glanced slowly around.
“…why can i hear faint screaming?”
everyone stilled.
logan paused.
“wait.”
there it was again.
distant yelling somewhere above them.
then-
“we're stuck!"
all four boys whipped their heads upward simultaneously.
“…what the fuck?” dean muttered.
they moved immediately.
garrett took the stairs two at a time while logan nearly dropped the takeout trying to keep up. it wasn’t until they rushed into the upstairs bedroom that garrett spotted movement outside the window.
his entire face drained instantly because there you were, sitting on the roof wrapped in a blanket, a small smile gracing your features.
“what the-" logan starts, before garrett quickly cuts him off.
"why are you all on the fucking roof?”
“before you get mad-” you started carefully.
“we got locked out!” allie yells from behind you.
dean physically freezes at the window, his eyes wide in shock. “how does that even happen?”
grace points vaguely towards all of you. “group decision.”
“that does not make it better!"
tucker’s stomach drops the second he notices how close sabrina is to the edge.
“okay no, seriously” he said immediately. “move back, sweetheart.”
“tucker, relax-"
“absolutely not.”
sabrina blinked at him.
“you guys are being dramatic" allie states, a glint of humour evident in her eyes, clearly amused by the situation.
four male voices answer instantly.
“no we are not!”
tucker already has both hands gripping the sides of his head. “you’re all drunk on a roof.”
dean narrows his eyes, focusing on the piece of blue fabric near the gutter.
“…why is there a blanket hanging off the gutter?”
everyone slowly looks down before grace visibly hesitates. “that might’ve been my attempt at making a rope.”
there was a moment of complete silence before dean covers his face with both hands.
“jesus christ-"
“i’m actually getting grey hairs.”
logan looks horrified as realisation crosses his features, “you guys were going to climb down?!”
“well we weren’t planning on living up here permanently,” sabrina points out.
“sabrina.”
“i’m kidding!”
“you’re not funny right now.”
which only makes her burst into laughter.
garrett’s attention snaps back towards you the second you shift closer to the window.
“baby,” he says carefully, in the kind of controlled voice that meant he was significantly more stressed than he wanted to sound.
"i need you to stop moving around up there.”
you blinked at him innocently in response. “i’m literally sitting.”
“exactly. stay sitting.”
“you sound stressed.”
“because my girlfriend is trapped on our roof”
a slight grin tugs at your lips. “trapped feels a bit dramatic, don't you think graham?"
“you guys made a blanket rope, y/n”
you pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing.
eventually, after twenty minutes of yelling over each other while dean attempted to figure out how the window had managed to lock in the first place and tucker actively debated whether breaking it would somehow make the situation worse, they finally managed to force it open from the inside.
dean was first to help allie climb back through the window while actively lecturing her at the same time.
“you climbed onto the roof drunk.”
“tipsy,” allie corrected immediately, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“that is not the part of the sentence i’m concerned about.”
once safe, logan had both hands on grace’s face like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to kiss or yell at her.
“you could’ve fallen.”
“i didn’t though.”
“grace.”
“logan.”
tucker looked genuinely stressed beside sabrina, hands rubbing over his face. “you guys seriously didn’t bring your phones?”
that somehow made all four boys visibly more upset.
“oh my god,” dean muttered. “you are all impossible.”
you were climbing carefully back through the window when garrett’s hand settled instinctively against your waist to steady you. the contact felt firmer than usual, protective in a way that immediately made your chest ache slightly.
because he still looked rattled.
his jaw was tight, eyes scanning over you again like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were okay.
“hey,” you said softly once the two of you were standing properly inside again.
garrett looked down at you immediately and something in his expression shifted the second your voice softened.
less frustration.
more relief.
you reached carefully for his wrist, “we’re okay, we were being safe.”
his hand moved instinctively higher against your waist then, pulling you closer without even seeming to realise he was doing it. he exhaled sharply against the top of your head like he’d been holding his breath ever since he saw you up there.
“how long were you guys stuck out there for?”
the question comes out sharper than he intends it to, his hands settling against your arms like he needed physical confirmation that you were fine.
“not that long,” you said carefully.
“define not that long.”
“…maybe forty minutes.”
he exhales, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.
“you scared the shit out of me, you know that?” his voice is quieter than before, the honesty in it hitting significantly harder than you expected.
he sounded genuinely shaken.
you tilted your head back slightly to look up at him.
“but did we die?”
all of the boys groaned simultaneously in response before dean points accusingly at all four of you.
Summary: You hear knocking at the dorm room and then a loud thud, opening it you find a drunk Garrett sitting on the floor looking confused. Someone had given him the wrong dorm number and as you offer to help he states he’d rather stay with you.
A/N: not edited sorry
Stirring the steaming mug of coffee the aroma envelops you and enables your shoulders to relax for what feels like the first time in weeks. Your roommate had left for some club and told you she would only be back in the morning meaning you had the entire place to yourself.
Your hand wraps around the warm mug and head for the sofa when you hear it.
Knock.
Knock. Knock.
You freeze, head turning in the direction of the door. You weren’t expecting anyone and no voice accompanied the knocks.
“Probably some prank on the wrong door again.” You roll your eyes.
A loud thud followed making your heart jump. Quickly you rush over to the door, and swing it open. You expect to see someone standing before you but as your eyes cast downward you see the captain of Briar U hockey team sitting outside your door muttering curses at himself.
“Garrett?”
“Hm?” he lifts his head. His grin faltering as he takes in your appearance. Disheveled hair and mismatched pjs. “You’re not Lexi.”
You shake your head. “She’s one floor up.”
He lets out a dramatic groan, his head dropping with a thud against the door frame. A snort escapes you as you clamp a hand over your mouth to stop it. He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head.
“Did you just-”
“No.” You reply too quickly as you remove your hand. “Are you drunk?”
A stupid grin hits his face as he looks up at you. “Absolutely.”
He grabs the door frame and you quickly wrap a hand around his arm, feeling the muscles flex as you help him up. “Okay big guy, let’s get you to Lexi’s.”
He comes to his full height, towering over you as you give his arm a gentle squeeze and let go before taking a sip of your coffee. His eyes flicker to your lips and the cup. “Can I have some?”
Choking on the coffee, you cough and look at him with furrowed brows. “Can’t you have some at Lexi’s?”
He shakes his head vigorously. “But I’m already here.”
“And in a few minutes you’ll be there,” you counter.
He sways as he pushes his hands into his pockets and for a second you can’t help but feel concern tug at your very being. “Be nice to me. I’m drunk.”
You laugh and shake your head. “Fine, fine.” Moving to the side you let him enter the apartment. His head moves from side to side taking in the apartment in its messy glory as you head for the kitchen. “One cup and then you’re out of here, got it?”
He mock salutes before taking a seat on the sofa, dropping his head backwards and turning it to look at you. “You’re pretty.”
Ignoring the compliment you continue to make the coffee.
“I said you’re pretty,” he says louder this time.
“You’re also drunk so that doesn’t mean much.”
You take both mugs to the couch sitting on the opposite end of him before handing it to him. His eyes close momentarily as he inhales the aroma. “And you make good coffee. You might be the whole package deal.”
“Shut up,” you laugh.
His eyes brighten at your laugh. You move the hair from your face and grab the remote to put on the TV just like you originally planned to. Switching through channels you find an old movie to watch and let the silence surround the both of you.
“Where’s your roommate?” he asks.
“At some party.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Why aren’t you partying?”
You shrug, shifting on the couch until you’re comfortable. “Not really my thing.”
“So you were just going to watch old movies?”
You turn your head seeing the smile on his face and offer one back. “Problem with that?” you tease.
“Not even a little,” he replies.
He sips away at his coffee as you finish yours and place the mug on the coffee table. The dorm felt too cold all of a sudden. You grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and threw it over yourself.
“Don’t hog the blanket.” He shifts closer, placing the mug down.
“We had an agreement. One cup and you’re gone.” You point a finger at him.
He shakes his head. No, you had an agreement. I did not agree.” He moves until he places his head on your lap, uncertainly you raise your hands to not touch him as he relaxes.
“What are you doing?” You frown.
He looks up at you. “I am getting ready to watch a movie with my new friend.”
Your mouth opens and closes, bobbing like a fish for a reply but nothing comes to mind. He smiles before turning his attention back to the movie. Before you can think better of it your hand moves to his hair, playing with the soft locks as you focus on the TV.
“I have to move at some point. You’re aware of that right?” you ask.
Silence.
You look back down seeing his peaceful expression and closed eyes. A sigh escapes you. “Sweet dreams.”
Author's Note: after my second re-watch in a week, i was so giddy about this. i hope you enjoy this read <3
Summary: After an exhaustively long day, your childhood best friend and boyfriend comes over. So you end the night the only way imaginable, in his arms. But he too had something of a bad day himself.
song rec (part two): My Love Mine All Mine, Mitski
You blame the "mid-week weekend week party" from two days ago. You do. That is the ABSOLUTE LAST TIME you let Allie and Maddy talk you into anything.
You had officially not slept a wink in probably 15 hours now and you are pretty sure you had the mother of all hectic days today. After a long day of classes, with a test in one and a presentation in the other, and then covering an extra hour at Florence's after your shift ended because your co-worker Sydney was late AGAIN for the third time this week, you were COMPLETELY, TOTALLY EXHAUSTED. Mona, your sweet, elderly employer had asked you to go home then. But you could not really leave her to a Friday-evening rush hour at the cafe alone, so you stayed. It was however particularly brutal when Allie came over from her dorm across from yours just as you were about to crash and requested you to run lines with her for her theatre's upcoming play, As You Like It. You had two thoughts then; start locking the dorm door and reject Allie. Realising that the locks had to wait for now, you quickly moved to see through the second thought. But just as you were about to reject Allie, you made the mistake of staring into her beautiful doe eyes, and the next thing you knew, you were saying, "Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold..."
"I don't get it." You said, an hour later when you were finally done for the day. "You will all be drunk anyway. You will all be screaming Lines! every few minutes, so why did we just spend an hour running lines?"
"Because, my love," she said, looking at you with a serious face but you could see the laughter dancing in her eyes, "it is an actor's job to be prepared for every possible scenario. Remembering lines through the difficult times... really pushing past the yellow haze you know, and..."
"Okay, first of all, what on god's pure earth is yellow haze? If you are seeing that when you're drunk, it's probably your body telling you to go to a doctor." You said with a disgusted face as Allie snorted from beside you, "and secondly, it's not "difficult times" when you are peering out from backstage to scream Lines! "
"So, no doctors necessary. It is just a piece Hannah and Justin have been working on behind closed doors," she said, waggling her eyebrows at you at the last part. "I guess it is kinda stuck in a loop in my head now. Also, get off! I had just forgotten what I was about to say that time, so I peered out, taking accountability like a dutiful actress." Allie defended.
"YOU WERE DEAD TWO ACTS AGO. IT WAS NOT EVEN YOUR LINE!" you countered.
"Oh, pish-pash. That's the point of Drunk Shakespeare. Also, don't blame me because that's the only way I get to get you drunk and let loose, you know?" Allie smiled from the front door while putting on her slippers.
"Pish-pash back at ya because I'll have you known that I have plenty of fun... like... ALL THE TIME." You said, half-dragging, half-pulling your legs towards your room.
"Oh yeah? Okay, you hoot," Allie laughed. "I will see you at the party tonight then?"
"Another party? I just went to one two days ago. What party?"
"That was the mid-week weekend week party. Keep up. Today is the hockey team's season kick-off party. Oh don't make that face, i know someone whose boyfriend will be thereee." She waggled her eyebrows at you the same way she did when she mentioned Hannah and Justin locked up in Hannah's room.
"Close your door on the way out. It's just me and sweet, sweet mother of all sleep today. Your mid-week weekend week party two days ago caused me to pull an all nighter for my test and presentation today. Plus, Garrett would be hanging out with his team today. First party before the season kicks off. And if I wanted to see you drunk, I would just cross the corridor to your dorm on a random thursday. No one else I want to see, not today." You told Allie with a sickly sweet smile.
You were halfway to your room when you heard Allie mumble something maybe like we'll see how alone he leaves you. Just as you were about to ask if she said something, you heard the door close behind her and Allie's melodious laughter as she strutted away.
You could only manage to squeeze in a two hour sleep before you woke up thirsty and after that, sleep just had not come back. You contemplate swinging by the party, you knew your boyfriend would have wanted you there but you were just too tired and the exhaustion was too deep. So there you are, tucked in your pajamas, lying face down on your stomach, scrolling through your feed when you hear the knob to your bedroom door turn. Assuming it is only your roommate/bestfriend Maddy who probably wanted to borrow something for the party, you do not bother looking up.
"Hey, thief! Do you think you've seen my brown chiffon scarf somewhere? I can't find it anywhere." You shout out from over your shoulders.
"You know what? I think I have it. It definitely brings out the colour of my eyes, don't you think?"
Okay, so... not Maddy. It was your childhood best friend and later "result of an angry, jealous confession/rant over unimportant classmate" of a boyfriend, Garrett Graham, standing at the foot of your bed, looking down at you with an amused expression. "You know, people who steal other people's clothes that they have been looking for, for the longest time, should not be calling others thieves. It's... distasteful."
You sit to face him and follow his pointed gaze towards your pajama set. Sure, the yellow shorts with chicks drawn on them are yours but the extremely oversized, now-faded-once-forest-green tshirt that faintly read out, "Hillcrest High School" with an even fainter "Team Captain" on the left chest pocket... may not be yours. You are the proud owner of this t-shirt from the time the two of you were in middle school. Garrett claims to only have lent it to you once. But you clearly remember him giving it TO you, so you don't know what he's been rambling on about ever since, for the past five years.
"You know what else is distasteful?" You ask with a sarcastic smile. "Taking back things you once gave away".
"I NEVE- you know what? Forget it. Why didn't you come to the party?" Garrett asks jumping onto your bed from where he was standing.
"Don't jump on my bed. You'll break it with all those excess things on your body an- ooomphhh" You could hardly finish your sentence before Garrett shifted from his corner to right onto your side of the bed.
"First of all, when you say "excess things", do you mean... my muscles?" Garrett offers with a smirk while he comfortably repositions your pillows and squishmallows, half of which were gifted by him by the way, and then proceeds to plop down yet again, with his left hand behind his head and the other patting the empty space next to him, for you. "Second of all, it won't be the first time we are breaking a bed... I have been hearing that you have a thing for hockey players, especially a certain new captain?"
"Ewwww, perv. Keep your puck bunny jokes so far away from me that they cannot even hop the distance up to me" you make a disgusting face as you swat away at his hand reaching for you.
But it only just took you a minute, before you laid back down, putting your head on Garrett's chest as he began playing with your hair with his hand, his fingers twirling a loose strand around again and again. And as his best friend, you knew very well what that meant. Garrett was nervous.
"Why weren't you at the party? I looked for you. You did not answer your phone too." He asks, a softness to his tone.
"I had a really long day, Rett. I thought I would swing by after a nap, but I couldn't wake up and when I did, I was too tired. I am sorry." You turn to your left completely, swinging your right leg on top of his.
Garrett puts his left hand on top of your leg, running slow circles on your thigh. And in that moment, you felt more at peace than you had felt all week. You two had barely seen each other for an hour this past week, between your classes, his practice schedule and your shifts at Florence's.
"Yeah? Tell me how your day was?" He asks, staring up at the ceiling.
So you do, and just like always, he has questions. "How were the questions in the test?" "Did someone counter your arguments after the presentation?" "When will you tell Sydney to plan her hookups on her own time?" "Why does Allie need to practice lines for Drunk Shakespeare?"
And once you're done, he pulls you in tighter to his side, whispering to your ear how he's proud of you and the hardwork you put in. He whispers how he is in awe of your intellect and your mind. The two of you lay there in silence for a few minutes after, simply soaking up the warmth of each other's affection through your skins.
"Rett?" You call a few minutes later.
"Hmm?" He sounds a little sleepy.
"Did something happen today, baby?" You ask, maybe a little carefully. You could already sense what it is going to be about.
At first, he simply turned to his right and nuzzled his face to yours. Big-bad-team-captain may never agree to it, but he loves it when you call him baby. But then slowly he starts, "Not really. I mean, not that there's anything new to tell you. Just dad... visited me after practice, is all. He wanted me to meet the new girlfriend. And did not really like it when I told him that I'd rather not witness his other talent of making life fade out of yet another woman's eyes. So, naturally, he did not really like it."
"I wonder why." You hum and that gets you a soft laugh out of Garrett. "Talk to me about it?"
"Not right now, if that's okay? I am enjoying this. I feel the most relaxed I have felt all week. I need this, so much" he whispers. Leaning down to kiss your forehead before resting it against yours.
Guilt starts to gnaw at you then. "Why didn't you stay back at the party, Rett? Everyone was there. It was for you. Maybe you could have felt better?"
"I made my rounds, although to look for you, but I did. Said my hellos, grabbed a beer. But the only person I wanted to celebrate the season's beginning with, wasn't there. So I am where she is."
"i am sorry if you missed it because of me."
"Hey, no." Garrett turns to his side, placing his hand on your back and pulling you to his chest, "i am exactly where I want to be. And something tells me, if not at your dorm, we would be exactly in this position in my room except we would have bad music as background. I like this better."
You lean back, to look at him. His shoulders aren't as tensed anymore and the light in his eyes are back, so is his smile. Your eyes find his again but he is already looking at you. He often does. You would never say it to him but here's something unnerving about the way Garrett looks at you. He looks at you like he would hand you the world if you'd only ask, even if it would cost him everything else. And that used to scare you a few years ago. But then one day, you realised you would too. You had understood that there is nothing you won't give up for him. And you'd never felt more loved or protected.
With all these thoughts swirling around your head, as Garrett stares down at you with love, you slowly sit up, and... flip yourself on top of him.
With a laugh, Garrett instantly puts both his hands on your hip almost by instinct, balancing you, as you sit on top of him, straddling him.
"Hi" you smile.
With an almost giggle like laughter, he smiles back too, "hey. Whatchya doing up there? It's too far."
"Oh, is it?" You ask, feigning innocence, reaching down then, curls curtaining down. You cup his face softly onto your palms and press a quick peck on his lips. He groans then, reaching up, trying to capture your lips to his. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your skin, in an urgent attempt to pull you closer. But with one hand on his chest, you push him back, launching into a soft attack of feverish kisses. You pepper feather-soft kisses along his jawline, then his cheeks, then his forehead, then back to his mouth, a relentless, exhilarating assault that now has him groaning softly.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the aggression softened. The rapid-fire kisses now gave way to a gentle exploration. Mapping his face with your fingers as you'd done a million times, you shower him with soft kisses again. You can feel him leaning into each and every one of your touches, his eyes are closed now. The frown on his brow is gone and there's a soft smile playing at the corner of his lips. You pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, before you kiss him right there, in the corner of his mouth, a soft, teasing brush, then whisper, "You did good today."
Kiss. "I was at the morning practice before my classes."
Kiss. "I am so proud of you, baby."
Kiss. "For how hard you work and the effort you put in."
Kiss. "But you need your rest."
Kiss. "Enjoy college too."
Kiss. "Enjoy the games, no matter what your anyone tries to put on your shoulders"
Kiss. "Maybe love your girlfriend. Kiss her every night."
Kiss. "Let things fall into place. You put in the work, it's not going to be taken away. Not without the fight you put up every single day."
You kiss him again. Softly. Feverently. Leaning back, you look at him again. Garrett's looking up at you with so much love in his eyes, it almost knocks you out, like every time. Your friends joke around saying Garrett looks at you like you've "hung the damn stars on the night sky". And for him, you wish you could. Because the man laying under you right now, had painted over your entire sky and sometimes you wonder if you let him know that enough.
Your fingers still against his chest as you trace absent constellations over his skin, mapping something you don’t have the language for. You can feel him watching you, like he always does, patiently, with love and peace and hope.
So, in the quiet of the night, you let out softly, “Sometimes I wonder,” voice barely there, “if I’m enough to hold all of it. Everything you see when you look at me.”
You can hear Garrett’s breath stutter then. With a quiet, soft laugh, he brings his hands up and intertwines them with yours like he always does, like he needs to anchor himself to something certain.
“You don’t have to hold it,” he says, probably softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Baby, you are it.”
You shake your head a little, but he doesn't let you start this time. “Our friends are not wrong, you know. But I’m not just looking at you like you hung the stars, which I am pretty sure you did,” he continues, eyes searching yours with something dangerously close to awe. “I’m looking at you like you’re the reason they exist at all. The reason that anything that is joyous and peaceful exists at all.”
And as words fail you in that second, you take his face into your hands, brushing a loose curl out of his eyes and then, you kiss him. You kiss him then like it's a promise, a sacred oath, an assurance through the soul's oldest design of communication
His hands slide from yours to your hips, up your back, cupping your head, tangling in your hair. He met her gaze, a silent invitation in his eyes. You dip your head, further sinking into him and this time, there were no breaks, no teasing. His lips found yours with a hungry certainty now; deep, passionate melding and an all consuming love, the one that makes time feels slow and worlds run fade away.
You were cuddled up with each other, one of his hands on your stomach while you laid atop another. With your back pressed to his chest, you've completely entangled your legs with him. There's almost no space between the two of you and no one's complaining. Except when you would shift away sometimes, then with somewhat of an irritated grunt, he would pull you back in.
You are running your fingers up and down his arm on your stomach when you whisper out, "Rett?"
He kisses your hair telling you he's awake.
"I am sorry about the party today." You speak out, still a little guilty over it. You wanted him to be with his friends out and about, be there with his team. Your thoughts were cut off when Garrett pulls you into him and drops another kiss on your head.
"I was thirteen when I was almost about to black out from the practice schedule my father had me on. He had also screamed at me that night, throwing gears around. I was so scared then. Terrified. Then with gears flying around my head, my eyes went to the bracelet you'd given me the day before. You were in your astrology phase then," he said with a smile in his voice, "and believed that the bracelet would heal all my bruises because you had kept it under the sun and then in the water, so it was protected by all the Gods. I thought of you then. I promised myself then, if I could get out of that locker room, get home to you, wherever you were, and tell you how much I need you, then I will be safe and nothing else would matter. Please understand that wherever I am in the world, it's not where I want to be if you're not there. Home will always be in your arms." He says, kissing your shoulder, intertwining your hands with his and drifting off to sleep, as a bracelet blessed by the Gods seven years ago, peaks through the hands of his hoodie.
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part one here
You wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.
For a moment, you can’t remember where you are. The bed is too comfortable, the room too clean, the sheets smell wrong — not wrong, just different. Not like Cameron’s cologne and expensive detergent. Like something cleaner. Safer.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The napkin. The attack. Running through Boston in the freezing dark. Garrett’s voice on the phone, steady and sure. The apartment lobby. His car. This house.
You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.
The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple that’s going to turn black soon. There’s a split in your bottom lip you don’t remember getting.
You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.
You look like a victim.
The thought makes you want to throw up.
There’s a knock on the door — soft, hesitant.
“Y/N?” Garrett’s voice. “You awake?”
“Yeah.” Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.
“Can I come in?”
You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware you’re still in yesterday’s clothes. “Sure.”
The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. He’s showered and changed — different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“I brought breakfast,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. He’s weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.”
He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasn’t kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. There’s even a glass of orange juice.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say.
“I know.” Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah. You look-” He stops himself. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“I know what I look like.”
There’s a long pause. Garrett’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. You’re not sure which is worse.
“I think you should go to the police,” he says finally.
Your stomach drops. “Garrett-”
“I know you’re scared. I know you think he’ll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.” He gestures toward the mirror. “You have evidence. Documented injuries. That’s assault. That’s attempted murder.”
“His parents are lawyers-”
“I don’t give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “What he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.”
“And if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?”
“Then at least you tried. At least there’s a record. At least the next time he does this — because there will be a next time, to you or someone else — there’s a paper trail.”
You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this won’t work, why it’s pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.
But Garrett’s looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.
“Will you come with me?” You ask quietly.
“Every step of the way.”
***
The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.
Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. You’re about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.
“Y/N Y/L/N?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Officer Murphy. Come on back.”
She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. It’s exactly like the ones on TV — gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. There’s a camera mounted in the corner.
“For documentation purposes,” Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. “Everything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?”
You nod.
“I’m going to need verbal consent.”
“Yes. That’s okay.”
Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.
“So,” Officer Murphy begins. “You’re here to file a report about an assault?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.”
You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.
“My boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.”
“What time was this?”
“Around eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.”
Officer Murphy is writing everything down. “And what precipitated the attack?”
“He found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.”
“Were you?”
The question catches you off guard. “No. It was just—someone gave me their number and I kept it. That’s all.”
“Okay. So he found this number and then what?”
“He got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-” Your voice catches. “He put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldn’t breathe.”
Officer Murphy’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“Almost. I thought I was going to die.”
“What happened next?”
“He let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.” You point to your cheek. “Then he started choking me again.”
“How did you get away?”
“I kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.”
“Where did you run to?”
“Just … ran. Down the street. I called for help.” You glance at Garrett. “He came and got me.”
Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. “And you are?”
“Garrett Graham. I’m-” He hesitates. “A friend. She called me and I picked her up.”
“You’re a student at BU as well?”
“No. Briar University.”
Something shifts in Officer Murphy’s expression. Recognition, maybe. “You play hockey.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he plays for BU?”
“Yes.”
Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You can’t see what.
“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?”
Your stomach churns. “Do you have to?”
“It’s important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.”
You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. “I’ll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.”
With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.
Officer Murphy’s jaw tightens. “How long has he been hurting you?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Months? Years?”
“About a year. It started small. Then got worse.”
“And you never reported it before?”
The judgment in the question makes you flinch. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.” Your voice rises. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.
Which, you suppose, you are.
Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
“Alright,” Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. “You can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.”
She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that you’d just tripped.
Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.
Then she asks: “Did he ever sexually assault you?”
The room goes very quiet.
You can’t look at Garrett. Can’t bear to see his reaction.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Can you describe what happened?”
“He would-” Your throat closes up. “He would force me. When I didn’t want to. When I said no.”
“How many times did this happen?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Too many to count.”
“Most recently?”
You close your eyes. “Yesterday morning. I woke up and he was already—he didn’t ask. He just-”
You can’t finish the sentence.
Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. There’s something wet on his palms.
Blood.
His nails have cut into his skin.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
He doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.
Officer Murphy notices too. “Mr. Graham, do you need to step outside?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is rough.
“You’re bleeding.”
Garrett looks down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.
“I’m fine,” he says again.
Officer Murphy doesn’t look convinced, but she continues. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.”
You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until you’re just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.
Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.
When you’re finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.
“Okay. This is what’s going to happen next. We’re going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beck’s arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.”
“Will he go to jail?” You ask.
“That depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. You’ll have to testify.”
Your heart sinks. “I have to see him again?”
“In court, yes. But we’re also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he can’t contact you, can’t come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.”
“His parents are going to fight this,” you say. “They have money. Lawyers.”
“Let them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what you’ve described, this isn’t going to be a hard case to make.”
You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way it’s supposed to.
But you’ve been disappointed so many times before.
“What do I do now?” You ask.
“Go home. Rest. We’ll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.”
“Okay.”
Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. “You did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re incredibly brave.”
You shake her hand, but you don’t feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.
Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.
“Mr. Graham, you should get those looked at.”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. There’s a first aid kit at the front desk.”
Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.
You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.
“Resources,” she explains. “Domestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.”
“Thank you.”
You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You don’t have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.
Everything except your phone and your life.
Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesn’t quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. It’s such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.
Once you’re both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. “Where do you want me to take you?”
You hesitate. “My dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where you’ll be alone.”
“Garrett, I can’t just hide forever-”
“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying until we know he’s been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.” He starts the car. “You’re coming back to the house.”
“I can’t impose like that-”
“You’re not imposing. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”
You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified he’ll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what he’ll do when he finds out you went to the police.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.
“You’re still bleeding,” you say.
“I know.”
“You should clean that.”
“I will.”
But he doesn’t sound like he cares. He sounds like he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.
When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.
“My roommates are home. They know you’re here — I told them last night. They’re cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, that’s fine too.”
“It’s their house. I should at least say hi.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
“Still.”
You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight — messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.
“G, that you?” A voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah. And Y/N.”
Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockey’s most recent post on Instagram — Logan, Garrett’s best friend. The other two you don’t know.
They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries — shock, anger, pity.
“Jesus,” one of them breathes. He’s auburn-haired, built like a tank. “He did that to you?”
You nod, unable to speak.
“I’m Tucker,” he says. “And when I see that motherfucker, I’m going to break every bone in his body.”
“Get in line,” Garrett mutters.
The third guy — tall, blond hair, kind eyes — steps forward. “I’m Dean. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.”
“I don’t want to be a burden-”
“You’re not.” Logan’s voice is firm. “Any friend of Garrett’s is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.”
You’re overwhelmed suddenly. These boys — these strangers — are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.
“Thank you,” you manage.
“You hungry?” Tucker asks. “I made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.”
“I could eat,” you say.
“Good. Sit. I’ll heat it up.”
Garrett leads you to the dining table — a beat-up wooden thing that’s seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.
Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me see your hands.”
“I’m fine,” Garrett says.
“You’re bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.”
Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.
“What the hell did you do?” Dean asks.
“Nothing.”
Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesn’t even flinch.
“We went to the police this morning,” Garrett says. “She filed a report. They’re issuing a warrant for Beck’s arrest.”
The room goes quiet.
“Good,” Tucker says finally from the kitchen. “Fucking good.”
“Did they believe you?” Dean asks you.
“I think so. There’s evidence. Photos. My statement.”
“And if he tries to come near you?”
“Restraining order. But it takes time.”
“Until then, you stay here,” Logan says. It’s not a question. “We’ll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you don’t go anywhere alone.”
“I can’t ask you guys to do that-”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering.” Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.
It’s delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.
“This is really good,” you say.
“Told you.” Tucker grins. “Hockey and cooking. My only two skills.”
Despite everything, you almost smile.
Garrett’s still watching you with that intense expression. Like he’s memorizing every detail. Like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re scared. But we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
You look around the table at these four boys — these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.
“Why?” You ask. “Why are you all doing this?”
The boys exchange glances.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Logan says simply.
“Because that asshole deserves to rot,” Tucker adds.
“Because you deserve better,” Dean says.
Garrett doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like you’re something precious.
You squeeze back.
And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be okay.
***
Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.
Garrett’s been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date he’s been waiting for.
The date he’s going to make Cameron Beck pay.
He’s in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Logan’s taping his stick. Tucker’s blasting music through his headphones. Dean’s doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.
Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.
You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars — pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about “false accusations,” and went right back to his life.
Including hockey.
Boston University’s administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasn’t been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.
Innocent until proven guilty, they said.
Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.
None of that matters to BU’s athletic department as much as their winning record.
Garrett’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Listen up.”
The room quiets.
“We all know what tonight is,” Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. “We all know who we’re playing. And I’m going to say this once: I don’t care about your personal feelings. I don’t care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
Coach’s eyes land on Garrett. “Graham. My office. Now.”
Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.
“Sit.”
Garrett sits.
Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You’re thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.”
Garrett doesn’t confirm or deny.
“I get it,” Coach continues. “I do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, you’re the captain of this team. You’re a junior. You’re probably going to the NHL in a year. You can’t throw that away because you want revenge.”
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“If you go after him tonight, you will be. You’ll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “Yes.”
Coach sighs. “I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to think about your team. About your future.”
“I have thought about it.” Garrett stands. “And I’ve made my decision.”
He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.
“Well?” Logan asks.
“Same as always. Play clean, win the game.”
“And are you going to play clean?” Tucker asks with a knowing smile.
Garrett doesn’t answer. Just pulls on his jersey — number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.
When it’s time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensen’s eye one more time.
“Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
Coach’s brow furrows. “For what?”
“For the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.”
Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrett’s already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words don’t register. There’s only one thing on Garrett’s mind now.
The ice.
***
You’re sitting on Garrett’s bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldn’t watch. Your therapist — the one the victim services advocate connected you with — said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.
But you can’t help it.
You need to see this.
The arena is packed — a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling “one of the most anticipated matchups of the season.” Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.
They have no idea what else this game means.
The camera pans across the Briar bench. There’s Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. You’ve never seen him look like that before — like violence contained in a hockey uniform.
Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.
Cameron.
He’s there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didn’t assault you. Like he didn’t rape you. Like he didn’t leave you so broken you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.
The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that he’s facing “personal legal issues” but don’t elaborate. Wouldn’t want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.
You feel sick.
The door opens and Beau, Dean’s best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look okay.” He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t have to watch this, right?”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to anyway.”
“I need to see it.”
Beau nods like he understands. “Want company?”
“Sure.”
He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. It’s something you’ve noticed about all the boys — they’re incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.
It’s the opposite of Cameron in every way.
The puck drops.
***
Garrett’s never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesn’t cheap shot. Doesn’t go for injuries. Doesn’t use his stick as a weapon.
Tonight’s going to be different.
He’s skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.
Garrett’s vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Can’t just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.
The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in — all legal, all clean — but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.
Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briar’s up 1-0.
The period’s winding down — about three minutes left — when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.
They’re at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
Beck leans in close.
“Hey, Graham,” he says, voice low enough the ref can’t hear. “How’s my girl doing?”
Garrett’s stick tightens in his grip, but he doesn’t respond.
“She still staying at your place?” Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. “That’s cute. Playing house. But we both know she’ll come back to me eventually. She always does.”
The ref’s getting into position.
“She’s a good fuck though, right?” Beck’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tight. Eager. Especially when she cries.”
Something inside Garrett snaps.
The puck hasn’t even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.
His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beck’s head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesn’t stop. He’s on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.
Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrett’s bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.
“You piece of shit-” Punch. “You fucking coward-” Punch. “You think you can talk about her like that-” Punch.
Beck’s nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.
The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.
Garrett’s still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.
Beck’s on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane — some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.
One ref is talking into his mic. “Number 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. You’re done.”
Garrett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.
The Briar bench erupts.
Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. It’s the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.
Support. Solidarity.
They know why Garrett did it. And they’re backing him one hundred percent.
Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even he’s fighting a smile.
As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beck’s sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.
Garrett doesn’t care.
It was worth it.
***
You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.
One second, they’re lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrett’s on Cameron like a feral animal.
Beau jumps up beside you. “Holy shit!”
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameron’s face turns into a bloody pulp.
The commentators are losing their minds.
“Absolutely vicious attack by Graham — completely unprovoked — this is going to be a lengthy suspension-”
But it wasn’t unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.
And Garrett responded.
For you.
The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood — not his own — is splattered across his jersey.
Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.
They’re supporting him.
All of them.
“Did you see that?” Beau’s grinning. “The whole fucking bench. They all know.”
“Know what?”
“Why Garrett did it. They’re telling him they’ve got his back.”
Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.
Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldn’t let it slide.
The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briar’s penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.
When the period finally ends, it’s still 1-0 Briar.
You close the laptop.
“You okay?” Beau asks.
“I don’t know.”
“That was pretty intense.”
“He did that for me.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“He’s going to get in so much trouble.”
“Probably.” Beau shrugs. “But Garrett doesn’t care. You should’ve seen him these past three weeks. He’s been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.”
“I need to-” You stand up. “I need to call him.”
“He’s probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”
You grab your phone, pull up Garrett’s number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me. I just—I saw what happened. What you did. And I-” Your voice cracks. “Thank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know you’re probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I just—thank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.”
You pause, trying to find the right words.
“I’ll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?”
You hang up.
Beau’s watching you with a soft expression. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question.
“He saved my life,” you say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You sit back down on the bed. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything’s so complicated and messed up and I’m barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?”
“He cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.”
“What do you mean?”
Beau hesitates. “He doesn’t really talk about his feelings. None of us do — we’re athletes, we’re emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? I’ve never seen him like that with anyone. He’s protective to the point of obsession.”
“I don’t want to be his redemption project,” you say quietly.
“You’re not. Trust me. If you were, he’d be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesn’t do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.” Beau stands, stretches. “Anyway. I’m going to make some popcorn. You want some?”
“Sure.”
He leaves and you’re alone with your thoughts.
You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briar’s still up 1-0. BU’s pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briar’s goalie is playing out of his mind.
The commentators are still talking about Garrett’s ejection.
“We’re hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.”
Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.
You think about Cameron’s face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since you’ve known him.
You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that you’re glad Garrett hurt him.
But you don’t.
You feel vindicated.
***
Garrett’s in Coach’s office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.
But Garrett wasn’t there to see it.
“The league’s reviewing the footage,” Coach says, arms crossed. “They’re talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
Garrett shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.”
“Did you know Beck is in the hospital?”
That gets Garrett’s attention. “What?”
“Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.”
Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.
He doesn’t.
“Good,” he says.
Coach’s expression hardens. “Garrett-”
“He did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldn’t even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.”
“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Maybe not. But someone had to do it.”
Coach is quiet for a long moment. “What did he say to you?”
“What?”
“At the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?”
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does if it pushed you that far.”
“He talked about her. About-” Garrett can’t repeat the words. Can’t make himself say them out loud. “It was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”
Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “You know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably done for the season.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. “You’re a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.”
“Does that mean you’re not kicking me off the team?”
“I should. But no. You’ll serve your suspension and then we’ll see where we are.” Coach stands. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got someone waiting for you.”
Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.
He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore — he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beck’s face — but it’s a good kind of pain. Satisfying.
His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.
And one voicemail from you.
He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.
Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him you’ll be there when he gets back.
Something in his chest loosens.
He starts the car and drives home.
When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beau’s on the couch, watching TV.
“She’s in your room,” Beau says without looking up.
Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.
His door is closed. He knocks softly.
“Come in.”
You’re sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrett’s breath catch.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“I watched the whole thing.”
“And?”
You stand, walk over to him. You’re close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“You already said that. In your message.”
“I know. But I wanted to say it to your face.” You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
The smallest smile touches his lips. “Maybe a little.”
You hold his hand carefully, like it’s something precious. “You’re probably suspended.”
“Yeah.”
“For multiple games.”
“Probably.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of him,” Garrett corrects. “Because he’s a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.”
You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes Garrett can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.
“No one’s ever stood up for me like that before,” you say.
“They should have.”
“But they didn’t. You did.”
Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that he’ll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.
But he doesn’t.
Because you’re not his to protect. Not really. You’re just someone he couldn’t walk away from. Someone he couldn’t save until you decided to save yourself.
“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “We can talk more in the morning.”
You nod, but you don’t let go of his hand.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it was you. That night. When I called. I’m glad it was you who answered.”
Something in Garrett’s chest cracks open.
“Me too,” he says.
You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back for three weeks.
The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.
And something else. Something he’s not ready to name yet.
But it’s there.
Growing stronger every day.
***
The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for “excessive violence and intent to injure.”
Garrett doesn’t even blink.
Four games. That’s it. He was expecting worse — six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.
“Four games,” Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. “That’s nothing.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.
“Could’ve been better. Could’ve been zero games and a medal.”
Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. “Did you see the prospect rankings?”
“What about them?”
“You moved up.” Tucker grins. “Apparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.”
Garrett sits up. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying you’re exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.”
Dean appears in the doorway. “There’s already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. It’s got like two million views.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.”
Garrett doesn’t care about fame. Doesn’t care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.
You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrett’s old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. You’ve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister — protective, teasing, careful. It’s the safest you’ve felt in over a year.
“What’s all the noise about?” You ask.
“Garrett’s trending on Twitter,” Tucker announces.
“For the fight?”
“For being a badass, apparently.”
You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. It’s become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesn’t flinch when you’re near. You don’t panic when he moves. It’s taken weeks to build this comfort, but it’s there.
“How are the knuckles?” You ask.
“Better. Still ugly.”
“Battle scars.”
“Something like that.”
Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.
“What?” He asks immediately.
“The DA. The trial date got moved up.”
“To when?”
“Three weeks from now.” Your voice is shaky. “April seventh.”
Garrett does the math. That’s right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”
“You’ve been preparing for weeks. You’re ready.”
“Am I?” You look at him, and there’s real fear in your eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?”
“Then I’ll be there to put you back together.”
It’s a promise. Simple and absolute.
You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.
But neither of you do.
***
The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.
The DA — a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep — meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.
“They’re going to try to discredit you,” she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. “They’re going to imply you’re lying, that you wanted it, that you’re just trying to ruin his life because you’re bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.”
“How do I not break?” You ask. “How do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?”
“You remember why you’re doing this. You remember that you’re not just fighting for yourself — you’re fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.”
Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.
“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
The night before the trial, you can’t sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You jump, nearly dropping the mug. “God, you scared me.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep either.”
“Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Yep.”
You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. “What if he gets away with it?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. They’ve got money and connections and-”
“And you have the truth.” Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. “You have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.”
“You can’t testify. You weren’t there.”
“No, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know you’re not alone.”
You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.
“I’m terrified,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“But I’m also angry. I’m so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.”
“He will.”
“Promise?”
Garrett shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Shouldn’t guarantee an outcome that’s out of his control. But looking at you — brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto — he can’t help himself.
“I promise.”
***
The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.
You’re dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.
Garrett’s beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. He’s a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.
“You look good,” you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.
“I look like I’m going to a funeral.”
“And still very handsome.”
He manages a small smile. “You ready?”
“No. But let’s do this anyway.”
Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You don’t let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isn’t a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.”
You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.
The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.
It’s smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces — your parents, who flew in from wherever they’ve been. Julie, who’s been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrett’s teammates.
And Cameron’s parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like they’re at a country club meeting instead of their son’s rape trial.
You don’t look at Cameron. Can’t. Not yet.
The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge — an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes — takes her seat.
“The People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,” the bailiff announces. “Charges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
The trial begins.
***
Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.
The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records — the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphy’s testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.
She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.
Cameron’s lawyer — a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour — objects to nearly everything. “Relevance, your honor.” “Speculation.” “Prejudicial.”
Most of his objections get overruled.
Then it’s time for your testimony.
You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.
Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. “Can you state your name for the record?”
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
“And how old are you, Y/N?”
“Twenty.”
“And you’re a student at Boston University?”
“Yes. Junior. Journalism major.”
“Can you tell the jury how you met the defendant?”
You take a breath. “We met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.”
“And when did the relationship turn abusive?”
“Gradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. He’d grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.”
“And did you tell anyone?”
“No. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, he’d go back to being the person I fell for.”
“When did the physical abuse become severe?”
“Last summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.”
Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.
“And the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?”
This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.
“He would force me. When I said no, he’d do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.”
“How many times did this occur?”
“I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more.”
“And the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?”
You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.
By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.
Then it’s Coburn’s turn.
He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.
“Ms. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?”
“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”
“A fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?”
“I was scared.”
“Scared. Of what?”
“Of him. Of what he’d do if I told anyone.”
“But you told Mr. Graham, didn’t you?” Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. “A hockey player from a rival school. Isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?”
Garrett’s hands clench into fists.
“No,” you say firmly. “I never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didn’t fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.”
“Allegedly tried to kill you.”
“There’s nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.”
“Or perhaps you two had rough sex and you’re retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?”
Katherine jumps up. “Objection! Badgering the witness.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Mr. Coburn, watch yourself.”
But Coburn isn’t done. “You say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?”
“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone who’s been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.”
“Or someone who’s lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You expect this jury to believe that my client — a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record — is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?”
“Based on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.”
Coburn smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “No further questions.”
You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.
The defense presents their case. It’s weak — character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.
It’s all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.
When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.
And then you wait.
***
Two hours feel like two years.
You’re in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.
Garrett’s there too, because they couldn’t make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.
“What if they don’t believe me?” You ask for the hundredth time.
“They will,” Katherine says.
“But what if they don’t?”
“Then we appeal. But they’re going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.”
Your phone buzzes. It’s your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Can’t deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.
Garrett’s phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.
“What?” You ask.
“Logan. He says if Beck walks, they’re going to handle it themselves.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
There’s a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. “Jury’s back.”
Your stomach drops. “Already?”
“Quick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,” Katherine says, standing. “Let’s go.”
You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up — more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.
Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.
The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but they’re all carefully neutral.
The judge addresses the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, your honor.”
“On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant guilty.”
The courtroom erupts. Cameron’s mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.
“On the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
“On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.
The judge is talking about sentencing, but you can’t hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.
“Twenty-five years,” the judge announces. “With possibility of parole after twenty.”
Twenty-five years. Cameron won’t be out until he’s almost fifty.
Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. You’re crying.
And then you’re moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.
He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.
“We did it,” you sob into his shoulder. “He’s going to prison.”
“You did it,” Garrett corrects, voice rough. “You were so fucking brave up there.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you did it anyway. That’s what brave means.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. “So goddamn proud.”
Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. He’s shouting something — probably threats, probably curses — but you don’t care. Can’t hear him over your own heartbeat.
You’re safe. Finally, truly safe.
You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.
He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
You don’t have words for what you’re feeling. Don’t know how to explain that this boy — this stranger who became your savior who became your friend — has somehow become everything.
So you don’t say anything.
You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.
It’s nothing like kissing Cameron. There’s no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.
“Was that okay?” You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.
“That was-” Garrett’s voice breaks. “Yeah. That was okay.”
Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.
His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face — harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like you’re something precious. Something worth protecting.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. Because you didn’t have to do any of it. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.” Garrett’s forehead touches yours. “Not from you.”
Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside — they’re going to want a statement.”
You take a shaky breath. “Can Garrett come?”
“Of course.”
You don’t let go of Garrett’s hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Don’t let go as she explains the next steps — the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order that’s now permanent, the victim services available to you.
Don’t let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.
You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.
The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.
When it’s finally over, when you’re back in Garrett’s car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” you say.
“It’s not over,” Garrett replies. “He’ll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.”
“But the worst part is over.”
“Yeah. The worst part is over.”
You look at him — really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesn’t mean possession.
“What happens now?” You ask.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.”
Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someone’s promise to you actually means something.
You believe in tomorrow.
You believe in healing.
You believe in love — the real kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt.
As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.
She’s not gone.
She’s been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.
And now, finally, she’s ready to wake up.
***
One year later.
You’re standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and you’ve never felt more alive.
The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriend’s team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? You’re just happy to be here.
Happy to be doing what you love.
Happy to be yourself again.
“Alright, Y/N, we’re live in thirty seconds,” your producer says through your earpiece.
You smooth down your blazer — BU red and white, professional but not stuffy — and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briar’s captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.
Who also happens to be the love of your life, but you’re trying to keep it professional.
“And we’re live in five, four, three …” The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.
You smile at the camera. “I’m here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonight’s season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.”
Garrett’s in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.
“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Feels great to start the season with a W.”
“You had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one — the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.”
“Yeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.”
“Lucky?” You raise an eyebrow. “That was pure skill and you know it.”
Now he’s definitely smiling. “Well, I’ve had some good coaching. Great teammates. It’s a team effort.”
“Speaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?”
Something shifts in Garrett’s expression. Gets more serious. “It’s bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But I’m also excited for what’s next.”
You consult your notes, but you’ve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrett’s favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you’re a journalist doing your job.
“Your team has high expectations this year,” you continue. “Returning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?”
“I think we’ve got the talent and the drive. We’ve been working our asses off—sorry, can I say that on air?”
You fight back a smile. “We’re cable. You’re fine.”
“Well, we’ve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyone’s bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think we’ve got a real shot.”
“And what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?”
Garrett looks directly at the camera. “Honestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.”
It’s a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.
You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But there’s something in Garrett’s eyes — a warmth, a familiarity — that makes you relax slightly.
“So,” you say, going slightly off-script. “Three goals on opening night. That’s got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.”
“Oh, especially against BU,” Garrett agrees, and now he’s definitely teasing. “No offense to your school.”
“Some taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.”
“You did. That third period though …” He makes a yikes face.
“Okay, rude.”
“I’m just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought you’d appreciate factual accuracy.”
You bite back a laugh. “I appreciate winning more.”
“Well, you’re dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.”
Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you can’t help it. You grin. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Plus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.”
“Oh, should I?”
“Definitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.”
You feel your cheeks heat up. “Garrett, we’re on camera.”
“I know.” He’s absolutely shameless, that smile widening. “Just keeping things interesting for the viewers.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And okay, you do. You love this — the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the arena.
“Alright, I think that’s probably enough for tonight,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Garrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.”
“Thanks for having me.”
He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, he’s leaning in and kissing you — quick and sweet but definitely not professional — right there on camera.
When he pulls back, you’re frozen, face burning, completely flustered.
“See you at home,” he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.
You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.
“And that’s … that’s the post-game report from Agganis Arena,” you manage. “Back to you in the studio.”
The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. “Well, that’s going viral.”
“I’m so sorry-”
“Are you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Great job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.”
You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. There’s already a text from Julie: OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.
Then one from Logan: G’s getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.
Then one from your mom: Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional 😊
You’re laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrett’s truck — you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but you’ll both end up at the same place.
Home.
It still feels surreal sometimes. That you’re here. That you’re happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like you’re precious.
You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss that’s probably being GIF’d and memed as you drive.
When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.
You let yourself in — still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home — and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.
“Hey, superstar,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.
He looks up, grins. “Hey, yourself. How’d the rest of the interviews go?”
“Fine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.”
“I couldn’t help it. You looked too good.”
You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. It’s automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“With who? Your producer loved it.”
“With my professional reputation.”
“Your professional reputation is that you’re a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briar’s hockey team.”
“Extremely handsome? Really?”
“I’m just reporting the facts.”
You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You played really well tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan — perfect pass.”
“Are you analyzing my game?”
“I’m a sports journalist. It’s literally my job.”
Garrett’s expression softens. “You know what I love about you?”
“My devastating good looks?”
“Well, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You could’ve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didn’t.”
You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago — broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.
But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BU’s sports network.
Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.
“I had help,” you say quietly.
“You did the work.”
“We did the work.”
Because it hasn’t been just you. Garrett’s been there for every step. Patient when you couldn’t be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.
He’s been to therapy himself — dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.
You’ve healed together.
“Come here,” Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.”
He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.
When you break apart, you’re both breathing harder.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says. “For tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.”
“It was just an interview.”
“It wasn’t just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.”
You hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t consciously registered that you were in BU’s arena doing what you love without fear.
“He’s in prison,” you say. It’s a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if he’ll somehow find you. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Garrett agrees. “And even if he could, he’d have to go through me first.”
“My fierce protector.”
“Always.”
You kiss him again, and this time it’s different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.
“Bedroom?” He murmurs against your lips.
“Bedroom,” you agree.
He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs — something that should be cheesy but somehow isn’t, not with him — and lays you gently on the bed.
The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.
Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.
You don’t cry anymore. Now it’s just … good. Better than good. Amazing.
He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.
“This okay?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“Yes.”
It’s something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though you’ve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.
Only gives.
He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameron’s handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.
“Beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.
Hours later, you’re both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks.
“How different everything is.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“The best different.” You tilt your head to look at him. “A year ago, I couldn’t imagine being happy again. Couldn’t imagine feeling safe or loved or … whole.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t imagine anything else.”
Garrett’s quiet for a moment. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you too.”
“I’m going to marry you someday.”
It’s not a proposal — just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. When you’re ready. When we’re ready. But someday, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.”
You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.
But you don’t.
You feel safe.
“Someday sounds good,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.
You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.
She’s still here. She’s been here all along, just waiting to be found again.
And she’s got so much left to do.
Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.
But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her — the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all — she’s exactly where she needs to be.
“Garrett?” You murmur, half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for answering the phone that night.”
His arms tighten around you. “Thank you for calling.”
Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, you’re safe and loved and whole.
summary: your daughter says one word and it sends garrett spiralling.
—
Playoffs are starting. The team is running him into the ground. He’s surviving on caffeine and four hours of sleep and somehow your four-year-old daughter has chosen this exact week to become physically incapable of listening.
Tonight she refuses to get in the car after preschool.
“No.”
“Bug, c’mon.”
“No.”
Garrett keeps his patience for ten full minutes.
While she wriggles away from him in the parking lot laughing because to her this is a game.
Until she darts too close to moving traffic.
That’s what does it.
Fear.
Pure instant fear.
Garrett grabs her arm quickly and pulls her back toward him harder than he means to.
“Enough!”
Loud enough that she startles immediately.
Her little face crumples. And then she says the sentence that completely destroys him.
“You scared me.”
Tiny voice and watery eyes.
Garrett goes white. Actually white.
Like all the blood drains from his body at once.
His grip on her arm disappears instantly.
“Oh my God.”
Your daughter looks confused now more than anything because she already regrets saying it. “Daddy…”
“I scared you?”
The crack in his voice is horrible.
You step in immediately, crouching beside your daughter. “Hey, baby, Daddy was scared because you ran near the cars.”
But Garrett can barely hear you. Because all he can hear is his own childhood. All he can hear is every moment he was ever afraid of his father.
And now his little girl just said those same words to him.
Your daughter reaches for him instinctively because despite everything, Garrett is still her safe place.
But he hesitates before touching her.
Like he suddenly doesn’t trust himself.
“Garrett,” you say softly.
He blinks hard and immediately picks her up, holding her so carefully it’s almost painful to watch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over into her hair. “I’m sorry, bug. Daddy’s sorry.”
She’s already over it. Literally already over it.
By the time you get home she’s asking for snacks and showing Garrett a rock she found in the playground like the last twenty minutes never happened.
At dinner your daughter climbs into his lap like always.
Garrett barely eats.
At bath time she splashes him until he’s soaked and giggling despite himself.
The second she’s asleep, the smile disappears.
You find him sitting alone in the dark living room staring at nothing.
“Hey.”
Garrett rubs a hand over his face. “I scared her.”
“You startled her.”
“She said she was scared.”
“She’s four.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
You sit beside him carefully. “She ran toward traffic.”
“I grabbed her too hard.”
“You kept her safe.”
His jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. “That’s exactly what my dad used to say.”
Silence.
Your heart breaks instantly.
“Garrett…”
“He always had a reason too.” Garrett laughs bitterly, eyes glassy now. “Always some explanation for why he lost his temper.”
“You did not lose your temper.”
“I saw her face.”
His voice cracks completely on the words.
“She looked scared of me.”
You take his hand immediately. “Baby, she cried because you startled her. Five minutes later she was asking if you’d cut her toast into stars tomorrow.”
But Garrett shakes his head.
“You know what the worst part is?” he whispers. “When she reached for me afterward, I almost didn’t pick her up.”
Your chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because for a second I thought maybe she shouldn’t trust me.”
There it is: The real wound.
That Garrett genuinely believes one mistake could make him unsafe forever.
You move closer instantly, cupping his face.
“She ran to you anyway.”
His eyes close.
“She loves you, Garrett.”
“But what if one day she doesn’t?”
“She will.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” you say softly. “But I can promise that bad fathers don’t sit in dark living rooms crying because their kid got startled.”
Garrett’s breathing turns uneven.
Then quietly, so quietly it nearly breaks you, he says: “I would rather she break my heart a thousand times than ever fear me again.”
For three days Garrett second-guesses everything he does.
Every tone.
Every correction.
Every single interaction with her.
The way he hesitates before telling her no now. The way he looks at you after every tiny moment of discipline like he’s checking whether he handled it wrong. The way he physically flinches when she startles too fast around him even if it has nothing to do with him.
It’s breaking your heart.
Because your daughter forgot the parking lot incident approximately eleven minutes after it happened.
“Bug, careful with your juice,” he says one morning.
She nearly tips the cup anyway and Garrett instinctively reaches to steady it.
Immediately his hand drops back, like he’s afraid to grab too suddenly.
Your chest aches.
Later that afternoon she’s running through the backyard while Garrett watches her with this constant nervousness sitting behind his eyes.
You walk up beside him quietly. “She’s okay.”
But his gaze never leaves her.
“I keep thinking about her face,” he admits after a long silence. “When she said I scared her.”
“She was startled.”
“She was afraid.”
“For one second.”
Garrett swallows hard. “One second is enough.”
You don’t know how to explain to him that loving parents accidentally scare their kids sometimes. That toddlers cry when voices get sharp or emotions get big because they’re tiny humans still learning the world.
But Garrett doesn’t hear normal parenting mistakes.
He hears echoes.
That night he’s quieter than usual during bedtime.
Still loving. Still sweet to his girl but careful.
Your daughter notices it too.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Why you sad?”
Garrett immediately forces a smile. “I’m not sad.”
“You got sad eyes.”
God.
You have to look away for a second because she is so observant it’s terrifying.
Garrett brushes her hair back gently. “Just tired, baby.”
She accepts that answer easily because she’s four and currently more concerned about whether her teddy also needs pajamas.
Eventually she falls asleep between you both reading stories.
Garrett lingers by her bed longer than usual after you carry her to her room.
You watch him stand there in the soft glow of her nightlight with this awful guilt still weighing down his shoulders.
“She adores you,” you whisper after he finally closes the door.
He nods faintly.
But he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves it.
You wake to tiny sobs echoing down the hallway.
Before you can even sit up, Garrett is already moving.
You hear him open her bedroom door.
“Bug?”
More crying.
Then “Daddy!”
Pure panic.
Garrett’s heart visibly shatters.
You follow more slowly, pausing in the doorway.
Your daughter is sitting upright in bed, cheeks wet with tears, arms already reaching for him.
Garrett crosses the room in two seconds flat.
“I got you,” he says immediately, scooping her into his arms. “Hey, hey, what happened?”
“Bad dream,” she cries into his neck.
Garrett sits in the rocking chair holding her close, one hand rubbing up and down her back automatically.
“You’re okay.”
“There was monster.”
“No monsters here, baby.”
She clings tighter.
Garrett kisses her hair over and over. “Daddy’s got you.”
Your daughter’s breathing slowly starts evening out.
Tiny hiccuping sniffles against Garrett’s chest.
And then, half asleep already, she curls impossibly closer into him and mumbles “I safe now.”
Silence.
You physically see the words hit him.
Garrett goes completely still.
One hand comes up to cover his mouth for a second like he just got punched in the chest.
Your daughter doesn’t notice.
She’s already drifting back to sleep tucked against him.
But Garrett’s eyes immediately fill with tears.
That’s the answer to every fear that’s been eating him alive all week.
Her instinct, even after all his fears, is still to run toward him.
To feel safest in his arms.
“You hear that?” you whisper softly from the doorway.
He nods once.
Can’t speak.
Your daughter sighs sleepily against his chest, completely relaxed now.
Safe.
Garrett presses a kiss to the top of her head and finally, finally lets himself hold her without fear.
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