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Hiii I want to request a John Tucker x reader fic. He is so underrated out of the group, which kills me because I love him so much.
It is a John Tucker x reader where the reader is an elementary education major who is best friends with Allie & Hannah. Meeting either of them in a class and quickly becoming close friends with them. The reader is friends or acquaintances with the guys. The reader and Tucker both have crushes on one another but are too oblivious to say anything. So Hannah, Allie, Logan, Garrett, and Dean team together to get them together. Like having them be partners for beer pong or whenever the group goes out to eat, having them be either across from each other or next to. The group going from small things to more obvious situations until Tucker and reader finally notice and confess to one another.
hi love !!
totally agree with you, Tuck is one of the best and I loved his book so much, I can't wait for his season!
So here is your request! I really really hope you enjoy it! š«¶š»
So sorry it took me so long to complete this, it's been chaos on my end. But now I'm back !!
Summary: You survived the chaotic Briar hockey house by keeping your massive, inconvenient crush on Tucker a total secret. But when Dean orchestrates a disastrous one-on-one skating session, Tucker takes the opportunity to prove the feeling is entirely mutual.
Fluff
Warnings: not proofread, and light swearing, NA content
A/N: It is possible I overused some words / descriptions, please excuse me. English is not my first language and I'm trying my best! Also, I can't wait for Tucker's season!! Need more Tucker gifs please and thank you!! Feedback is much appreciated!! Take care of yourselves! Lots of love š«¶š»
Words:
Surviving as an elementary education major at Briar U requires a very specific holy trinity: iced coffee, glitter glue, and the sheer, unadulterated willpower to keep tiny, chaotic humans from accidentally offing themselves on a daily basis.
Your friendship with Allie and Hannah was forged in the fiery, soul-sucking trenches of a mandatory childhood development seminar. The trauma-bonding officially commenced over a brutal group project involving hand puppets. Hannah penned a ridiculously catchy, borderline unhinged jingle about sharing. Allie constructed tiny, freakishly accurate felt costumes entirely from scratch. And you wrote a script so bizarrely funny it somehow scored the three of you an A.
You've been a ride-or-die trio ever since.
So, naturally, when Hannah and Allie fell head-over-heels for Briar hockey gods Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, you were dragged right into the crossfire. You plummeted straight into the testosterone-fueled orbit of the university's sports dynasty.
Now, instead of spending your quiet weekends studying in your dorm, your life consists of dodging rogue pizza boxes. You spend your Friday nights grading second-grade spelling tests on a battered leather couch that smells aggressively of stale beer and male ego.
You love those guys, you really do. Theyāre basically your oversized, hyper-protective brothers at this point. But just existing in the hockey house is a full-contact sport. Garrett and Logan are endlessly, deafeningly loud, communicating almost exclusively through shouted profanities and casual property damage. And Dean is practically feral.
The sheer, suffocating alpha energy of the place is exhausting.
And then, there is John Tucker.
Tuck is the glitch in the Briar matrix.
While his roommates are busy screaming at their PlayStation, Tucker is the quiet center of gravity. Heās a domesticated lumberjack in low-riding gray sweatpants who calmly pulls fresh batches of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and fixes the cabinet hinges. All while watching the chaotic room with observant brown eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
He also possesses a slow, gravelly Southern drawl that does absolutely devastating things to your panties.
Hanging out in this madhouse and bonding with the sweet, fiercely protective defenseman naturally led to one inevitable conclusion: a massive, pulse-pounding, and entirely inconvenient crush.
The Briar boys are many things: obscenely talented on the ice, aggressively competitive about absolutely everything, and so ridiculously attractive it honestly feels like a targeted hate crime against the female population.
But subtlety? Subtlety is entirely missing from their playbook. They possess the emotional finesse of a runaway freight train.
Their not-so-secret matchmaking campaign started about a month ago.
At first, you tried to convince yourself it was a coincidence. But suddenly, whenever you showed up for movie night, there was only ever exactly one empty spot left on the giant sectional. And it was always right next to Tuck.
Garrett would miraculously need to "stretch out his bad knee," hogging three whole cushions to himself. Meanwhile, Dean would sprawl entirely across Allie's lap like a giant, needy golden retriever. It left you with zero choice but to squeeze your ass into the tiny gap beside Tucker's massive frame.
Cue two agonizing hours of trying to control your breathing while his rock-hard thigh pressed flush against yours. The scent of his sandalwood body wash mixed with clean laundry detergent was enough to make your brain melt straight out of your ears.
Then came the beer pong tournaments.
In a house full of elite, hyper-competitive athletes, beer pong isn't a drinking game. It's a bloodsport. But suddenly, Logan would pound his fist on the kitchen island and dictate the teams in his booming, tyrannical voice, and somehow, against all mathematical odds, you and Tucker were miraculously paired up.
Every. Single. Time.
"Just the luck of the draw, Y/N," Logan would say, flashing a total shit-eating grin while tossing you a ping-pong ball.
Yeah, right.
You know exactly what is happening. Hannah and Allieāyour absolute traitorous, backstabbing best friendsāone hundred percent spilled the beans during pillow talk. They whispered your dirty little secret to their boyfriends, and now the entire hockey house is in on the joke. Turns out, Garrett and Dean are worse gossips than a sewing circle of sorority girls.
Now, the Briar boys have formed a highly coordinated, unholy alliance to force your hand. They want you to crack. They want you to finally jump him.
But you are incredibly, dangerously stubborn.
You would literally rather swallow a frozen hockey puck than make a move. This house is your safe haven, and Tucker is the quiet anchor that holds it all together. If you sleep with a guy like Dean, it's a guaranteed, mutual one-night stand. No strings, no heartbreak. But Tuck? He is the guy you keep. He's the sweetest, most decent guy in this entire godforsaken house.
If you cross that line and things get awkward, you don't just lose a hookup. You lose him.
So, your mouth is staying shut. You are aggressively ignoring the heat that floods your cheeks every time he looks your way and calls you darlinā.
You are taking this secret to your grave.
"I am literally begging you," Dean pleads, planting his hands on either side of the refrigerator door, physically caging in your access to the iced coffee.
His usually perfectly styled blond hair is sticking up at odd angles, and his green eyes are wide with genuine, unadulterated panic.
"You're an education major," he pushes, desperation bleeding into his tone. "You speak small-human. They don't listen to me, Y/N/N. One of them intentionally sneezed in my mouth yesterday. In my mouth. Please, I just need you to help me wrangle the kiddie team for one single practice before I completely lose my goddamn mind."
You aggressively rub your temples, silently cursing the universe. You are bone-tired from your practicum, running on four hours of sleep and caffeine fumes. But Dean Di Laurentis looks like heās one juice box away from a total mental breakdown.
"Fine," you groan, already regretting it. "One practice. But you owe me iced lattes for a month."
"Done. I'd sign over my trust fund right now if you asked for it," he swears, already hooking an arm around your shoulders and hauling you toward the front door.
Thirty minutes later, Deanās BMW is idling illegally in the fire lane outside the Hastings community arena.
"Okay, go on inside and wait by the benches," Dean says. He leans over the center console and practically shoves you out the passenger door before the car is even fully in park. "Establish dominance early. I'll go find a parking spot."
Before you can even shut the door completely, Dean hits the gas. The tires squeal as he peels away from the curb, vanishing into the afternoon traffic.
Muttering a string of highly inventive curses, you march inside and strap on a pair of tragically dull rental skates. You hobble out to the freezing rink, your ankles wobbling dangerously with every step.
Leaning heavily against the boards, you blow warm breath into your cupped hands, expecting to see Dean jogging in behind you any second to take charge of the absolute chaos unfolding on the ice.
Instead, the heavy, aggressive scrape of sharp blades echoes through the arena.
A massive figure in hockey gear glides effortlessly from the far end of the rink, moving with that pure, lethal athletic grace that always makes your breath catch in your throat. He comes to a sharp, snowy stop right in front of the glass.
It's definitely not Dean.
Tuck rests his thick forearms on the ledge of the boards, looking entirely too massive and unfairly handsome in his Briar practice gear.
"Hey, darlin'," he rumbles, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his scruffy jaw. "Heard you were the new assistant coach."
Before you can demand to know what the hell is going on, your phone buzzes violently in your coat pocket.
Deanie
Emergency.
Food poisoning.
It's violent.
Tragic, really.
Y/N, you're the brains.
Tuck, you're the brawn.
Handle the gremlins for me.
If anyone asks, I died a hero.
You stare at the glowing screen, your blood instantly hitting a boiling point. The absolute audacity of that man. He set you up. He ditched you on the ice. When you can barely stand upright on these medieval torture devices.
"Dean is dead to me," you announce to the empty air. "I am going to strangle him with his own skate laces."
Tucker just chuckles, a deep, rich sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He reaches over and pushes the heavy bench door open for you.
"Come on, Assistant Coach," he says, his eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Let's get to work."
For the next hour, you and Tucker manage to run a surprisingly efficient practice, a minor miracle considering your roster consists entirely of tiny, feral gremlins.
You deploy your best Teacher Voice to corral the kids into semi-straight lines, preventing at least three separate stick-swinging brawls. Tuck, meanwhile, handles the actual hockey. He demonstrates passing drills with a lazy, God-tier athletic grace that makes your stomach do a series of violent backflips.
Youāre still furious at Deanāactively plotting how to hide his body once you strangle himābut itās impossible to sustain that rage while watching John Tucker gently high-five an eight-year-old and patiently adjust a crooked helmet. It is a direct, targeted attack on your ovaries.
Once the hour is up and the kids are safely handed off to their parents in the lobby, the cleanup begins. The arena goes blissfully quiet, leaving only the biting cold and the low, mechanical hum of the overhead lights.
You are definitively, tragically not a good skater. You attempt to glide over to the face-off circle to grab a stray orange cone, but your ankles immediately betray you, wobbling with the structural integrity of cooked spaghetti. You pitch forward, windmilling your arms in a desperate, deeply uncool fight against gravity.
"Why don't you go sit on the bench, darlin'?" Tuck calls out.
His deep voice echoes across the empty rink. He glides past you backwardsāthe absolute show-offāeffortlessly scooping up three loose pucks with a casual flick of his stick. "I've got this," he adds, flashing a slow, knowing smirk that makes your heart stutter.
"I'm fine," you insist stubbornly, ignoring the burning ache in your calves to take another precarious, shaky step. "I can help. I am a strong, capable woman who does not need to be sidelined by a piece of orange plastic."
You immediately slip again.
Your right skate shoots out from under you, and your stomach plummets. But before your tailbone can introduce itself to the solid ice, Tucker moves. Itās entirely unfair how fast he is for a guy his size. He ditches his stick and catches you mid-fall.
His massive, calloused handsāstill clad in those bulky hockey glovesāgrip your waist firmly, hauling your hips flush against his. The heat radiating off his body through his gear completely obliterates the freezing arena air. Your hands fly up to grip his broad shoulders, your pulse roaring so loudly you can barely hear yourself think.
"Alright, that's it," Tucker rumbles.
He doesn't step back. His chest brushes against yours as he looks down, his brown eyes suddenly entirely too intense, entirely too focused. "If you won't sit down," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your cheek, "I'm teaching you how to skate before you break your gorgeous neck."
He turns you to face him, his movements slow and deliberate. He begins skating backward, a smooth, effortless glide, pulling you along to guide your clunky rental blades. The sheer proximity is doing absolutely catastrophic things to your nervous system.
"Tuck, you really don't have to do this," you ramble, your filter having completely dissolved in the panic of being this close to him.
"Just bend your knees, darlin'," he instructs softly, ignoring your freak-out.
"I'm serious. I'm sorry the team keeps messing with you," you babble, your voice pitching up a frantic octave. "I know Allie and Hannah told the guys I have a massive, humiliating crush on you, and now they won't give you a break. You don't have to humor them, and you definitely don't have to babysit me on the ice just to spare my feelings. I swear I'm not going to make thingsā"
He doesn't let you finish.
Tuckerās hand slides up your spine, his warm fingers tangling in the hair at the base of your skull. He hauls you flush against his chest and crashes his mouth onto yours to thoroughly and effectively shut you up.
The kiss is hot and demanding. You let out a soft, helpless gasp as his tongue sweeps past your parted lips, tasting like winter mint and unapologetic male heat. You don't even care that youāre in a public rink; you tangle your freezing fingers in the collar of his practice jersey, holding on for dear life and kissing him back with a bruising, desperate intensity.
When he finally pulls back, youāre breathless, your chest heaving against his.
"You talk way too much, darlin'," he murmurs, his dark eyes gleaming with a heavy, satisfied hunger.
Your brain completely short-circuits. You stare up at him, your lips parted, trying to form a coherent response. "Iāyouāwhat justā"
Tucker lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. He leans down and kisses you againāa slower, softer slide of his lips against yours that sends a fresh wave of fire straight to your toes.
When he pulls away a second time, you blink, dazed. "Why did you do that again?" you whisper.
A wicked smirk spreads across his scruffy jaw. "Well, that first kiss seemed to break you. I figured a second one might fix the malfunction."
You let out a breathless, slightly hysterical laugh. "Oh. Yeah. It... it definitely fixed me."
"Good," Tuck says. "Because if you hadn't brought up your humiliating crush, I was about to confess mine."
Your stomach plummets in the best possible way. "Your what?"
"My crush," he rumbles, stepping even closer. "I've been losing my goddamn mind over you for months. And for the record? Dean didn't ditch you today. I told him to fake the emergency so I could finally get you alone."
Your jaw drops. Your brain shatters all over again.
Tuckās eyes gleam with mischief. His thumb drags slowly, possessively across your swollen lower lip. "You're broken again. Do I have to kiss you a third time to fix you?"
You grab the front of his jersey, yanking him back down to your level.
"Don't you dare stop," you breathe against his mouth.
You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.
Terms And Conditions
You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long gameāyou were just warming the bench.
Garett Graham
Blindside
You're tired of hiding your feelings, but when a guy mocks your insecurities, Garrett's brutal defense proves you're more than just friends.
John Logan
John Tucker
Steal My Girl
You break up with Tucker because you are tired of being a secret, but when another guy hits on you at Malone's, he snaps and publicly claims you in front of his entire team.
Mom And Dad Are Fighting
You and Tucker break up when the burnout of senior year leaves you both running on empty. But a coordinated trap set by his starving roommates forces you two to finally admit how much you need each other.
Slippery Slope
You survived the chaotic Briar hockey house by keeping your massive, inconvenient crush on Tucker a total secret. But when Dean orchestrates a disastrous one-on-one skating session, Tucker takes the opportunity to prove the feeling is entirely mutual.
I have a request for either Dean or Garrett please! Reader is their friend, has been for a while, and has slowly fallen in love with him. Then she has to watch him fall in love and itās not her. Angst ensues because other members of the team see it and understand when she pulls away. Hurt/comfort if you want, happy ending optional. Thank you!!
Hi love!!!
I'm so so sorry for completing your request so late! It's been chaotic on my end :(
Summary: You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long gameāyou were just warming the bench.
Angst / Hurt-Comfort
Warnings: not proofread, angst, explicit language, sexual references, heartbreak.
A/N: I am so, so sorry it took me over a month to post this request! My finals lasted for almost a whole month and I was so stressed I couldn't even exist. And then right after that, I went to visit my parents in my hometown, and then I had to move apartments and it was absolute chaos. I feel so bad for making you guys wait this long. But I really hope you enjoy this fic! Now that the chaos is over, I will be back with more fics. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love!
Words:
Playing with fire is for amateurs. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis? That was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.
Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.
Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.
He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.
But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrettās kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.
It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.
But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.
When you finally crossed the line, it wasnāt just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.
It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.
The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.
He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".
In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.
That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.
You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.
To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.
Youād find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.
Iām not a puck bunny, youād tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.
God, you were a fucking idiot.
You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.
You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when heād look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.
You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.
You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.
The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.
She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.
You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannahās best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.
But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?
For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.
But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.
You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.
And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.
"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."
Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"
"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".
He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.
Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.
The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.
You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.
The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.
So you just... faded out.
You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.
You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.
But you forgot who you were dealing with.
"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.
You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.
"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."
"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.
You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.
Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.
A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.
It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.
He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.
"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.
"No."
"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."
He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.
The boys knew.
They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.
It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.
Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.
You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.
Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.
"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.
Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.
"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.
He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.
"Youāve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"
The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.
"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."
"Bullshit."
He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.
"Youāre my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."
"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."
"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"
The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.
"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"
The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.
Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.
Dean froze.
The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.
His green eyes widened as he stared at you.
You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.
"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."
"Don't," you choked out.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.
"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."
"Baby doll, I didn'tā" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."
It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.
The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.
His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Deanās horrified expression.
As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.
"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.
His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.
"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."
"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."
Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.
"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."
You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patioāfrozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of loveāyou would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.
Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.
The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.
"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.
Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.
He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.
"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.
"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."
The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.
Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.
"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."
A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."
"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."
You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.
It was over.
Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.
It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.
But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.
You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.
But looking at the two massive, fiercely protective hockey players guarding your front seat, you realized you hadn't lost everything. You had played with fire, and yeah, you'd gotten burned. But you had walked out of the ashes with a family.
hii can i req a fic of dean (or logan) taking care of sick reader.?!?!!! (orrrr chronically ill reader?!) having a flare up after being so good with my health is discouraging and ive been healing via watching off campus !! (i also looove ur fics ty for writing)
Hello love!!
First of all, I am so sorry to hear that you are dealing with a flare-up and feeling discouraged right now. Sending you so much love and wishing you a smooth and gentle recovery. Thank you also for your sweet words about my writingāit means the world to me that my fics can bring you some comfort! š«¶š¼
Regarding this request, I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to turn it down. I don't feel entirely comfortable writing about sickness, illness, or mental health because they are sensitive topics, and I always want to make sure I do justice to the scenarios I write.
Just as a quick heads-up, I will be putting together and posting some official rules for requests very soon so it's a bit easier to see what I am open to writing!
I hope you understand, and I'm sending you all the best.
Could you possibly write something for off campus with a reader who has epilepsy? ļæ¼maybe how they would react to seeing them have a seizure for the first time.
Hello love!!
Thank you so much for sending this in! I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to turn this request down. I don't feel entirely comfortable writing about sickness, illness, or mental health because they are sensitive topics, and I always want to make sure I do justice to the scenarios I write.
Just as a quick heads-up, I will be putting together and posting some official rules for requests very soon so it's a bit easier to see what I am open to writing!
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. Youāre dating his rival. Youāre wearing the wrong colors. But he doesnāt look at you like youāre the enemy, he looks at you like heās 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 two here
The locker room smells like victory ā sweat, ice, and that particular brand of arrogance that comes from stomping your rivals into the boards. Garrett sits on the bench, unlacing his skates with practiced efficiency, while his teammates celebrate around him like theyāve won the Stanley Cup instead of just another regular season game.
āDid you see Beckās face when you scored that hat trick?ā Dean practically shouts, still riding the high. āDude looked like he wanted to murder you.ā
āBeck always looks like that,ā Logan says, toweling off his hair. āGuyās got permanent asshole face.ā
Garrett doesnāt join in the trash talk. He pulls off his skates and flexes his feet, working out the stiffness. Five to one. They demolished BU tonight, and while he should feel satisfied ā while heĀ doesĀ feel satisfied ā something about the win feels hollow. Maybe itās because Cameron Beck spent most of the third period playing dirty, throwing elbows when the refs werenāt looking, talking shit that had nothing to do with hockey.
āYou donāt look good. You look like youāre planning someoneās funeral.ā
Garrett manages a half-smile. āJust tired, man. Itās been a long week.ā
It has been. Two midterms, practice every day, a game against Northeastern that went into overtime, and now this. He loves hockey ā lives for it, really ā but sometimes the weight of being captain, of being the guy everyone looks to, of keeping his grades up and his scholarship secure, feels like carrying a truck on his shoulders.
āAlright!ā Coach Jensenās voice cuts through the celebration. āBus leaves in ten. If youāre not on it, youāre walking back to Briar.ā
The team starts moving with renewed urgency, shoving gear into bags, pulling on sweatpants and hoodies. Garrettās methodical about it, the way he is with everything. Skates in the bag, pads folded properly, stick secured. His mom taught him that ā take care of your equipment and itāll take care of you.
He pushes the thought away before it can dig in too deep.
āYou riding shotgun?ā Logan asks as they head toward the bus.
āNah, you take it. Iām gonna crash in the back.ā
The cold Boston air hits him like a slap when they step outside. February in New England is brutal, the kind of cold that gets into your bones and doesnāt let go. The team bus idles in the parking lot, exhaust forming clouds in the darkness. Most of the guys are already boarding, still loud, still buzzing.
Thatās when Garrett sees them.
At first, itās just movement in his peripheral vision ā two figures near the back entrance of the arena, half-hidden in shadows. He almost doesnāt look. Almost keeps walking toward the bus because itās cold and heās tired and itās none of his business.
But then he hears it. A voice, male, low and vicious.
āI told you not to embarrass me.ā
Garrett stops walking. Tucker nearly crashes into him.
āDude, what-ā
āHold on.ā
He moves closer, his body reacting before his brain catches up. The angle shifts and he sees her clearly now ā a girl, small, pressed back against the brick wall with her hands up in a gesture that Garrett recognizes instantly. Itās the same way his mom used to stand when his dad came home in one of his moods. Defensive. Placating. Terrified.
The guy is Cameron Beck. Even from fifteen feet away, even in the shitty parking lot lighting, Garrett knows itās him. And Beck has his hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing hard enough that Garrett can see you wince.
āCameron, please-ā Your voice is barely audible, thin and desperate. āI didnāt do anything-ā
āYou were talking to that guy. I saw you.ā
āHe asked me for directions to the bathroom-ā
āDonāt fucking lie to me.ā
Beck yanks you forward and you stumble, catching yourself against his chest. He grabs your other wrist and Garrett sees them clearly now ā the bruises. Dark purple and yellow, finger-shaped marks that circle both your wrists like ugly bracelets.
Something white-hot ignites in Garrettās chest.
āHey!ā His voice comes out harder than he intends, sharp enough to make Beckās head snap up. āGet your hands off her.ā
Beck doesnāt let go. If anything, his grip tightens. āMind your own business, Graham.ā
āI said, get your fucking hands off her.ā
Garrettās already moving, closing the distance. Heās vaguely aware of his teammates behind him ā Tuckerās saying something, maybe Logan too ā but all he can focus on is your face. Youāre looking at him now, and your eyes are the most heartbreaking thing heās ever seen. Wide and dark and absolutely terrified, but not of Beck. Of him. Of the situation. Of whatās going to happen next.
āThis doesnāt concern you,ā Beck says, but thereās an edge to his voice now. He drops your wrists and steps slightly in front of you, like heās shielding you from view. Like heās protecting you instead of hurting you.
You donāt move. Donāt run. Just stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, and Garrett can see you shaking even from here.
āYou always put your hands on people smaller than you?ā Garrett asks, his voice deadly calm now. āOr just women who canāt fight back?ā
āWatch your mouth-ā
āGraham!ā Coach Jensenās voice cuts across the parking lot. āWhat the hell are you doing? Get on the bus!ā
Garrett doesnāt move. He keeps his eyes locked on Beck, watching for any sign that heās going to grab you again. Behind Beck, youāre barely breathing. Youāre wearing a BU sweatshirt thatās too big for you and jeans that look painted on, and even though itās freezing, youāre not wearing a coat. Your hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and thereās a bruise on your cheekbone that makeup canāt quite hide.
āIs he hurting you?ā Garrett directs the question to you, but you donāt answer. Just stare at him with those haunted eyes.
āSheās fine,ā Beck snaps. āSheās my girlfriend and this is between us, so why donāt you take your hero complex and shove it-ā
āI wasnāt asking you.ā
āGraham! Now!ā Coach Jensen sounds pissed.
Tuckerās hand lands on Garrettās shoulder. āCome on, man. We gotta go.ā
āNot until-ā
āThereās nothing you can do,ā Tucker says quietly, meant only for Garrettās ears. āNot here. Not now.ā
Garrett knows heās right. Knows that if he throws a punch at Beck right now, heās the one whoāll get suspended. Knows that confronting Beck isnāt going to help you, might even make things worse once youāre alone again. But walking away feels impossible. It feels like the biggest betrayal in the world.
He looks at you one more time. Tries to communicate something with his eyes.Ā I see you. I know whatās happening. This isnāt okay.
āIām watching you, Beck,ā he says finally. āYou fuck up, and Iāll know about it.ā
āYeah, Iām real scared,ā Beck sneers, but he doesnāt sound as confident as before.
Tucker practically drags Garrett back to the bus. The guys have all gone quiet now, watching. Logan looks grim. Dean looks confused. Some of the younger guys look uncomfortable, like theyāre not sure what just happened.
āWhat the hell was that?ā Coach demands as Garrett climbs the steps.
āBeck was hurting his girlfriend.ā
āAnd you thought starting a fight in their parking lot was the solution?ā
āI didnāt start anything. I told him to back off.ā
āSit down. Weāre talking about this later.ā
Garrett moves to the back of the bus and drops into a seat, his heart still jackhammering against his ribs. Through the window, he can see you ā Beck has his arm around your shoulders now, steering you toward the parking garage. To anyone else, it probably looks almost normal. Protective, even. But Garrett sees the way youāre holding herself. Sees the careful distance youāre trying to maintain even while being pulled close.
The bus engine rumbles to life. They start moving, pulling out of the parking lot, and Garrett watches until he canāt see you anymore.
He punches the seat in front of him. Hard enough that his knuckles split, hard enough that pain shoots up his arm.
āWhoa!ā Dean twists around. āDude, what the hell?ā
āLeave him alone,ā Logan says quietly.
Garrett stares out the window at the Boston lights sliding past. His hand throbs. His chest feels tight. And all he can see is your face ā the terror in your eyes, the bruises on your wrists, the way you didnāt say a word in your own defense.
He doesnāt even know your name.
***
Youāre shaking so hard your teeth chatter.
āGet in the car,ā Cameron says. His voice is controlled now, almost gentle. Itās worse than the yelling. So much worse.
āCameron-ā
āGet. In. The car.ā
You slide into the passenger seat of his BMW and buckle your seatbelt with trembling fingers. The bruises on your wrists ache where he grabbed them. Theyāve barely healed from last time, and now theyāre going to be even worse tomorrow. Youāll have to wear long sleeves again. Find excuses not to go to the gym, where someone might see you change.
Cameron gets in the driverās side and sits there for a moment, both hands on the steering wheel. You donāt look at him. You learned months ago that making eye contact during these moments is dangerous.
āThat guy asked you for directions,ā Cameron says finally.
āYes.ā
āTo the bathroom.ā
āYes.ā
āAnd you didnāt think it was weird that some random dude was asking you instead of literally anyone else?ā
Your throat feels like itās closing. āI was just trying to be helpful.ā
āHelpful.ā He laughs, but thereās no humor in it. āYou want to be helpful? Stop making me look like an idiot. We were in public, Y/N. People could see you flirting-ā
āI wasnāt flirting-ā
The slap comes so fast you donāt see it. One second youāre trying to defend yourself, the next your cheek is on fire and your eyes are watering. It wasnāt hard ā Cameron knows better than to leave marks where people can see them easily ā but itās enough to shut you up.
āDonāt interrupt me.ā His voice is still calm. Still controlled. āIāve had a shit night. We lost five to one. Five to fucking one. And then I have to watch my girlfriend chatting up random guys like sheās single.ā
āIām sorry,ā you whisper.
āWhat?ā
āIām sorry.ā Louder this time.
āThatās better.ā He starts the car. āWeāre going back to my place. Youāre staying the night.ā
Itās not a question. Itās never a question anymore.
You stare out the window as he drives, watching Boston blur past. You used to love this city. Used to walk around campus with your camera, taking pictures for the journalism assignments that actually excited you. Used to have friends, plans, dreams. You were going to work for ESPN. You were going to be the next Erin Andrews, traveling with teams, doing sideline reporting, making a name for yourself.
That was before Cameron. Before he slowly, methodically, isolated you from everyone who cared about you. Before he convinced you that you were lucky to have him, that no one else would ever want you, that you were too sensitive, too dramatic, too much work.
Before you started believing him.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You donāt reach for it. Cameron has rules about phones when youāre with him. You learned that lesson too.
āWho is it?ā He asks.
āI donāt know. I didnāt look.ā
āCheck.ā
You pull out your phone with shaking hands. Itās your roommate, Julie.Ā Where are you? You ok?
āJulie,ā you say. āAsking where I am.ā
āTell her youāre with me. Tell her youāll be back tomorrow.ā
You type out the message exactly as instructed. Julie responds immediately.Ā Call me when you can. Please.
She knows. Of course she knows. Sheās seen the bruises, heard the excuses, watched you disappear into yourself over the past year. Sheās tried to talk to you about it, tried to convince you to leave, but youāve gotten good at deflecting. Good at lying. Good at pretending everythingās fine.
āDone?ā Cameron asks.
āDone.ā
āGood girl.ā
The words make your stomach turn. He used to say them differently ā warm, affectionate, after youād aced an exam or nailed an interview. Now theyāre just another way to control you. Another reminder that your worth is tied to your obedience.
You think about the guy from the parking lot. The hockey player who intervened. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that looked almost black in the shitty lighting. But it was the way he looked at you thatās stuck in your head. Like he actuallyĀ sawĀ you. Like he recognized something in your terror that other people miss or choose to ignore.
Iām watching you, Beck.
Cameronās hands tighten on the steering wheel like heās remembering it too.
āThat Graham kid is going to be a problem,ā he mutters.
You donāt respond. Youāve learned that sometimes the safest thing to do is stay silent, make yourself small, wait for the storm to pass. Youāve gotten so good at it that sometimes you forget how to be anything else.
Sometimes you canāt remember what your real voice even sounds like anymore.
Cameronās apartment is in one of the nicer buildings near campus ā his parents pay for it, along with his car and his credit cards and pretty much everything else. Heās never had to work for anything in his life, which maybe explains why he thinks people are possessions. Things to own and control.
You follow him inside, toeing off your shoes by the door. The apartment is immaculate because Cameron has a cleaning service. There are hockey trophies on the shelves and a massive TV mounted on the wall. It looks like something out of a magazine. It looks nothing like the prison itās become.
āIām going to shower,ā Cameron says, already pulling his shirt over his head. āYou should be in bed when I get out.ā
Itās not a suggestion.
You nod and he disappears into the bathroom. The second the door closes, you let out a breath you didnāt know you were holding. Your hands are still shaking. Your cheek still stings. Your wrists throb with every heartbeat.
You sit on the edge of his bed and stare at the wall.
This is your life now. This is what youāve become. A girl who flinches at loud noises, who measures every word before speaking, who has nightmares about making her boyfriend angry. A girl who used to be bright and funny and ambitious but now can barely recognize herself in the mirror.
Your phone buzzes again. Julie.Ā Iām worried about you. Please talk to me.
You want to. God, you want to. But what would you even say? That youāre too scared to leave? That youāve tried twice and both times Cameron found you, convinced you to come back, promised heād change? That youāre terrified of what heāll do if you try again?
That part of you has started to believe you deserve this?
You delete the message without responding and put your phone on silent.
In the bathroom, the shower turns off. You have maybe three minutes before Cameron comes out, before you have to paste on a smile and pretend everythingās okay, before you have to be the version of yourself that keeps him happy.
You change into the clothes you keep here ā sleep shorts and one of Cameronās old t-shirts ā and climb into bed. Pull the covers up. Make yourself small.
And you think about the hockey player one more time. About the way he looked at Beck like he wanted to break him in half. About the way he looked at you like you mattered.
Then you close your eyes and wait for Cameron to decide what happens next.
Because thatās all you do anymore.
Wait.
***
The dream always starts the same way.
Garrett is seven years old, small for his age, standing in the hallway of their old apartment in Manhattan. The wallpaper is peeling near the ceiling and thereās a water stain that looks like a dragon if you squint. He used to stare at that dragon for hours, imagining it coming to life and burning everything down.
His father is in the living room. Garrett can hear him before he sees him ā that particular tone of voice that means his mom did something wrong. Or didnāt do something right. Or just existed in a way that pissed him off.
āI told you I needed my dress shirt ironed,ā his dad says. Phil Graham, star defenseman for the New York Rangers, six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of controlled violence. āI have a fucking press conference in an hour, Lauren.ā
āI know, Iām sorry-ā His momās voice is small, apologetic. āI forgot, I was picking up Garrett from school and then I had to-ā
āI donāt care what you had to do. When I tell you something needs to get done, it needs to get done.ā
Seven-year-old Garrett peers around the corner. His mom is standing by the ironing board, one hand pressed to her chest like sheās trying to hold herself together. His dad is looming over her, still in his Rangers sweatpants, hair wet from the shower.
āDonāt fucking cry,ā his dad snaps when his momās eyes start to water. āJesus Christ, youāre so dramatic. All I asked was for you to iron a goddamn shirt-ā
āIāll do it now, itāll only take a minute-ā
His dad grabs the iron. For a second, Garrett thinks heās just going to do it himself, but then his mom flinches and Garrett knows ā knows with the certainty that children who grow up in war zones develop ā that something bad is about to happen.
āYou think this is hot?ā His dad asks, holding the iron close to his momās face. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that Garrett can see her leaning back, trying to create distance. āYou think this is as hot as Iām going to be standing in front of those cameras looking like an idiot because my wife canāt do the one fucking thing I asked her to do?ā
āPhil, please-ā
The iron moves closer. His momās breath comes in short, panicked gasps.
āStop!ā Garrett shouts, but his voice is tiny, insignificant. He runs into the room, grabs his dadās arm with both hands, tries to pull him away. āLeave her alone! Leave her alone!ā
His dad shoves him backwards. Not hard ā never hard enough to leave marks where people can see ā but enough to send seven-year-old Garrett stumbling into the coffee table. Pain explodes in his hip.
āGo to your room, Garrett.ā
āNo! Stop hurting Mom!ā
āI said go to your fucking room!ā
But Garrett canāt move. Canāt do anything but watch as his dad turns back to his mom, as she raises her hands in that defensive gesture Garrett will see repeated a thousand times over the next ten years, as his dad-
The dream shifts.
Now Garrett isnāt seven anymore. Heās twenty-one, standing in a parking lot in Boston, and itās not his mom against the wall. Itās you. The girl from the parking lot. Youāre looking at him with those terrified eyes and Cameron Beck has his hands around your wrists and Garrett can see the bruises blooming under Beckās fingers like ugly flowers.
āHelp me,ā you whisper.
Garrett tries to move but his feet are cement. Heās frozen, useless, watching it happen all over again.
āIām watching you, Beck,ā he hears himself say, but it sounds hollow. Meaningless.
Beck laughs. āYeah? What are you going to do about it?ā
Youāre crying now. āPlease. Please help me.ā
āI canāt,ā Garrett says, and the words feel like theyāre being ripped from his chest. āI canāt, Iām sorry, I canāt-ā
Beckās hands tighten. You scream. And Garrett just stands there, seven years old again, helpless, watching someone he should protect get hurt and doing nothing, nothing, nothing-
He wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping like heās been drowning.
His dorm room is dark except for the numbers on his alarm clock: 4:19 AM. Garrettās sheets are tangled around his legs and his heart is trying to punch through his ribcage.
He sits up, runs both hands through his hair, tries to breathe.
Itās been years since he had the dreams this bad. Years since he woke up feeling like this ā angry and helpless and so fucking furious at the world that he wants to break something. After his mom died, after he finally got away from his dad and came to Briar on a full ride, he thought heād left this behind. Thought he could bury it under hockey and classes and being the kind of captain his team needs.
But one look at that girlās face and it all came roaring back.
He grabs his phone from the nightstand, squints at the brightness. No new messages. Nothing from anyone who would be awake at this hour.
He opens Instagram.
Heās not even sure what heās looking for. Closure, maybe. Confirmation that what he saw was real and not some manifestation of his own trauma. Proof that you exist, that youāre okay, that he didnāt just imagine the terror in your eyes.
But he doesnāt know your name. Doesnāt know anything about you except that youāre dating Cameron Beck and youāre in trouble.
Garrettās never been one for social media stalking ā he barely posts on his own accounts ā but he navigates to Beckās profile with the grim determination of someone going to war. The guyās profile is exactly what Garrett expected: carefully curated photos of hockey wins, parties, expensive shit his parents bought him. Every caption is some variation of āliving my best lifeā or āgrind never stopsā or other meaningless bullshit.
Garrett scrolls back through months of posts, his jaw getting tighter with each one, until finally ā¦ there.
A photo from last summer. Beck at some beach, tanned and shirtless, arm slung around a girl in a yellow bikini. Youāre Ā smiling at the camera but it doesnāt quite reach your eyes. The caption readsĀ Summer vibes with my girl.
Youāre tagged.Ā @yourusername
Garrett clicks through so fast he almost drops his phone.
Your profile loads and he feels something in his chest twist. Your bio is simple:Ā BU | Journalism | Boston Born & Raised. Your profile picture is you in a Bruins jersey, grinning at whoeverās taking the photo, eyes bright with genuine happiness.
He starts scrolling.
The most recent post is from four months ago. You at some coffee shop, mug raised in a half-hearted toast, smile that looks more like a grimace. The caption is just a coffee emoji. Before that, five months ago: you and another girl at what looks like a BU football game. Youāre wearing sunglasses but Garrett can see the tension in your shoulders, the way youāre leaning slightly away from the camera.
He keeps scrolling back and the transformation is devastating.
Eight months ago: you holding up an acceptance letter, caption readingĀ INTERNSHIP AT WEEI SPORTS RADIO! Dreams coming true!Ā Your smile is radiant. Real.
Ten months ago: a whole series of posts from what looks like spring break. You and a group of friends at various beaches, bars, tourist traps. Youāre laughing in most of them, mid-sentence, caught in moments of unselfconscious joy.
A year ago: you with a camera around your neck, press pass visible, standing on the sidelines of what looks like a hockey game.Ā First day covering BU hockey for the Daily Free Press! Living the dream!
Garrett stops on that one. Studies your face. You look so young, so excited, so full of potential. This was before Beck, he realizes. Or maybe early in the relationship, before it turned bad. Before you learned to make yourself small.
He keeps scrolling, going further back. You playing intramural soccer. You at journalism club meetings. You with your family at what looks like a Thanksgiving dinner, squeezed between an older couple who must be your parents. Youāre wearing a sweater and youāre laughing at something off-camera.
The last post from freshman year shows you standing in front of a BU dorm building, suitcases at your feet, arms spread wide. The caption readsĀ Letās do this, Boston! šš
You looked so hopeful.
Garrett closes Instagram and stares at his ceiling. Outside, he can hear the first birds starting their morning songs. The world is waking up and he hasnāt slept at all, and all he can think about is the difference between the girl in those old photos and the girl he saw in the parking lot.
You used to be so alive.
What the fuck did Beck do to you?
***
Youāre running through a hallway that never ends.
Behind you, Cameron is gaining ground. You can hear his footsteps, heavy and relentless, can hear him calling your name in that tone that makes your blood freeze.
āY/N! Get back here!ā
Youāre trying to scream but nothing comes out. Your legs feel like theyāre moving through water. There are doors on either side of the hallway but when you try the handles, theyāre all locked. Every single one.
āYou canāt run from me,ā Cameron says, and suddenly heās right behind you, his hand closing around your arm, spinning you to face him. āYouāre mine. Youāll always be mine.ā
Heās not angry. Thatās the worst part. Heās smiling, calm, like this is all perfectly reasonable.
āPlease,ā you manage to whisper. āPlease let me go.ā
āI canāt do that. You know I canāt do that.ā His grip tightens until you can feel your bones grinding together. āWho else is going to love you? Who else is going to put up with you?ā
āSomeone,ā you sob. āAnyone.ā
āNo one wants damaged goods, baby.ā
The scene shifts. Now youāre in his apartment, in his bed, and heās on top of you and youāre trying to say no, trying to push him away, but your arms wonāt work. Your voice wonāt work. Nothing works except the part of your brain thatās screamingĀ this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong-
And then youāre in the parking lot again, pressed against the cold brick wall, and Cameronās hands are around your throat and you canāt breathe, canāt breathe, canāt-
The hockey player appears. The one from last night. Heās reaching for you, mouth moving, saying something you canāt hear over the roaring in your ears.
Help me, you try to say, but Cameronās grip gets tighter.
The hockey player turns away.
Everyone always turns away.
You wake up to pain.
At first, you canāt process whatās happening. Your body registers it before your brain does ā the invasion, the wrongness, the way your body is being used without your consent. Again.
Cameron is inside you.
Youāre lying on your side, facing away from him, and heās behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, moving with steady, selfish rhythm. Youāre not ready. He didnāt prepare you, didnāt wake you, didnāt ask. Just took what he wanted because in his mind, youāre his to take.
You stare at the wall and let it happen.
Fighting makes it worse. You learned that months ago. Crying makes it worse. Asking him to stop makes it worse. So you just lie there and wait for it to be over, counting the seconds in your head, disassociating so hard you might as well be floating on the ceiling.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
Cameronās breath is hot on your neck. His grip tightens.
āSo good for me,ā he murmurs, like this is romantic. Like this is consensual. āMy perfect girl.ā
A single tear slides down your cheek and disappears into the pillow.
Forty-eight Mississippi. Forty-nine Mississippi.
He finishes with a grunt, pulling out and rolling away from you like youāre a tissue heās done with. You feel the wetness between your legs, feel the ache thatās going to linger all day.
āMorning, babe,ā Cameron says, already reaching for his phone. āIām thinking pancakes for breakfast. You want pancakes?ā
You donāt answer. Canāt answer. Your voice is buried somewhere so deep youāre not sure youāll ever find it again.
āY/N? Pancakes?ā
āSure,ā you whisper.
āCool. Thereās that place on Comm Ave we like. Get dressed.ā Heās already out of bed, completely unbothered, heading for the bathroom. āWear that blue dress I got you. The one that shows off your legs.ā
The bathroom door closes. The shower turns on.
You lie there for another minute, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. Then you get up because thatās what you do. You get up and you put yourself back together and you pretend everything is fine.
In the bathroom mirror, you look like a ghost. There are dark circles under your eyes that makeup wonāt fully hide. Your hair is a mess. The bruises on your wrists have darkened overnight, deep purple now, unmistakable.
You brush your teeth. Wash your face. Try to find some version of yourself in the reflection that you recognize.
Sheās not there.
You get dressed like Cameron asked ā the blue dress that you used to like before it became a costume, before it became something you wear to keep him happy. Itās February and freezing but you add tights and a cardigan and hope thatās enough to satisfy him.
When Cameron comes out of the bathroom, heās in a good mood. Thatās almost worse than when heās angry. When heās angry, at least you know where you stand. When heās happy, youāre constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
āYou look beautiful,ā he says, kissing your forehead like he didnāt just violate you twenty minutes ago. āReady?ā
You nod.
Breakfast is performative. Cameron orders the biggest thing on the menu ā some ridiculous stack of pancakes with whipped cream and berries ā and expects you to do the same. You order oatmeal because your stomach is churning and you know you wonāt be able to eat much anyway.
āThatās all youāre getting?ā Cameron frowns. āCome on, babe. Live a little.ā
āIām not that hungry.ā
āYouāre never hungry anymore.ā He reaches across the table, takes your hand. To anyone watching, it looks sweet. Loving. They canāt see the way his thumb digs into your bruised wrist. āYouāre getting too thin. Itās not attractive.ā
āSorry,ā you say automatically.
āItās fine. Weāll work on it.ā He releases your hand and pulls out his phone. āShit, I have a meeting with my advisor at ten. Can you be ready to leave in twenty?ā
āYeah.ā
You pick at your oatmeal while Cameron scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing you memes that arenāt funny, highlights from last nightās game that you donāt care about. Heās talking about the playoffs, about how BU is definitely going to make it even though they lost to Briar, about how that Graham kid got lucky.
āCocky bastard,ā Cameron mutters. āSomeone needs to put him in his place.ā
You think about the way Garrett Graham looked at Cameron last night. The absolute fury in his eyes. The way he steppedĀ betweenĀ you like he actually gave a shit about a stranger.
āDid you hear me?ā Cameron asks.
āSorry, what?ā
āI said you canāt come to the next game. After the way you embarrassed me last night, I think you need a break from being around the team.ā
Relief floods through you so fast you feel dizzy. āOkay.ā
āDonāt sound so happy about it.ā
āIām notāI didnāt mean-ā
āRelax. Iām kidding.ā Heās smiling but his eyes are cold. āJesus, youāre so tense all the time. Maybe you should see someone about that.ā
By someone, he means a therapist. Heās suggested it before, usually right after heās the reason you need one. The implication is always clear: youāre the problem. Youāre too sensitive, too anxious, too broken. Never mind that heās the one who broke you.
You make it through breakfast. Through the ride back to campus. Through Cameron walking you to your dorm like heās some kind of gentleman.
āIāll text you later,ā he says, kissing you goodbye on the steps. āLove you.ā
āLove you too,ā you say, because thatās the script.
***
Garrett canāt focus on anything Professor Harris is saying about Kantās categorical imperative. Heās sitting in the back row of his Philosophy 301 lecture, laptop open to a notes document thatās completely blank except for the date, phone hidden behind his screen.
Heās still on your Instagram.
Heās gone through every post now, read every caption, studied every photo. Heās built a timeline in his head: You started dating Beck around March of last year. The first photo of you two together was from spring break. You looked happy then. Cautious, maybe, but happy.
By summer, something had changed. You started posting less. Your smiles looked forced. The photos with Beck became more frequent but you looked less comfortable in each one.
By fall, you barely posted at all. And the few photos that are there ā you look hollow. Like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that made you you.
The last post, from four months ago. You havenāt shared anything since.
Garrett wonders if Beck made you stop. If he isolated you so completely that you donāt even have the autonomy to post on social media anymore.
His hand tightens around his phone.
āMr. Graham.ā
Garrettās head snaps up. Professor Harris is looking at him expectantly, along with the rest of the class.
āSorry, what?ā
āI asked if you could explain the practical imperative.ā
Garrett has no idea. He was a good student once ā still is, technically, maintaining the 3.5 GPA his scholarship requires ā but right now his brain is full of you and Beck and the sound of his momās voice sayingĀ pleaseĀ in his nightmares.
āI ā¦ uh ā¦ā
āAct in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of another, always at the same time as an end and never simply as a means,ā Logan says from two rows ahead, saving his ass.
Professor Harris nods, apparently satisfied, and turns back to his lecture.
Garrett shoots Logan a grateful look. Logan just raises his eyebrows in aĀ what the hell is wrong with youĀ expression.
Garrett goes back to his phone. He knows he should stop. Knows this is bordering on obsessive. But he canāt shake the feeling that if he can just find you, if he can just talk to you, he can help. He can do what he couldnāt do for his mom.
He opens Beckās Instagram again, goes back through the tagged photos, looks for clues. Where do you go? What do you do? How the fuck is he supposed to find one girl in a city of seven hundred thousand people?
Class ends at 11:30. Garrett packs up his stuff mechanically, mind still churning.
āDude.ā Logan falls into step beside him as they file out of the lecture hall. āYou good? Youāve been weird since last night.ā
āIām fine.ā
āThatās bullshit and you know it.ā
They walk across campus in silence. Itās brutally cold, the kind of February day that makes you question why anyone lives in New England. Students hurry past with their heads down, buried in their coats.
āThat girl last night,ā Garrett says finally. āBeckās girlfriend. I canāt stop thinking about her.ā
āYeah, that was fucked up.ā
āI shouldāve done more.ā
āG, you did what you could. What were you supposed to do, kidnap her?ā
āMaybe.ā
Logan stops walking. āAre you serious right now?ā
āNo. I donāt know.ā Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. āI just ā¦ Iāve seen this before. I know how it ends.ā
Loganās expression softens. He knows about Garrettās mom. Theyāve been friends since freshman year, and you canāt live with someone for that long without learning their ghosts.
āYou canāt save everyone,ā Logan says gently.
āI couldnāt save her either.ā
āYou were a kid.ā
āIām not a kid anymore.ā
They resume walking. Practice is at 2:00, which gives Garrett a couple hours to grab lunch and pretend to study. But he knows he wonāt be able to concentrate. Wonāt be able to think about anything except you and those bruises and the terrified look in your eyes.
āWhat are you going to do?ā Logan asks.
āI donāt know yet.ā
But heās lying. He knows exactly what heās going to do.
***
Practice is brutal. Coach Jensen runs them into the ground ā suicides, bag skating, drills until Garrettās legs are shaking and his lungs are burning. Itās punishment for last night, for the altercation in the parking lot, for drawing attention to the team in a way that doesnāt involve winning games.
Garrett welcomes the pain. Uses it to clear his head.
By the time theyāre done, itās almost 5:00 PM and the sun is setting. The team staggers to the locker room, everyone too exhausted to do more than grunt at each other.
Garrett sits on the bench, peeling off his gear, when he remembers.
Colin Monroe.
Monroe transferred from BU to Briar at the start of the season ā some issue with playing time, Garrett never got the full story. Heās a sophomore defenseman, solid player, keeps mostly to himself. But he spent a year and a half at BU before transferring.
He would know where BU students hang out.
Garrett waits until most of the team has cleared out, until itās just him and Monroe and a couple other guys. He approaches casually, like the thought just occurred to him.
āHey, Monroe.ā
Colin looks up from tying his shoes. āYeah?ā
āYou were at BU before you transferred, right?ā
āFor a year and a half, yeah. Why?ā
Garrett tries to sound casual. āJust curious where you guys hung out. Like, where do BU students go? Coffee shops, bars, whatever.ā
Monroe gives him a weird look. āWhy do you want to know?ā
āJust thinking about checking out some new spots. You know, off-campus stuff.ā
āYouāre asking me for Boston recommendations? Dude, youāve been here longer than I have.ā
Fair point. Garrett pivots.
āOkay, fine. Iām looking for someone.ā
āWho?ā
āA girl from BU. I need to talk to her.ā
Monroeās expression shifts from confused to amused. āOh shit, did you hook up with someone from the rival team? Thatās bold.ā
āItās not like that.ā
āThen whatās it like?ā
Garrett debates how much to say. Monroe is a good guy, not a gossip, but this feels too personal to share. Too raw.
āI just need to find her,ā Garrett says finally. āItās important.ā
Monroe studies him for a long moment, then shrugs. āAlright, man. BU kids are all over Comm Ave and Kenmore. Thereās this coffee shop called Pavement thatās always packed with journalism and comm students ā itās right on Commonwealth, you canāt miss it. Thereās also The Castle, this pub on Brighton Ave that does trivia on Wednesday nights. And if sheās into the athletic crowd, theyāre usually at The Dugout on game days.ā
āYeah, itās like, the spot. Everyoneās always in there working on articles or whatever.ā
Something clicks in Garrettās brain. Your Instagram bio.Ā Journalism.
āThanks, man. I appreciate it.ā
āSure. Good luck with your mysterious BU girl.ā Monroe grins. āLet me know if you need a wingman.ā
āI will.ā
Garrett grabs his bag and heads out before anyone else can ask questions. His car is parked in the lot behind the arena, and he sits in the driverās seat for a minute, engine running, heat blasting.
He pulls up Pavement Coffee on Google Maps. Itās a twenty-minute drive from Briar. He could go now. Could drive over there and camp out and wait to see if you show up.
But then what? Walk up to you? Say what, exactly?Ā Hey, I saw your boyfriend abusing you last night and Iāve been stalking your Instagram all day, want to grab a coffee and talk about your trauma?
Garrett drops his head against the steering wheel.
This is insane. He knows itās insane. Youāre a stranger. You probably donāt want his help. You probably think heās some white knight psycho who needs to mind his own business.
But he canāt stop seeing your face. Canāt stop thinking about the way you looked at him like he was your last hope and then watched him walk away.
His phone buzzes. Text from Tucker:Ā Be back for dinner? I promised to make wings.
Garrett texts back:Ā Canāt tonight. Have something to do.
Tucker:Ā Everything ok?
Garrett:Ā Yeah. Just need to take care of something.
He puts the car in drive and heads toward Boston, toward Pavement Coffee, toward you.
He doesnāt let himself think about what heās going to do when he finds you.
He just knows he has to try.
***
Pavement Coffee is exactly what Monroe described ā packed with students hunched over laptops, the air thick with the smell of espresso and stress. Garrett stands in the doorway for a moment, scanning the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs.
He almost doesnāt see you.
Youāre tucked into a corner table near the window, laptop open, surrounded by papers and highlighters and what looks like a half-empty cup of something thatās probably gone cold. Your hair is down today, falling like a curtain around your face, and youāre wearing an oversized BU sweatshirt that swallows your frame. From this distance, you look like any other college student cramming for an exam or working on an assignment.
You donāt notice him at first. Youāre too focused on whatever youāre reading, highlighter poised mid-air, bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration.
Garrett clears his throat.
Nothing.
He pulls out the chair across from you and sits down.
That gets your attention.
You look up, and for a split second, thereās confusion in your eyes ā like youāre trying to place where you know him from. Then recognition hits, and Garrett watches your entire body go rigid. The highlighter slips from your fingers. Your eyes go wide, that same terror from the parking lot flooding back into them.
āHey, hey.ā Garrett raises both hands, palms out, like heās approaching a spooked horse. āItās okay. Iām not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk.ā
āYou need to leave.ā Your eyes dart toward the door, then back to him, then to the other customers like youāre checking to see if anyoneās watching. āIf Cameron finds out-ā
āHeās not here.ā
āThat doesnāt matter.ā Youāre gathering your stuff now, shoving papers into your bag with shaking hands. āHe has friends everywhere. Someone could see us. Someone could tell him-ā
āThen let them.ā Garrett leans forward, keeping his voice low and calm. āWhatās the worst he can do?ā
The look you give him is so devastated it makes his chest ache.
āYou donāt understand,ā you say quietly.
āThen help me understand.ā
You freeze, hands still on your laptop. For a moment, Garrett thinks you might actually open up. Might tell him everything. But then you shake your head and go back to packing.
āI need to go.ā
āWait. Please.ā Garrett reaches across the table like heās going to touch your hand, then thinks better of it. āJust five minutes. Thatās all Iām asking.ā
āWhy?ā You look up at him, and there are tears gathering in your eyes now. āWhy do you even care? You donāt know me.ā
āYouāre right. I donāt.ā Garrett runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. āBut I know what I saw in that parking lot. And I know that if I just let you walk away right now, if I donāt at least try to help, Iām going to regret it for the rest of my life.ā
Youāre staring at him like heās speaking a foreign language.
āIāve seen this before,ā Garrett continues, his voice rough. āIāve watched someone I love get hurt over and over by someone who was supposed to protect them. And I couldnāt stop it. I was too young, too small, too powerless. But Iām not powerless anymore, and neither are you.ā
āYou donāt know what youāre talking about.ā But youāve stopped packing. Your hands are still on the table, fingers twisted together.
āDonāt I?ā Garrett nods toward your neck, where he can see the edge of something dark peeking out from under your sweatshirt collar. āWhatās that?ā
Instinctively, your hand flies to your neck, pulling the collar up. But itās too late. Garrettās already seen it ā hand-shaped bruises, finger marks pressed into your skin, covered with what looks like concealer thatās been rubbed away throughout the day.
The rage that floods through him is white-hot and immediate. His hands curl into fists under the table. He wants to find Beck right now, wants to make him feel every ounce of pain heās inflicted on you, wants to-
āBreathe,ā you whisper, and Garrett realizes heās stopped breathing entirely.
He forces air into his lungs. Forces his hands to unclench. Forces himself to stay seated when every instinct is screaming at him to go find Beck and end this.
āIām okay,ā you say, which is such an obvious lie it would be funny if it werenāt heartbreaking.
āYouāre not okay.ā Garrettās voice comes out harder than he intends. āAnd we both know it.ā
You flinch, and immediately he wants to take it back. Wants to rewind and try again with more gentleness, more care.
āIām sorry,ā he says quickly. āIām sorry, I didnāt meanāfuck. Iām really bad at this.ā
āAt what?ā
āAt ā¦ā He gestures vaguely between you. āThis. Helping. I donāt know how to do this without being an asshole about it.ā
You almost smile. Itās barely there, just a tiny quirk of your lips, but itās something.
āYouāre not an asshole,ā you say quietly.
āBeck would probably disagree.ā
āCameron thinks anyone who doesnāt worship him is an asshole.ā
Itās the first time youāve said anything even remotely critical of Beck, and Garrett latches onto it like a lifeline.
āHe hurt you.ā Itās not a question.
You donāt answer. Just look down at your hands, at the bruises on your wrists that match the ones on your neck.
āHow long?ā Garrett asks.
āThatās notāI canāt-ā
āHow long has he been hurting you?ā
Your jaw tightens. āItās complicated.ā
āItās really not.ā
āYou donāt understand-ā
āThen explain it to me.ā Garrett leans forward, desperate now. āBecause from where Iām sitting, this looks pretty simple. Heās hurting you. Youāre letting him. And if you donāt stop this, if you donāt get out, itās going to kill you.ā
āI canāt just leave.ā Your voice breaks on the last word.
āWhy not?ā
āBecause-ā You stop, swallow hard. āBecause he loves me.ā
Garrett feels like heās been punched. āThatās not love.ā
āYou donāt know him like I do.ā
āI know that love doesnāt leave bruises.ā Garrett points to your neck, your wrists. āI know that love doesnāt make you look over your shoulder every five seconds. I know that love doesnāt turn someone as bright and alive as you clearly used to be into-ā He stops himself, but itās too late.
āInto what?ā Your voice is cold now. āInto what, Garrett?ā
Heās surprised you know his name. Surprised and oddly touched.
āInto someone whoās afraid to exist,ā he finishes quietly.
You look away, but not before he sees the tears spill over. You wipe them away quickly, angrily, like youāre mad at yourself for showing weakness.
āYou looked at my Instagram,ā you say.
āYeah.ā
āThatās creepy.ā
āI know.ā
āYou donāt know anything about me.ā
āI know you wanted to work in sports media. I know you had an internship at WEEI. I know you used to smile like you meant it.ā Garrettās voice softens. āI know that girl in those photos wouldnāt recognize the person sitting in front of me right now.ā
āYou donāt understand what itās like.ā You look up at him, and the devastation in your eyes is unbearable. āHe didnāt start out this way. He was sweet. He was charming. He made me feel special, like I was the only person in the world who mattered. And then gradually, so slowly I didnāt even notice at first, things changed. He started criticizing little things. The way I dressed. The way I talked to other guys. My friends. My ambitions. He said it was because he cared. Because he wanted me to be the best version of myself.ā
Garrettās jaw tightens, but he doesnāt interrupt.
āAnd I believed him,ā you continue, your voice getting smaller. āI thought if I just tried harder, if I just did what he wanted, things would go back to how they were. But they never did. They just got worse. And by the time I realized what was happening, I was so isolated, so cut off from everyone who might have helped me, that I didnāt know how to get out.ā
āYou get out by leaving.ā
āI tried.ā The words come out in a rush. āTwice. Both times he found me. Both times he convinced me to come back. He cried, Garrett. He got down on his knees and cried and promised heād change and I believed him because I wanted to believe him.ā
āAnd did he change?ā
You laugh, but itās a broken sound. āWhat do you think?ā
Garrett wants to flip the table. Wants to scream. Wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand that you deserve better than this, deserve better than him.
But he knows that wonāt help. Knows from watching his mom that you canāt force someone to leave. They have to choose it themselves.
āIf you go back to him,ā Garrett says carefully, āyouāre going to die. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. Either heāll kill you, or heāll kill everything that makes you you until youāre just this empty shell going through the motions. Is that what you want?ā
āOf course thatās not what I want.ā Your voice cracks.
āThen leave.ā
āI canāt.ā
āYes, you can.ā
āYou donāt understand-ā
āMy mom said the same thing.ā The words are out before Garrett can stop them.
You go still.
āShe said she couldnāt leave my dad,ā Garrett continues, staring at a spot on the table between them. āSaid it was complicated. Said he didnāt mean it. Said things would get better. She said that right up until the day she died.ā
āGarrett-ā
āCancer,ā he says. āLung cancer. And you want to know the fucked up thing? When she was in the hospital, when she was dying, he still found ways to hurt her. Still found ways to make her feel small and worthless. And she let him. Right up until the end, she let him.ā
He looks up, meets your eyes.
āI was eleven when she died,ā he says. āAnd I spent the next ten years hating myself for not being able to save her. For not being strong enough or brave enough or smart enough to make her leave. But the truth is, I couldnāt have saved her. She had to save herself. And she never did.ā
Youāre crying openly now, tears streaming down your face.
āDonāt be her,ā Garrett says, his voice urgent. āDonāt be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesnāt deserve it. Donāt let him win.ā
āIām scared,ā you whisper.
āI know.ā
āHeāll come after me.ā
āLet him.ā Garrettās voice hardens. āAnd when he does, you call the cops. You get a restraining order. You press charges for assault. You do whatever it takes.ā
āItās not that simple-ā
āIt is that simple. You just donāt want it to be.ā
The words hang between you like an accusation. Garrett knows heās pushed too hard, knows heās being too aggressive, knows he should back off and try a gentler approach.
But heās so fucking tired of watching people destroy themselves for love that isnāt love at all.
You shake your head. Itās the tiniest movement, barely perceptible, but Garrett sees it. Sees the resignation in your eyes, the defeat.
Youāre not going to leave.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
The realization settles over him like a weight.
āOkay,ā he says finally, sitting back in his chair. He wipes a hand down his face, exhausted suddenly. āOkay.ā
āIām sorry,ā you whisper.
āDonāt apologize to me. Iām not the one youāre hurting.ā
You flinch like heās slapped you.
Garrett reaches across the table, grabs one of your pens before you can stop him. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and scribbles something on it, then slides it across to you.
āThatās my number,ā he says. āWhen ā not if, when ā things get bad enough that youāre ready to leave, you call me. Day or night, I donāt care. You call me and I will help you. I will come get you, I will find you a safe place to stay, I will stand between you and him if I have to. But you have to make the choice. You have to be the one to decide youāve had enough.ā
You stare at the napkin like itās a bomb.
āTake it,ā Garrett says.
Slowly, hesitantly, you reach out and pull the napkin toward you. Your fingers brush his for just a second and Garrett feels something electric pass between you. Recognition, maybe. Or possibility.
āThank you,ā you say quietly.
āDonāt thank me yet.ā Garrett stands, shouldering his backpack. āThank me when you use it.ā
He starts to walk away, then stops. Turns back.
āYou said he didnāt start out this way,ā Garrett says. āThat he was sweet and charming and made you feel special.ā
You nod.
āThatās what they all do,ā Garrett says. āThatās how they get you to stay. They show you the person they could be, and you spend the rest of the relationship trying to get back to that version. But that person was never real. It was just bait.ā
He can see from your expression that the words land. That some part of you knows heās right.
āI hope you figure that out before itās too late,ā Garrett says.
Then he walks to the counter, cutting through the line with an apologetic nod to the students waiting. The barista looks annoyed until Garrett starts talking.
āSee that girl in the corner?ā Garrett nods toward you. āBlue sweatshirt, by the window?ā
The barista glances over. āYeah?ā
āI want to buy her a drink. Whatever your best latte is. And ā¦ā Garrett scans the pastry case. āThat cranberry scone.ā
āYou want me to bring it to her?ā
āYeah. Donāt tell her who itās from.ā
The barista looks skeptical. āDude, if this is some creepy stalker thing-ā
āItās not. I promise. Sheās ā¦ā Garrett struggles for the right words. āSheās having a hard time. I just want to do something nice for her.ā
Something in his expression must convince the barista because he shrugs and rings up the order. Garrett pays, leaves a generous tip, and steps away from the counter.
He looks back one more time.
Youāre still sitting at the table, the napkin with his number clutched in your hand. Youāre staring at it like itās the answer to a question you havenāt figured out how to ask yet.
Your coffee has gone cold. Your laptop is closed. Your papers are still scattered across the table, but youāre not working anymore. Youāre just ā¦ sitting there. Existing in whatever complicated hell Beck has created for you.
Garrett wants to go back. Wants to sit down and try again, find better words, make you understand.
But he knows that wonāt help. Knows heās already said everything he can say. The rest is up to you.
So he turns and walks out into the February cold.
***
You sit at the table long after Garrett leaves, his words echoing in your head.
Donāt be her. Donāt be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesnāt deserve it.
Your hands are shaking. The napkin with his number is crumpled from how hard youāre gripping it. Your chest feels tight, like thereās not enough air in the room, and you canāt stop crying even though youāre in public, even though people are starting to stare.
You know heās right. God, you know heās right.
But knowing something and being able to do something about it are two different things.
āExcuse me?ā
You look up. The barista is standing there with a latte and a scone on a small plate.
āI didnāt order this,ā you say, your voice hoarse.
āSomeone bought it for you.ā He sets it down on your table.
āWho?ā
The barista just shrugs and walks away.
But you know. Of course you know.
You look toward the door, but Garrettās already gone. Just the ghost of him, the weight of his words, the impossible choice heās asked you to make.
The latte is still hot. The scone looks fresh. Itās such a small gesture, such a simple kindness, and somehow it breaks something open inside you.
You pull out your phone with trembling fingers.
You should delete his number. Should throw the napkin away. Should pretend this conversation never happened and go back to Cameron and the safe, familiar horror of your life.
But instead, you carefully input the numbers into your contacts.
You save it under a name Cameron wonāt recognize if he looks.Ā Boston Pizza.
Then you put your phone away, pick up the latte, and take a sip.
Itās perfect.
And that almost makes it worse.
Because now you know thereās someone out there who sees you. Really sees you. Who looked past the makeup and the excuses and the carefully constructed lies and saw the truth.
Someone who cares enough to try to save you.
Even if youāre not ready to save yourself.
You sit there until the latte goes cold again, turning Garrettās words over and over in your mind.
When things get bad enough that youāre ready to leave, you call me.
Not if. When.
Like he has faith in you that you donāt have in yourself.
You pick up the scone and take a bite.
It tastes like possibility.
And thatās the most terrifying thing of all.
***
You make it back to your dorm around 8:00 PM, the latte from Pavement long gone but the napkin still in your tote bag. You tucked it into the side pocket, hidden beneath a pack of gum and your lip balm, somewhere Cameron would never think to look.
Except Cameron always thinks to look.
Heās waiting for you when you open the door to your room, sitting on your bed like he owns the place. Your roommate Julie is nowhere to be seen, which means she either left or he made her leave. Your moneyās on the latter.
āHey, babe.ā He smiles, but it doesnāt reach his eyes. āWhereāve you been?ā
Your heart starts hammering. āLibrary. Studying.ā
āReally? Because I texted you like three hours ago and you didnāt respond.ā
You pull out your phone, check your messages. Sure enough, thereās a text from Cameron from 5:32 PM.Ā Where are you?Ā You were at Pavement then, talking to Garrett, too distracted to check your phone.
āI had my phone on silent,ā you say, which is true. āI didnāt see it. Iām sorry.ā
āYouāre sorry.ā Cameron stands up, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. āYouāre sorry that you ignored me for three hours?ā
āI wasnāt ignoring you, I was studying-ā
āBullshit.ā Heās across the room in three strides, grabbing your tote bag before you can stop him. āLet me see your phone.ā
āCameron, come on-ā
āLet. Me. See. Your. Phone.ā
You hand it over with shaking hands because refusing will only make this worse. He scrolls through your messages, your calls, your social media.
āLibrary, huh?ā Cameron looks up from your phone. āThen why do you have a text from Julie asking if youāre still at that coffee shop?ā
Fuck. You forgot about that text.
āI stopped for coffee on my way to the library,ā you say quickly. āI was only there for like twenty minutes-ā
āDonāt fucking lie to me.ā
He throws your phone onto the bed and starts rifling through your tote bag. Books, pens, highlighters, notebooks ā everything gets dumped onto the floor. You watch in horror as his hand closes around the side pocket.
āCameron, please-ā
He pulls out the napkin.
For a moment, he just stares at it. At the ten digits written in Garrettās messy handwriting. Then he looks at you, and the rage in his eyes makes your blood run cold.
āWhat the fuck is this?ā
āItās nothing-ā
āWHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?ā
You flinch, stumbling backward until you hit the wall. āI can explain-ā
āYouāre cheating on me.ā His voice is eerily calm now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. āYouāre fucking cheating on me.ā
āIām not, I swear-ā
āThen whose number is this?ā
āNobodyās-ā
āWHOSE FUCKING NUMBER IS IT?ā
āA guy from the coffee shop!ā The lie spills out in a rush. āHe was hitting on me and I took his number to be nice but I was going to throw it away, I swear-ā
āYou expect me to believe that?ā Cameron crumples the napkin in his fist. āYou expect me to believe that you just happened to run into some random guy at a coffee shop and he gave you his number and you kept it?ā
āI didnāt keep it, I forgot about it-ā
āStop lying!ā
Heās on you before you can react, hand closing around your throat, slamming you back against the wall. Your vision goes spotty immediately, your lungs screaming for air.
āCameronācanātābreathe-ā
āYou made me do this,ā he hisses, his face inches from yours. āYou made me into the bad guy. All Iāve ever done is love you, and this is how you repay me? By whoring around behind my back?ā
āNotācheating-ā you manage to gasp out.
His grip loosens slightly, just enough for you to suck in a desperate breath. Then his other hand comes up and slaps you across the face so hard your ears ring.
āDonāt lie to me!ā Another slap. āDonāt you fucking lie to me!ā
Youāre crying now, trying to twist away, but heās got you pinned. His hand goes back to your throat, squeezing harder this time, and the edges of your vision start to go dark.
This is it, some distant part of your brain thinks. This is how you die.
Cameronās face swims in and out of focus above you. Heās saying something but you canāt hear it over the roaring in your ears. Your lungs are burning. Your fingers claw uselessly at his hands.
And then, like a gift from whatever god might still be listening, his grip shifts. Loosens just enough that you can move.
You bring your knee up as hard as you can.
It connects perfectly.
Cameron makes a sound like all the air has been punched out of his lungs and stumbles backward, hands going to his crotch. You donāt wait. Donāt think. Just grab your phone from the bed and run.
āYou bitch-ā Cameronās voice follows you into the hallway. āGet back here!ā
But youāre already running, flying down the stairs because the elevator is too slow, too risky. You can hear him behind you, cursing, his footsteps heavy and angry.
You burst out of the dorm building into the February night. Itās freezing ā youāre not wearing a coat, just your sweatshirt and jeans ā but you donāt stop. Canāt stop. If he catches you, heāll kill you. You know that now with absolute certainty.
You run down Commonwealth Avenue, dodging other students, nearly getting hit by a car. Behind you, you can still hear Cameron shouting your name.
Your phone is clutched in your hand. You fumble with it as you run, trying to unlock it with shaking fingers. The cold is making everything harder. Your hands wonāt work right.
Finally, the screen unlocks.
You pull up your contacts, scroll frantically until you find it.Ā Boston Pizza.
You hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Pick up, you think desperately. Please pick up please pick up please-
āHello?ā
Garrettās voice, rough with sleep, is the most beautiful thing youāve ever heard.
You try to speak but all that comes out is a sob.
āHello? Who is this?ā
āGarrett-ā Your voice cracks. āItāsāitās me-ā
Thereās a pause. āY/N?ā
āPlease-ā Youāre running down a side street now, looking for somewhere to hide. āPlease, I need-ā
āWhatās wrong?ā His voice changes completely, all traces of sleep gone. āWhere are you?ā
āI donāt knowāIām runningāhe found the napkin and he-ā Another sob cuts you off.
āSlow down. Take a breath. Are you hurt?ā
āI thinkāI think he was going to kill me-ā
āFuck. Okay. Okay, listen to me.ā Garrettās voice is steady, authoritative. āI need you to find somewhere safe. A store, a dorm building, anywhere with people. Can you do that?ā
āIām trying-ā Youāre on Brighton Ave now, you think. Everything looks unfamiliar in the dark. āAll the buildings are locked-ā
āKeep trying. Share your location with me. Do you know how to do that?ā
āYesāhold on-ā
You pull the phone away from your ear, fumbling through the menus with numb fingers. Finally, you find the option and send him your location.
āGot it,ā Garrett says. āIām leaving right now. Iāll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Donāt hang up.ā
āOkay.ā Youāre in front of an apartment building now. You try the door. Locked. āFuck!ā
āWhat?ā
āThe buildingās locked. They all need codes-ā
āTry another one. Just keep moving.ā
You run to the next building. Also locked. The next one. Locked.
Behind you, somewhere in the darkness, you hear Cameron calling your name.
Panic surges through you. āHeās comingāI can hear him-ā
āStay calm. Keep trying the doors.ā
The fourth building ā a newer apartment complex with a fancy glass entrance ā you try the handle and nearly cry with relief when it opens.
āIām ināI found one-ā
āGood. Where are you exactly?ā
āThe lobby. Thereās nobody here-ā
āHide. Find a corner or a hallway or something. Stay out of sight.ā
You look around frantically. The lobby is all glass and exposed, but thereās a hallway to the left that leads to what looks like a mail room. You duck around the corner, pressing yourself against the wall.
āIām hidden,ā you whisper.
āGood. Good girl. Iām in my car. Iām coming as fast as I can.ā
You can hear the engine revving through the phone. The sound is oddly comforting.
āIām sorry,ā you say, your voice small. āIām so sorry-ā
āDonāt apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.ā
āI should have listened to you. I should have left-ā
āWeāll talk about that later. Right now I just need you to stay safe, okay? Stay on the phone with me. Iām about fifteen minutes away.ā
You slide down the wall until youāre sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your whole body is shaking ā from cold, from fear, from adrenaline crash. Your throat hurts where Cameron choked you. Your face throbs where he hit you.
āTalk to me,ā Garrett says. āI need to know youāre okay.ā
āIām here. Iām-ā Your voice breaks. āIām so scared.ā
āI know. I know you are. But youāre safe right now. He doesnāt know where you are.ā
āWhat if he finds me?ā
āHe wonāt. And even if he does, youāre in a building with other people. You can scream. You can call 911.ā
āHeāll talk his way out of it. He always does-ā
āNot this time.ā Garrettās voice is hard. āNot fucking this time.ā
You can hear traffic sounds through the phone, the occasional horn. You try to focus on that instead of the fear clawing at your chest.
āGarrett?ā
āYeah?ā
āThank you. For answering. For coming.ā
āYou donāt have to thank me.ā
āI didnāt know who else to call.ā
āIām glad you called me.ā Thereās something in his voice ā relief, maybe. Or vindication. āI meant what I said. Day or night. You call me.ā
You close your eyes, let his voice wash over you. Somewhere above you, you can hear footsteps. Someoneās TV playing too loud. Normal apartment sounds. It helps ground you.
āIām about twenty minutes away,ā Garrett says. āMaybe less. Trafficās not bad.ā
āAre you speeding?ā
āDefinitely.ā
Despite everything, you almost smile. āYouāre going to get a ticket.ā
āI donāt give a shit.ā
The minutes stretch out. You keep listening to Garrettās breathing on the other end of the line, the sound of his car. Itās the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart.
āOkay, Iām about two minutes out,ā Garrett says. āWhatās the address of the building youāre in?ā
You peek out from behind the corner, looking for a sign or a number. āUm ā¦ 6209 Brighton Avenue, I think?ā
āGot it. I see it. Stay where you are, Iām pulling up now.ā
Thirty seconds later, you hear a car screech to a stop outside. A door slams.
āIām coming in,ā Garrett says.
The front door opens and then heās there ā Garrett Graham in sweatpants and a Briar Hockey hoodie, no coat, hair disheveled like he literally just rolled out of bed. Which he probably did.
You step out from behind the corner.
When Garrett sees you, his entire face changes.
You must look worse than you thought. You can see the horror in his eyes as he takes in your appearance ā the handprints on your throat, the swelling on your face, the way youāre shaking so hard you can barely stand.
āJesus Christ,ā he breathes.
He starts toward you, hand outstretched, then stops himself. Lets his hand fall.
āIām not going to hurt you,ā he says softly. āI promise. I just want to help.ā
You nod, but you canāt seem to make yourself move.
āCan I come closer?ā Garrett asks.
Another nod.
He approaches slowly, carefully, like youāre a wild animal that might bolt. When heās close enough to touch, he holds out his hand.
āCome on. Letās get you out of here.ā
You take his hand. His skin is warm, his grip gentle but steady. He leads you toward the door, but you balk when you see the street outside.
āWhat if heās out there?ā Your voice is barely a whisper.
āThen Iāll handle it.ā Garrettās jaw is set, his eyes hard. āHeās not going to touch you again. I promise you that.ā
You let him guide you outside, into his car. Itās still running, heat blasting. He opens the passenger door and helps you in like youāre made of glass.
But before he closes the door, you grab his arm.
āWhat?ā Garrett asks.
You canāt put it into words ā the gratitude, the relief, the overwhelming sense that this stranger has just saved your life. So you just hold onto his arm for a moment, looking up at him.
āThank you,ā you manage.
His expression softens. āDonāt thank me yet. Letās just get you somewhere safe.ā
He closes your door and runs around to the driverās side. As soon as heās in, he locks the doors and checks his mirrors. You canāt help doing the same thing ā looking back down the street, expecting to see Cameron appear at any moment.
āHeās not coming,ā Garrett says, but his hands are tight on the steering wheel. āAnd even if he does, Iāll kill him.ā
He says it so matter-of-factly that you believe him.
Garrett pulls away from the curb and starts driving. You donāt ask where youāre going. Donāt care. Anywhere is better than where you were.
āIām taking you to my place,ā Garrett says after a few minutes. āI live with my teammates. Three other guys. Theyāre good people, I promise. Youāll be safe there.ā
āOkay.ā
āIn the morning, we can figure out next steps. Police report, restraining order, whatever you want to do. But tonight, you just need to rest.ā
You nod, but the word makes your stomach churn. Cameronās parents are lawyers. Rich, connected lawyers. The last time you tried to leave, he threatened to have them destroy you. Said theyād make you look crazy, make sure no one believed you.
And you believed him. Just like you believed everything else.
āHey.ā Garrett glances over at you. āYou with me?ā
āYeah. Sorry.ā
āDonāt apologize.ā
The drive to Garrettās place takes about fifteen minutes. He lives in a house off-campus, the kind of place that definitely houses multiple hockey players based on the Briar Hockey flags in the windows and the hockey sticks on the porch.
He parks in the driveway and turns to you.
āOkay, so fair warning: the place is kind of a mess. Weāre college guys. But itās safe, I promise.ā
āI donāt care about the mess.ā
āGood.ā He gets out, comes around to your door, and opens it for you.
You follow him up the walkway, up the porch steps. Your legs feel like jelly. The adrenaline is wearing off and everything hurts.
Garrett unlocks the door and leads you inside. The house is dark except for the kitchen light. Itās quiet ā everyoneās probably asleep.
āLet me give you the quick tour,ā Garrett says softly. āLiving room, kitchen, bathroomās down that hall. Upstairs are the bedrooms. Mineās the second door on the left.ā
āI can sleep on the couch-ā
āNo.ā His voice is firm. āYouāre taking my room.ā
āGarrett, I canāt-ā
āYes, you can. Itās got a lock on the inside if you want to feel safer. Clean sheets, bathroom right next door. Iāll bunk with Logan.ā
Youāre too tired to argue. Too broken to do anything but nod.
He leads you upstairs. The hallway is covered in hockey photos and what looks like a championship banner. Garrettās room is at the end, exactly as he described.
Itās neater than you expected. A queen-sized bed with navy sheets. A desk covered in textbooks and hockey equipment. A Briar Hockey poster on the wall.
āBathroomās through there,ā Garrett says, pointing to a door. āThere should be towels and stuff. I can get you some clothes to sleep in-ā
āThis is fine.ā Youāre still in your sweatshirt and jeans, but the thought of changing feels impossible right now.
āOkay. Well, if you need anything, Iāll be with Logan. His room is the first door on the right. Just knock.ā
You nod.
Garrett lingers in the doorway, looking like he wants to say something else. āYou did the right thing. Calling me. Running. You saved your own life tonight.ā
The words hit you harder than they should. You feel tears pricking at your eyes again.
āGet some sleep,ā Garrett says gently. āWeāll figure everything else out in the morning.ā
He closes the door behind him, and youāre alone.
You stand in the middle of his room for a long moment, just breathing. Then you go to the door and turn the lock. The click is oddly reassuring.
You should probably shower. Should probably wash the day off. But you canāt seem to make yourself move. Instead, you sink onto Garrettās bed, still fully clothed, and pull the blanket around yourself.
It smells like him ā clean, masculine, safe.
You close your eyes and let yourself cry.
***
Garrett makes it to Loganās room and closes the door before he loses it.
āDude, what the fuck-ā Logan sits up in bed, squinting at him. āItās like 1 AM-ā
āI need to bunk with you tonight.ā
āWhy?ā
āBecause thereās someone in my room.ā
That wakes Logan up. āWhat?ā
Garrett runs both hands through his hair, pacing. āThat girl. From the parking lot. Beckās girlfriend. She called me. He hurt her, Logan. Really fucking hurt her.ā
āShit. Is she okay?ā
āI donāt know. Sheās-ā Garrettās voice cracks. āYou should see her throat. He strangled her. Sheās got bruises all over her face, her neck. If she hadnāt gotten away-ā
āFuck.ā
āI want to kill him.ā Garrettās hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage coursing through him. āI want to find him and beat him so badly he never gets up again.ā
āGarrett-ā
āI should have done more. At the parking lot. I should have made her leave then-ā
āYou did what you could.ā
āIt wasnāt enough!ā Garrett slams his fist into the wall, then immediately regrets it when pain shoots up his arm.
Logan gets out of bed, walks over to him. āLook at me. Look at me, G.ā
Garrett forces himself to meet Loganās eyes.
āShe called you,ā Logan says. āWhen she was in trouble, when she needed help, she called you. That means you did everything right. You gave her an option and she took it. Thatās huge.ā
Garrett wants to believe that. Wants to believe he did enough. But all he can see is your face ā the terror, the pain, the way you flinched when he reached for you.
āShe looks like sheās halfway to dead,ā Garrett says quietly.
āBut sheās not dead. Sheās here. Sheās safe.ā
āFor now.ā
āFor now is all weāve got.ā Logan claps him on the shoulder. āCome on. You can take the beanbag.ā
āIām not sleeping.ā
āFine. Then you can not-sleep on the beanbag.ā
Garrett collapses into the oversized beanbag chair in the corner of Loganās room. Itās not comfortable, but he barely notices. His mind is racing, playing the phone call over and over. The sound of your voice ā terrified, desperate. The way you were gasping for breath.
The fact that you thought Beck was going to kill you.
Because he was. Garrett knows that now with certainty. If you hadnāt fought back, if you hadnāt gotten away, Beck would have killed you.
āWhat are you going to do?ā Logan asks from his bed.
āI donāt know. Call the cops. Get her a restraining order. Press charges.ā
āYou think sheāll do it?ā
āI donāt know.ā
Thatās the truth. Youāre terrified of Beck, terrified of his familyās power, terrified of what heāll do if you fight back. Garrettās seen it before ā the way abuse victims get trapped in this cycle of fear and dependency.
His mom never pressed charges against his dad. Not once. Even when she had evidence, even when people offered to help, she always backed down.
And look where that got her.
āHeās going to come looking for her,ā Garrett says.
āThen weāll deal with it.ā
āWe?ā
āYou think Iām going to let some abusive piece of shit show up at our house?ā Loganās voice is hard. āFuck that. He tries anything, heās going through me, Dean, and Tucker. And you know Tucker will lose his shit.ā
Despite everything, Garrett almost smiles.Ā
āWe should tell them,ā Garrett says. āIn the morning. They need to know.ā
āAgreed.ā
Garrett leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. But every time he does, he sees you ā trembling in that apartment lobby, handprints on your throat, looking at him like heās the only thing standing between you and death.
āI should have done more,ā he says again.
āYou did enough.ā
But it doesnāt feel like enough. It feels like heās still that seven-year-old kid watching his mom get hurt and being powerless to stop it.
Except this time, heās not powerless.
This time, he can fight back.
And if Cameron Beck shows his face anywhere near you again, Garrettās going to make sure he regrets it.
Summary: You and Tucker break up when the burnout of senior year leaves you both running on empty. But a coordinated trap set by his starving roommates forces you two to finally admit how much you need each other.
Angst to fluff
Warnings: Not proofread yet, a little spoiler if you didn't read the books, cursing, breakup, emotional exhaustion, New Adult audience
A/N: I said I would lock in and study but I just can't help myself š I can't wait for Tucker's season!!! I love all of the characters but now that I think abt it, Dean and Tucker are my favourites. As always, this fic is based more on the books than the show. I hope you like it!! Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves xx Lots of love š«¶š»
Words:
Gif
When you first started dating John Tucker, it felt like finding a quiet, solid harbor in the middle of a Category 5 hurricane. You hadn't just fallen for the sweet, fiercely patient guy with the auburn hair and the slow, intoxicating southern drawlāyou had essentially inherited his entire chaotic world.
Tucker was the undisputed anchor of the Briar hockey house. He firmly believed that being a team player was just as critical off the ice as it was on it. By default, he was the resident cook, the guy who cleaned up the post-party messes, and the one who quietly kept his three massive, hyperactive roommates from burning their townhouse to the ground.
You fell into step beside him so naturally it felt predestined. When he was fixing a broken railing on the porch, you were sitting on the steps handing him the screws. When he was cooking his legendary, carb-heavy meals for the guys, you were perched on the kitchen island, chopping vegetables.
You became the "Mom" to his "Dad." At first, playing house was a massive turn-on. There was something undeniably hot about domesticity when it was mixed with the raw, adrenaline-fueled energy of a D1 athlete. Youād help him organize the pantry, and heād reward you by backing you against the wall, his callused hands gripping your thighs to lift you against his chest the second Garrett, Logan, and Dean left for gym. You loved him, and because you loved him, you took on his burdens.
But as the brutal New England winter thawed into spring, that shared weight stopped feeling like a partnership. It started feeling like a noose.
Senior year was a meat grinder. Tucker was quietly suffocating under the anxiety of his future, agonizing over whether to move back to Texas to take care of his mother, or risk his dad's insurance money to start a business in Boston. You were buried under the crushing, soul-sucking pressure of your final exams and post-grad panic.
You were both running on fumes, completely depleted. Instead of leaning on each other for comfort, you started treating each other like just another exhausting obligation on a never-ending to-do list.
The casual touches stopped. The sex evaporated, replaced by the sheer necessity of sleep. You were two ghosts haunting the same kitchen.
Tucker was standing at the stove, aggressively stirring a pot of marinara sauce. The muscles in his broad back were visibly knotted beneath his gray t-shirt. You were sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at your laptop screen, a dull, throbbing headache pounding behind your eyes from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. The silence between you was so thick it felt toxic.
"Can you hand me the garlic powder?" Tucker asked. His signature southern drawl, usually so warm and rich, was clipped and hollowed out.
You blinked, dragging your burning eyes away from your thesis paper, and blindly reached across the counter for the spice rack. Your sleeve caught the edge of a glass olive oil bottle. It tipped, fell, and shattered against the tile floor, sending a slick puddle of oil and jagged shards of glass across the grout.
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a ragged, trembling breath. "Shit. I'm sorry."
"Jesus Christ, Y/N," Tucker groaned. He dropped his wooden spoon against the stove with a loud clatter and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just... leave it. I'll clean it up. Like I clean up everything else."
The profound unfairness of the comment felt like a physical slap to the face. Your eyes snapped open, a hot, defensive spark of rage overriding your exhaustion.
"Excuse me?" you snapped, pushing your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. "I spent three hours this morning doing the laundry you and Logan left piled in the hallway. I scrubbed the bathrooms yesterday so you wouldn't have to. Don't stand there and act like you're the only one keeping this place afloat."
Tucker whipped around, his brown eyes suddenly flashing with a raw, desperate anger. "I'm the only one holding us afloat! I am fucking exhausted, Y/N. I'm trying to figure out my entire goddamn future, I'm trying to keep this house from falling apart, and every time I look at you lately, you're a million miles away. It's like you don't even want to be here anymore!"
"Because I'm fucking tired, Tuck!" you yelled, your voice breaking as hot tears of sheer frustration flooded your vision. "I am so damn tired of being the caretaker! I'm tired of pouring everything I have into you and your friends and getting absolutely nothing back! If looking at me is so exhausting for you, then why am I even here?"
Tucker stared at you. His broad chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths. And then, the most terrifying thing happened.
The anger completely drained out of his face.
It was replaced by a hollow, devastating emptiness. The fight just left his body. He leaned back against the counter, looking at you like he was staring at a stranger.
"I don't know anymore," he whispered. His voice was completely broken. "I don't have anything left to give you. I'm empty. Maybe you shouldn't be here."
The words paralyzed you. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't fighting for you. He was just... letting you go. He was too tired to hold on.
A cold, protective numbness washed over your shattering heart. You closed your laptop, shoved it into your tote bag, and grabbed your coat off the back of the chair.
You walked down the hallway, your vision swimming.
Just as you reached the entryway, the front door swung open. Dean and Logan ambled inside, laughing loudly about something Coach had said at practice. Dean kicked off his sneakers, taking a deep, appreciative breath of the air.
"Oh, thank God. Smells like chicken parm," Dean said, his signature cocky grin spreading across his face as he dropped his heavy hockey bag to the floor. "Hey, Y/N/N. What time is dinner?"
You pulled your coat on, refusing to wipe your eyes. You looked dead at him, your voice dripping with cold, bitter heartbreak.
"Ask Tucker," you rasped. "I quit."
You walked out into the freezing night air, letting the heavy front door slam shut behind you.
Dean blinked, his grin slowly fading as he turned his head to look at Logan.
"Did she just..." Dean trailed off, the reality of your shattered voice finally cutting through his oblivion.
Logan winced, staring at the closed door. "Yeah, dude. I think Mom and Dad just called it."
For five days, the fallout of the breakup played out in two different apartments, mirroring each other in a devastating, silent tragedy. You and Tucker hadn't just broken upāyou had both completely flatlined.
At Hannah and Allieās dorm room, you had become a ghost haunting their hand-me-down couch. You hadn't showered in three days. You wore an oversized Briar Hockey hoodie that still faintly smelled of sandalwood and citrus, pulling it up over your nose every time your chest seized with another panic attack. You dragged your heavy textbooks onto the cushions with you, but you hadn't turned a single page.
Hannah tried everything. She brewed endless cups of tea and gently rubbed your back while you stared blankly at the wall. Allie took a fiercer approach, bringing over tequila and loudly threatening to march over to the guys' house and slash Tucker's truck tires.
But neither tactic worked. If you spoke the words out loudāif you admitted that the safest, most solid guy you had ever known had looked at you with utter defeat and let you walk awayāit would make it real. And you weren't ready to live in a reality where John Tucker didn't want to be with you anymore.
Across campus, the house was suffering an identical, agonizing death.
Without Tucker functioning as the beating heart of the house, the ecosystem had violently collapsed. But it wasn't the towering stack of pizza boxes on the coffee table or the unwashed laundry spilling into the hallway that had Garrett, Logan, and Dean on edge. It was the absolute, hollowed-out shell of their best friend.
Tucker was drowning, and he was taking himself down quietly. He hadn't turned on the stove since the night you walked out. His bed felt massive and freezing without you curled against his chest. To escape the suffocating silence of his room, he punished himself at the rink. He woke up before dawn to run brutal suicide sprints, hit the boards with an aggression that had Coach Jensen screaming at him, and then came home just to stare at the spot on the kitchen tile where the olive oil bottle had shattered.
He had failed you. That thought looped in his head like a sick, twisted mantra. He was supposed to ease your load, and instead, he had been the one to finally break you.
By day five, your friends decided they had seen enough collateral damage. A secret meeting was called to order in a back booth at Malone's.
Garrett, Logan, and Dean were crammed into one side of the sticky vinyl booth. Hannah and Allie sat opposite them.
Dean was aggressively eating a stack of pancakes, inhaling them like a man who had been wandering the desert for forty days.
"Slow down, Dean, you're going to choke," Allie muttered, sliding her coffee cup out of the splash zone.
"I can't," Dean mumbled around a massive mouthful of syrup and carbs. "Tuck hasn't cooked a single meal since Thursday. We've been living on dry Cheerios and protein powder. My body is cannibalizing its own muscles, Allie-Cat. I'm wasting away."
"You're fine," Garrett sighed, unapologetically stealing a piece of bacon right off Dean's plate. Garrett looked across the table at Hannah, his dark eyes dead serious. "What's the status on Y/N? Because if I have to watch Tucker stare blankly at the wall for one more day, I'm going to lose my fucking mind. He's a ghost, Wellsy."
"Y/N isn't any better," Hannah reported quietly, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. "She's practically fused to our couch. She won't talk about what happened. If Allie or I even say his name, she just pulls the blanket over her head and pretends to sleep."
"We tried to get Tuck to talk, too," Logan chimed in, leaning forward. "He just told us to drop it. They're both completely shut down."
"Because they're both too damn stubborn," Allie said, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked between the three massive hockey players. "If we confront them, they'll just get defensive and dig their heels in. We have to be sneaky about this."
Garrett leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Allie's right. An intervention won't work. We can't force them to talk to us. We have to force them to talk to each other."
"How?" Logan asked, raising an eyebrow. "They're actively avoiding each other. Y/N even changed her route to class so she wouldn't have to walk past the ice arena."
"Think about it," Hannah said, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face as she looked at Garrett. "What is the core issue here? They're both caretakers. They spent the entire year playing Mom and Dad to you guys. When things got hard, they stopped taking care of each other."
Dean swallowed his pancakes, his green eyes lighting up with realization. "So... we give them something to take care of."
Garrett grinned, tapping his knuckles against the diner table. "Exactly. We manufacture a crisis. Something so chaotic that their instincts override their stubbornness, and they have to team up to fix it."
The plan was executed with military precision.
Tucker was at the gym, violently punishing a heavy bag until his knuckles were bruised and aching beneath his wraps. He was trying to outrun the suffocating emptiness that had swallowed him whole, but it wasn't working. Without you to take care of, he had no idea what to do with his hands.Ā
His phone vibrated furiously in his gym bag. He ignored it. Ten seconds later, it aggressively buzzed again. Then again. Cursing under his breath, he finally tore his gloves off and swiped the screen open to see three frantic texts from Logan.
Logan: WE HAVE A SITUATION.
Logan: DEAN TRIED TO USE THE STOVE. THE KITCHEN IS LITERALLY SMOKING.
Logan: GET HOME NOW.
Tuckerās heart plummeted straight into his stomach. Dean was a disaster in the kitchen on a good day. Tucker grabbed his keys and sprinted out to his truck, breaking at least three speed limits on the drive back to the house.
Meanwhile, across campus, you were buried under your fleece blanket on Allieās couch, staring blankly at the wall, when your phone started ringing.
"Hello?" you answered, your voice thick and raspy from disuse.
"Y/N, thank God!" Allie yelled through the speaker. She sounded completely out of breath and bordering on hysterical. "You have to get to the house right now!"
You sat up so fast your head spun, the protective numbness instantly vaporizing. "Allie, what's wrong? Is someone hurt?"
"Dean decided he was tired of starving and tried to cook dinner!" Allie shouted, the shrill, piercing sound of a beeping smoke detector echoing faintly in the background. "There is smoke everywhere! Logan is panicking, Garrett can't find the fire extinguisher, and Tucker isn't answering his phone! You have to come help us!"
"I'm on my way!" you yelled, throwing the blanket off and shoving your bare feet into your boots. Your "Mom" instincts completely overrode your heartbreak. You didn't even bother grabbing a real coat, sprinting out the door in your oversized Briar Hockey sweatshirt.
Ten minutes later you slammed your car into park, ran up the front steps, and shoved the heavy wooden door open.
"Allie?!" you yelled, coughing as a faint, bitter haze of smoke drifted down the hallway.
You rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead in your tracks.
The room was an absolute biohazard. A thick layer of white flour was dusted over every visible surface like snow. A pot was boiling over on the stove, hissing aggressively as starchy water hit the hot coils. The smoke detector had been ripped off the ceiling and was sitting on the island, its battery completely removed.
But there was no Allie. No Dean. No Garrett or Logan.
The only person in the kitchen was John Tucker.
He was standing in the center of the chaos, still wearing his sweaty gym clothes, staring at the boiling pot with utter, unfiltered confusion. He whipped his head around when he heard you gasp.
"Y/N?" Tucker breathed, his bloodshot brown eyes going wide.
"Where are they?" you demanded, your heart hammering violently against your ribs as you scanned the empty room. "Allie called me, she said there was a fireā"
"Logan texted me," Tucker interrupted, taking a cautious step toward you. His deep southern drawl was rough and entirely bewildered. "He said Dean was burning the house down."
You both froze.
You looked at the empty kitchen. You looked at the perfectly dismantled smoke detector. You listened to the absolute, unnatural silence radiating from the rest of the house.
"Those motherfuckers," Tucker breathed, dragging a heavy hand down his face as the realization hit him.
You let out a shaky, jagged exhale, leaning back against the doorframe as the adrenaline violently crashed out of your system. You had been set up. The boys weren't starving, the house wasn't burning down, and there was no emergency. Your friends had orchestrated a highly coordinated, incredibly cruel trap.
Tucker walked over to the stove, his broad back stiff as he clicked the burner off and dragged the hissing pot to a cool coil. The kitchen fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
For the first time in six agonizing days, you were really looking at him.
He looked terrible. The shadows under his eyes were bruised and purple, his auburn hair was a sweaty mess, and he carried a rigid, defensive posture that absolutely shattered your heart. He looked like a man who had lost everything.
He grabbed a dish towel, keeping his eyes glued to the flour-covered counter. "I'll clean this up," he muttered, his voice sounding hollow and completely defeated. "You can go back to Allie's."
"Tuck..." you whispered.
"I mean it, Y/N," he rasped, aggressively wiping at the flour. His knuckles were turning stark white. He wouldn't look at you. "I know you don't want to be here. You don't have to stay just because they tricked you."
You watched him frantically scrub the counter, your chest physically aching. The anger and resentment that had fueled you for the past week completely evaporated, leaving only a profound, desperate sadness. You realized then what Hannah and Garrett had figured out days ago. You both had hard exteriors, but inside you were soft. You were both so damn busy trying to hold the house together for everyone else that you let yourselves fall apart.Ā
You walked forward, your boots stepping over a stray piece of burnt pasta on the floor, reaching for the roll of paper towels sitting on the kitchen island. You tore off a handful, wet them under the faucet, and stepped right up beside him.
In absolute, suffocating silence, you started wiping the flour off the counter next to where he was frantically scrubbing.
Tucker went completely rigid. The aggressive motion of his hands stopped instantly. He stared at your smaller hand moving in sync with his, his broad chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths.
The silence stretched, heavy and agonizing, broken only by the hiss of the cooling stove.
"I love you."
The words were so quiet, so raw, they almost didn't register. Your hand froze on the counter. You slowly turned your head to look at him, your heart completely dropping into your stomach.
He had never said those words to you before.
Tucker finally looked up.
"I love you," he repeated, his signature southern drawl thick and trembling. "I realized it a couple of weeks ago. And it terrified the absolute shit out of me."
"Tuck..." you whispered, your throat painfully tight.
"I'm supposed to have a plan, Y/N," he choked out, swiping a shaky hand across his jaw. "I've been saving my dad's insurance money for years. But graduation is right there, and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. If I move back to Patterson to take care of my mom, I lose you. If I stay in Boston and try to start a business, I have no idea if it's going to fail. I felt like I was drowning in all this uncertainty, and I..."
He swallowed hard, looking at you with complete, heartbreaking defeat.
"I didn't know how to integrate you into a future I hadn't even figured out yet. You work so hard, and you have all these goals, and I was so scared of dragging you down into my mess that I panicked. I pushed you away."
"You idiot," you cried softly, the hot tears you had been holding back for six days finally spilling over your lashes. You dropped the paper towels and turned fully toward him. "You don't have to have it all figured out. Nobody has it figured out."
"I'm supposed to be the one who fixes things," he rasped, his voice breaking. "And I was so terrified I was failing you."
"You never failed me," you whispered, stepping into his space and resting your trembling hands flat against his broad, tense chest. "And you aren't dragging me down. I don't care if we're in Boston or Texas. I don't care if your business plan takes years to figure out. I don't need a perfect plan, Tuck. I just need you."
A jagged, shuddering breath tore out of Tucker's chest.
He closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and burying his face deep into the crook of your neck. He held you so tight it bruised, lifting you slightly off your feet as his large frame collapsed against you.
"I can't breathe without you," he confessed, the words vibrating fiercely against your skin. "Don't leave me again. Please, darlin', don't walk out that door again."
"I'm right here," you promised, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your tear-stained cheek against his temple. You buried your fingers in his auburn hair, holding him just as desperately. "I'm not going anywhere."
The Mom and Dad of the house were finally going to be okay.
heyyy! could you write something for garrett where you're best friends and end up having a small argument when he defends you in a fight, just because you were worried, and he ends up confessing his feelings for you?
thank you!
Hi lovely!!
Thank you for your request š«¶š» You can find it here
I hope you like it. Feedback is much appreciated!!
Summary: You're tired of hiding your feelings, but when a guy mocks your insecurities, Garrett's brutal defense proves you're more than just friends.
Friends to Lovers / Hurt/Comfort / Angst
Warnings: not proofread yet, mentions of imposter syndrome/academic insecurity, graphic violence, swearing, Protective! Garrett
A/N: I really hope you like it! I wrote it in a rush bc I kinda feel the need to deliver, so I hope there are not so many mistakes bc English is not my first language. Anyway, starting today and until the 16th I need to lock in hard and study a whole semester worth of crazy engineering classes (mixed feelings abt engineering rn, it needs a lot of work but i kinda love it). so i will be a bit absent. all the requests will be written after the 16th. if you request something and feel like you can't wait for me, it is totally fine by me if you send the request to someone else. but i would appreciate if you give me the heads up first. Feedback is appreciated, as always! Take care of yourselves xx and lots of love š«¶š»
Words: a lot
Requested here!
You had perfected the role of the platonic best friend over the years. You knew the layout of the perpetually messy house he shared with his teammates like the back of your hand. You were the girl who spent Thursday nights sprawled across his massive mattress, stealing slices of his bacon-and-sausage loaded pizza while he grumbled about his history assignments and the two of you debated Breaking Bad theories.
You knew the real Garrett. You knew that beneath the arrogant, untouchable exterior there was a guy who harbored a vicious resentment for the expectations his father, Phil Graham, placed on his shoulders.
And you knew exactly how to bite the inside of your cheek and look the other way when a starry-eyed puck bunny did the walk of shame down his stairs.
Garrett had made his boundaries crystal clear long ago: he didn't do relationships. Hockey was his entire life, and casual, no-strings hookups were his only speed. You were the sole exception to his rule about letting girls stick around, but only because you were safely, immovably boxed into the friend category.
Tonight, however, the walls of that box felt like they were shrinking.
The hockey house was currently vibrating with the force of way too many drunk college students, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. You had retreated to the kitchen for a momentary breather, hoisting yourself onto the counter next to the sink.
"Here you go, darlin'." Tucker slid a freshly poured red plastic cup into your hand. He leaned against the counter beside you, watching the chaos of the living room with an amused smirk. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"I love being shoved into drywall by sweaty frat boys," you replied dryly, taking a sip. "It's my favorite Saturday night activity."
"Hey, Y/N/N," Dean drawled as he wandered into the kitchen. His green eyes scanning the room before locking onto a blonde hovering near the fridge. Dean was an unapologetic slut, and he treated the house like his own personal playground. He shot you a lazy, devastating wink before zeroing in on his target. "Looking good. Try not to let G scare off every guy in a ten-foot radius tonight."
You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your stomach tightened. Dean wasn't wrong.
Speak of the devil.
Garrett pushed through the swinging kitchen door a second later, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the throng of bodies. He was nursing a single Bud Light, strictly adhering to his self-imposed, one-drink limit for the hockey season.
He crossed the room and planted himself right between your knees, boxing you in against the counter. He smelled like his familiar, woodsy aftershave, and the sheer heat radiating off his large frame made your pulse betray you.
"I still don't get why you're insisting on mingling downstairs," Garrett muttered, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "We could be upstairs watching season two right now."
"I wanted to be social," you sighed, trying to ignore how naturally his hand rested on the denim of your thigh. "And I actually wanted to talk to some people tonight."
"Talk to who? That pretentious guy from your psych seminar?" Garrett scoffed, his jaw ticking. "Iām telling you, Y/N, the guy is a walking disaster. I saw him in the quad yesterday and he looks like he showers in liquid arrogance."
"His name is Harry, and he asked me to come find him tonight," you snapped, exhaustion seeping into your bones. "And for the record, you said the exact same bullshit about the last three guys I tried to date."
"Because they were all walking red flags!" Garrett argued.
It was an exhausting, toxic cycle. He didn't want you, but the second you tried to scrape together a dating life of your own, his fiercely protective streak mutated into full-blown sabotage. He actively blocked every attempt you made at moving on, hovering like a giant, muscle-bound guard dog while offering you absolutely nothing but friendship in return.
"Stop fucking hovering, Garrett," you fired back. You hopped off the counter, forcing him to take a step back to avoid a collision. "I'm going to go find Harry. Alone."
You didn't wait for his response, pushing your way out of the kitchen and into the sweaty bodies to escape the heavy weight of his stare. You just wanted five minutes to breathe, five minutes to pretend your chest didn't ache every time he touched you.
But as you stepped into the living room, your night was about to collide with a very different kind of disaster.
You scanned the room, looking for Harry. You had met him in your advanced literature seminar, and he was exactly the kind of guy you should be focusing onāsmart, ambitious, and completely disconnected from the hockey ecosystem. He was supposed to be the guy who finally helped you pry Garrett Graham out of your heart.
You finally spotted him near the makeshift beer pong table set up over the dining room table. He was holding a plastic cup, laughing with two guys you recognized from the honors program.Ā
You took a breath, pasting on a smile, and started to weave your way toward him. But as you closed the distance, the loud thump of the music dipped between songs, and Harry's voice carried over the ambient noise of the crowd.
"...yeah, I told her to come find me tonight," Harry was saying, taking a casual sip of his beer.
"Isn't she in your advanced lit seminar?" one of the other guys asked with a laugh. "I heard that class is brutal."
Harry scoffed, a cruel, dismissive sound that made you freeze in your tracks. "It is, and she is completely drowning in it. Honestly, it's painful to watch her try to keep up with the rest of us. I basically had to explain the entire reading list to her on Tuesday."
"So why'd you tell her to meet you?"
"Are you blind? Look at her," Harry chuckled, a slick, arrogant sound. "She's hot. And she's so desperate for help with her midterm, itās basically a guaranteed hookup. All I have to do is pretend her thesis isn't completely pathetic, tutor her a little, and she'll be all over me. It's almost too easy."
The words hit you with the force of a physical blow.
Your lungs seized. A hot, suffocating wave of humiliation crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. It was your darkest, most deeply buried imposter syndrome dragged out into the open and weaponized. You spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over your writing, terrified you weren't smart enough to be at Briar, and Harry had seen that vulnerability and decided to use it as leverage to get you into bed.
Tears prickled the back of your eyes, hot and sharp. A strangled breath escaped your throat, and before Harry or his friends could turn around and see you standing there, you spun on your heel and bolted.
You veered into the hallway leading to the front door, moving so fast you didn't even see the two silhouettes pressed against the wall until you collided hard with a solid back.
"Whoa, heyā" a familiar voice muttered.
You blinked the tears away just enough to realize you had crashed right into Dean, who was in the middle of hooking up with the blonde from the kitchen. Because of course he was. Dean had a notorious habit of hooking up everywhere but his bedroom.Ā
"I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking pathetically.
Dean pulled back from the girl, his light-green eyes widening as he registered the tears spilling over your lashes. "Y/N/N? Hey, what's wrong? Waitā"Ā
"I'm fine, sorry," you gasped out, pushing past him and shoving the heavy front door open.
The crisp October air hit you like a bucket of ice water, but it didn't numb the stinging humiliation. You stumbled down the porch steps and pulled your phone out of your pocket with shaking hands, swiping furiously at your screen to pull up the number for the campus taxi service.Ā
Before it even began to ring, the front door burst open behind you.
"Y/N!"
Garrettās voice was sharp with panic. He marched down the porch steps, his heavy black boots thudding against the wood. He grabbed your elbow, spinning you around to face him.
"Dean said you ran out of here crying. What the hellā" Garrett froze, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat as he took in your wet cheeks and trembling bottom lip.
The annoyance that usually shadowed his features when you fought was instantly wiped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying protectiveness. His large hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from your skin.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did he touch you?"
You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut because looking at him only made the shame burn hotter.
"Nothing," you choked out, pulling out of his grip. You wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting a losing battle against your own tears. "I'm not telling you what happened just so you can give me the whole 'I told you so' speech. You were right about him, okay? Can we just leave it at that?"
Garrett stared at you for one long, suffocating second. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, putting two and two together. The silence that stretched between you was terrifying. His eyes darkened to the color of a storm, and the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.Ā
He just turned on his heel and stalked back up the porch steps.
"Garrett!" Panic seized your chest. "Garrett, no!"
You scrambled up the steps, chasing him through the front door, but he was moving with the blinding, aggressive speed he usually saved for the ice.
"Garrett!" You yelled his name, pushing past confused partygoers, but he was an unstoppable force.Ā "Garrett, stop!"
He found Harry exactly where you had left him, still leaning against the beer pong table.
Garrett grabbed the back of Harry's shirt, spun him around, and swung.
His fist connected with Harry's face with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. The guy didn't even have time to scream before Garrett hit him again, the sheer force of it lifting Harry off his feet and sending him crashing backward into the beer pong table. Red plastic cups and cheap beer went flying in every direction as the table buckled beneath them.
The crowd erupted into shrieks, scattering backward to form a wide circle.
Harry hit the floor, groaning, but Garrett wasn't finished. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling his fist back to deliver another devastating blow.
"Garrett, stop!" you screamed, finally breaking through the circle of onlookers.
You lunged at him, grabbing his thick bicep and trying to haul him backward. But he was two hundred pounds of pure, sculpted muscle fueled by blind rage. You couldn't even budge him. Your fingernails dug into his arm, but he didn't even flinch.Ā
"Graham, enough!"
Suddenly, Logan and Tucker burst through the crowd. Logan, a bruiser of a defenseman, wrapped his massive arms around Garrett's chest from behind, hauling him backward. Tucker grabbed Garrettās other arm, digging his heels into the sticky floor to help drag their captain away from the bleeding guy on the floor.Ā
"Get the fuck off me!" Garrett roared, thrashing against his teammates, his chest heaving wildly.
"Cool it, man!" Logan shouted, straining to hold him back.Ā
You planted yourself right in Garrett's line of sight, placing both your hands flat against his chest. His heart was hammering violently against your palms.
"G. Look at me," you commanded, your voice shaking.
His wild, silver eyes finally locked onto yours. The lethal fury in his gaze flickered, the fight slowly draining out of his posture as he registered the sheer panic on your face. He stopped fighting Logan and Tucker, his heavy, ragged breathing filling the tense silence of the room. His knuckles were already turning a vicious shade of purple.Ā
"We are going upstairs," you said, your tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Now."
You didn't wait for him to agree. You grabbed his wrist and turned, dragging him away from the wreckage, up the narrow staircase, and straight into his master bedroom.Ā
You slammed the door shut, leaning your back against the heavy wood as if it could keep the rest of the world out. The chaotic bass of the party was instantly muted, leaving only the sound of Garrettās ragged, heavy breathing.
He stood in the center of the room, staring blindly at his split knuckles. The skin was already swelling and bleeding, identical to the brutal bruises he brought home after playing dirty teams like St. Anthony's.
"Are you insane?" you choked out. Your voice trembled, the adrenaline crash finally hitting you and leaving you hollowed out. "You could get suspended for that! Coach Jensen will bench you, Garrett!"
"I don't give a fuck about Coach Jensen right now," he snarled, spinning around to face you. His gray eyes were stormy, flashing with a volatile, untamed fury. "He was using you, Y/N. He was standing there laughing with his buddies about manipulating you."
"And you think I don't know that?" Your voice broke. "You think I didn't hear him? God, G, you didn't have to throw a punch to prove how pathetic I am. I already knew!"
Garrett flinched as if you'd struck him. "What are you talking about? You aren't pathetic."
"I am!" you yelled, pushing off the door. The humiliation from downstairs was a living, breathing thing inside your chest. "I'm the idiot who thought a guy actually liked me for me. I'm the idiot who's failing her seminar, who trails after you like a lapdog, exactly like he said! And you charging in there to fight my battles like I'm incapable of defending myself only proved him right!"
"He's a piece of shit who felt threatened by you," Garrett argued, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "He knows you're brilliant."
"Stop it!" You shoved both hands against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Stop pitying me! I can handle the fact that you don't want me. I can handle sitting on the sidelines watching you bring home a different girl every weekend. But I cannot handle you treating me like some fragile charity case you have to protect!"
Garrett didn't move. He absorbed your shove, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.
"Pity?" he repeated, the word tearing out of him in a harsh, jagged exhale. "You think I pity you?"
"Garrettā"
"You think I sit up at night, listening to you talk about other guys, watching you dress up for dates with assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, out of pity?" He grabbed your wristsānot hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull your hands off his chest so he could step directly into your space.
His heat surrounded you, smelling of sweat, adrenaline, and his familiar woodsy aftershave.
"I don't defend you because I pity you, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate rasp. "I do it because I am completely, out of my fucking mind for you."
The air vanished from the room.
You stared up at him, your heart slamming violently against your ribs. "What?"
Garrett released your wrists, bringing his hands up to cup your face. His thumbs gently swept over your wet cheeks, his bruised knuckles resting warm and rough against your skin. The arrogance and swagger he wore like armor were completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.
"I have been in love with you for years," he confessed, the words pouring out of him like a dam breaking. "I told everyone I didn't want a girlfriend because the only girl I wanted was my best friend, and I was too terrified of ruining it. So I kept my mouth shut. I watched you look for someone else, and it tore me apart."
"Garrett," you breathed, a fresh tear slipping down your face.
"You are the smartest, most beautiful person I know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips with heavy, agonizing intent. "And if you want me to back off, I will. I'll walk away right now. But don't you ever, ever think I pity you."
Your brain was short-circuiting. The secret you had buried so deep, the ache you had carried for years, was suddenly reflected right back at you in his intense gray eyes.
"You're the biggest idiot on this entire campus," you whispered, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping your throat.
He froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Y/Nā"
"I've been in love with you since high school," you interrupted, sliding your hands up his chest to tangle in his short dark hair.
Garrettās breath hitched audibly. "Are you serious?"
"You really think I hung around all this time just for the free pizza and your terrible taste in TV?" you asked, a blinding smile breaking through your tears.
A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips, the dimples you loved so much finally making an appearance. "Well, damn," he breathed.
The hesitation vanished. Garrettās hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his body. He crashed his mouth down on yours, and it was a messy, desperate collision of everything you had both held back for years.
He kissed you like he was starving. His lips were demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a hungry, possessive heat that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine. Your fingers gripped his hair, anchoring him to you as he backed you up against the door, his large frame pressing you into the wood.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours.
"So," Garrett murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. "I guess this means I don't have to share you anymore."
You laughed, pulling his mouth back down to yours. "No, G. You definitely don't."
hi lovely!! do you take platonic requests for off campus as well?
Hello love!!
Yeah, if you have an idea in mind and you specify that you want a platonic relationship between the characters, I can totally do that. (Or I will try to do my best and hope you like it. I don't think I've ever written platonic relationships š¤ but I'm open)
I'll wait for your request š«¶š»
Take care of yourself and have a great day xx
Love from N @newobsessionweekly - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
