summary: you haven’t talked to garrett or anyone else since he denied being in love with you. you’re eventually forced together by dean and have no choice but to figure it out.
warnings: fluff. angst. suggestive content.
it had been a couple of weeks since you last talked to garrett or any of the other guys. the truth bomb that dean dropped causing a strenuous rift between the two of you.
time felt like it had moved slowly since then, every day dragging it’s feet as though it was never going to end.
you still saw him floating around campus, the muscle in his jaw ticking whenever his eyes landed on you.
what did he have to be upset about? you were the one who got demoted to something even less than casual . . . whatever that was.
sighing, you slammed your textbook shut, resisting the urge to roll your eyes when everyone in the library shushed you.
they were acting as though you had just opened your mouth and screamed from the top of your lungs.
glancing around, your eyes narrowed when they spotted the big mouthed gossip that had outed his own best friend loitering in one of the aisles.
dean didn’t exactly seem like the type to even know what a book was, nevermind actually read one.
as if he could sense your eyes on him, he turned around, his expression changing to one you couldn’t quite decipher.
“please don’t come over here” you repeated to yourself almost silently, crossing your fingers under the table as if it was an absolute solution.
dean hesitated for a moment before rolling his eyes, pushing off the bookshelf as he headed in your direction.
“shit” you cursed, regretting your choice to study in the library instead of your isolated dorm room.
he tutted at you and shook his head, “i heard that, and here’s me thinking you were a lady”
you scoffed at him, “jesus, you’d know all about the ladies wouldn’t you? manwhore”
he perked up, grinning brightly as he sat down across from you, “thanks, gorgeous”
oh, did he think that was a compliment-
gritting your teeth, you clicked on the end of your pen in annoyance, “is there something you wanted? other than to piss me off, of course”
dean looked around the library and gestured for you to lean in closer.
you happily obliged so you could get this over with, resting your arms on the table and leaning in closer.
“you need to fix whatever high-school drama you have going on with g. i shouldn’t even be talking to you about this shit but we need our captain back” dean whispered, acting like someone could be spying on the two of you.
you were about to tell dean to mind his own business, but the sound of someone clearing their throat made you jump back in your chair.
the two of you turned your heads towards the sound, a beat of awkward silence now circling the room.
garrett graham was standing at the end of your table, and he looked pissed.
of course garrett was here right now! you had never even seen these idiots in the library before, and now you suddenly you couldn’t escape them.
it felt like someone was sat behind a big screen, laughing and pointing at you as if this was some sort of joke.
“can we help you?” dean says, trying to fight the mischievous grin that was forming on his face.
garrett looked between the two of you in annoyance, “what do you mean can we help you? why the fuck are you huddled together”
this whole interaction felt like a bad case of déjà vu, feeling a little too similar to the events of the last time all three of you were together.
you shrugged, “we were just having a chat, no need to get your panties in a twist”
dean snorted loudly, getting up and offering his empty seat to garrett who was still stood there with his arms crossed.
“i’ll leave you to talk and for fuck sake graham, be a man for once” dean says, patting garrett on the back before pushing the library doors open, winking at the two of you as he left.
garrett looked tired - he had dark circles under his eyes, his brown hair was a mess, and he had a face full of stubble which told you he hadn’t bothered to shave in a while.
pursing your lips, you tapped your pen against the stack of papers in front of you and waited for him to stop standing there like an idiot.
garrett eventually gave in, taking his jacket off and slinging it over the back of the chair as he sat down.
his tall frame made the chair look small, leaning back with his arms behind his head and his knees apart.
the way his muscles bulged through the thin material of his plain white t-shirt had you distracted, not even registering the words he was saying.
“and yeah, allie and dean slept together last night” he says, trying to pull your from your perverted daydreaming.
“that is the biggest lie i have ever heard! you could’ve picked something more believable” you huffed, slightly annoyed that his tactics worked.
garrett shrugged and his lips tilted up in a smug smile, “yeah, no shit - but it worked didn’t it?”
“ugh, whatever. are we going to talk about the elephant in the room or not?” you asked, feeling impatience start to creep in, wrapping around your mind like poison ivy.
he dragged his hands down his face like he was feeling the same impatience, “i don’t know what else there is to say”
unbelievable.
one minute garrett was supposedly “in love” with you and the next minute he was saying that you had been around “too much” lately.
there was plenty to say, you were just trying to remember a library was not the place to start anything more heated than a light discussion.
”do you love me, garrett?” you asked outright, not caring whether his answer was yes or no - you just wanted the truth for once.
“you can’t just ask someone if they love you” garrett exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.
the air turned colder as the seconds ticked by, almost as if nature could feel the thick tension too.
“it’s a simple-“, “it is not a simple question at all and don’t pretend like it is” garrett says, cutting you off.
the people sat at the table next to you shushed the two of you.
“goddamnit, we’re having a conversation. if you don’t like it, fuck off” garrett whisper shouted in their direction, staring them dead in the eye.
they murmured amongst themselves before getting up and pushing their chairs in, heading for the exit.
he pushed his brown curls away from his face as he tried to find the right words to say, “look, i know i like spending time with you. my friends clearly seem to like you too which is the biggest achievement of all”
he huffed out a sigh of amusement and disbelief as he continued, “dean and his big fucking mouth”
you nodded in agreement, “dean and his big fucking mouth”
he gave you that dimpled smile that could melt icebergs as well as hearts, “you’re the first person i’ve wanted more than sex with. i just don’t know what that means yet” garrett admitted.
“uh, thanks?” you say.
he rolled his eyes dramatically, “you know what i mean”
you did know what he meant, he just had a very garrett graham way of saying it.
and although it felt like garrett still wasn’t telling you the whole story, it wasn’t up to your or dean to force it out of him.
“how about you take me on a date first before you kill me with these panty dropping declarations?” you say, wanting to lighten the mood, tired of the darkness that’s been following you like a shadow lately.
this caught his attention, “jesus, don’t talk about panties right now” he groaned, his mind going somewhere else, just like a typical man.
”or what?” you say, tilting your head in defiance as you looked up at him through your lashes.
he grabbed your hand that was flat against the wooden table, pulling you up and guiding you round until you were stood in front of him.
your ass was perched on the edge of the table and garrett placed his hands on your thighs, pulling them open so he could slot his body between them.
he fit perfectly, like he was made to fill any empty spaces you created.
garrett pulled you towards him and you landed on his lap, a squeal escaping your mouth at the unexpected move.
his gaze landed on your lips, a gruff groan leaving his mouth when your tongue darted out to wet them.
“fuck it” garrett said, hand wrapping around the back of your next as he pulled you in for a breathtaking kiss.
his other hand slid up the back of your t-shirt, his warm skin against your own feeling euphoric after going so long without touching him.
you could feel his arousal, the loose basketball shorts he was wearing doing nothing to conceal what he was feeling for you right now.
you were so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t hear the door creak open.
“damn, y/n. i didn’t know you had it in you” dean says, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.
garrett’s hands slipped from your body as your heads simultaneously whipped to the side at the sound of deans voice.
“what the fuck?” you both say at the same time.
“when i said sort it out, this wasn’t exactly what i meant” dean whistled humourously, his watchful gaze full of heat.
garrett reached around you to grab one of your books from the table and threw it in deans direction, “why are you lurking like a fucking pervert, dude?
the book was just short of hitting dean, much to garrett’s annoyance.
“some of us have exams to study for, g. whatever, i’ll just come back later and leave you lovebirds to it” dean says, voice laced with mock sadness.
as if. everyone knew dean didn’t study, he just wrote what he thought was right and prayed for the best.
garrett closed his eyes and took a deep breath, looking like he was ready to chase dean out of the door himself.
“wrap it before you tap it, graham! i’m not ready to be an uncle yet” dean says, not turning back around as he headed out of the door, leaving you alone with garrett once again.
you rested your head on garrett’s shoulder, your body shaking with laughter at the blonde hair menace who always had the worst timing in the world.
when you were finally out of laughter, you pulled back and nodded at garrett to which he nodded back, coming to a mutual understanding without even having to say anything.
“hey, and no more secret meetings with dilaurentis because he’ll end up corrupting you with his bullshit. deal?”
“deal” you murmured in agreement.
this was a temporary resolution, but it wasn’t like love was the first thing on your mind either considering you hadn’t even been out with garrett off campus yet.
although, a date with a man known for one night stands was as close to love as you could get. for now at least.
summary: you talk with the guys while waiting around at the house and dean accidentally let's it slip that garrett is in love with you.
warnings: nothing specific.
frat houses were an unclean place full of boisterous men and they were a place no one with any self respect would be seen dead, and yet here you were.
in your defence, you were only here to see garrett. everyone else was a package deal apparently.
garrett graham was the star athlete at briar u, known for his supposed ice hockey skills. you say supposed because he's never actually invited you to a game, and you weren't about to show up all "go team" if he didn't want you there.
the two of you had been hooking up for a while now, but it was . . . casual. he was too busy for a girlfriend and you were too busy to try and change his mind.
sighing, you drummed your fingers against your thighs impatiently, waiting for garrett to come downstairs.
"is he even here?" you asked tucker, settling on talking to the most "normal" one out of all of them.
you had plans to meet garrett at his house today, but he wasn't exactly known for his top notch timekeeping skills.
he nodded, slapping deans hand away when he tried to reach for the spread of food that was being arranged on the table.
"dude, why do you keep making food if we're not even allowed to eat the damn stuff" dean huffed, throwing himself down on the couch next to you in defeat.
the blonde haired trouble causer turned to you with a big grin on his face, "so, what's the deal with you and graham? that boy doesn't tell us anything"
"i find that hard to believe. you're all his bro's or whatever aren't you?" you say, using your fingers to put air quotes around the word "bro's".
instead of answering, dean went on to pepper you with more invasive questions.
you huffed out a laugh despite yourself, "you're awfully nosey, you know that?"
dean's hand slapped against his chest in mock disbelief, "you're lucky that graham loves you because otherwise i would be-"
"he what?" you cut him off, not sure if you just heard him correctly.
"ohhh, shit" dean says.
the whole room went silent. tucker stopped chopping vegetables, logan paused his video game, and dean stared at you with wide eyes like a child that had just been caught sneaking candy.
a creak on the stairs broke the painful silence and you glanced up to see garrett stood there, his arms folded across his chest.
"what the actual fuck is going on down here?" garrett says, not moving from his spot on the stairs.
dean pursed his lips in thought, "i just told y/n that you love her"
okay, maybe it wasn't in thought at all. jesus christ this guy had no filter.
not knowing what to say, you chuckled awkwardly and pointed towards towards the door, "sooo, i'm just going to go"
you scooped up your bag and dashed out of the door before anyone could try to stop you, shutting it tightly behind.
even through the heavy wooden door you could hear the sudden arguments.
"jesus christ, dean. you're with a new girl every day and suddenly you can't have a normal conversation with one just because she doesn't want to fuck you?" garrett yelled.
the rest of the conversation became incoherent but you were sure you heard dean say, "how do you know she doesn't want to fuck me?"
your head was a mess as deans accidental confession actually started to sink in.
you didn't have a chance to make it off the porch before the door swung open again, revealing garrett stood on the other side.
dean popped his blonde head around the frame, "he has plans to kill me later so if you-"
someone decided to have mercy on you and dragged him back inside the house, the door slamming shut behind them.
here he was in all his glory. he had messy hair from the nap he clearly took not long ago and basketball shorts low his hips, toned abs on full display.
"see something you like?" he smirked, leaning back against the wall, the tension melting with every word he spoke.
you shrugged indifferently, "do you mean like or do you mean love? because who knows the difference these days"
he let out a long sigh of frustration, dragging a hand down his face, "listen, take no notice of that idiot. i never do"
"how come you don't invite me to your games? i mean, we've been seeing each other for months now and i haven't been to a single one" you say, frustration bubbling in your gut as words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them.
"i'm going to kill that little bastard- fine. i don't invite you to my games because you distract me. i can't focus on anything else when you're in the room and i can't risk being distracted out on the rink"
was that a compliment? it sort of sounded like one.
you nodded slowly, "so why couldn't you have just said that? why does everything have to be a mystery with you garrett"
"this was meant to be a casual one time thing, and suddenly you're in my house and you're talking to my friends" he says.
scoffing, you jabbed a finger against his bare chest, "you're the one who asked me to come over garrett and despite what you're clearly used to, i didn't beg to see you"
the audacity of men would never fail to amaze you. they ask you to come over and then wonder why you're suddenly in their house.
"can i finish my sentence?" he says, raising his eyebrows in amusement at your persistent rebuttals.
you shrug and gesture for him to continue, "if you must"
"jesus, what i'm trying to say is that it doesn't feel casual anymore. i see you more than i see those fuckers in there and i live with em'" he says.
"i'm not saying i'm in love with you ─ because shit, we've never even been on a date. unless fucking in a frat house full of other guys counts as a date to women"
"it does not" you add.
"i don't do girlfriends. you know this as much as every other girl knows this" he says.
the words taste bitter in his mouth. it wasn't a lie, he doesn't do girlfriends, but everything was telling him to break his own rules.
"wow, garrett, does this type of flattery usually work on these lucky girls?"
he grinned smugly, hands in the pockets of his shorts, "damn straight it does, baby"
your phone buzzed in your pocket and you internally groaned when you glanced at the time. you were only meant to be staying for an hour because you promised allie you would help her study for midterms.
"look, i've gotta go. i promised allie i would help her with the upcoming exams. we're all good, graham. casual it is!" you say brightly, jogging down the steps before he can respond.
garrett watches on until you disappear around the corner before going back inside to be met by the disappointed stares of his three friends.
"dude, really? i don't do girlfriends?" logan says, repeating garrett's earlier words.
dean sighed dramatically and shook his head, "yeah, you really fucked that one up"
garrett points a finger at dean accusatorially, "it's your fucking fault, dipshit. this is the last time i ever tell you anything" he says, breezing past everyone as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.
"practice is tomorrow" tucker says in concern, nodding towards the beer in garrett's hand.
"lay off, tuck" he says, jaw tense as he sat in his usual spot on the couch.
logan being the more empathetic one of the group, decided to take over the conversation before it got out of hand.
"so, you do love her then?" he says carefully, not wanting to end up on garrett's shit list along with dean.
garrett cursed and leaned back against the couch, "yeah? no? how am i meant to know if i love someone or not"
"the fact that you're instrested in more than just sleeping with her is answer enough" logan says, knowing garrett hasn't given this much time or thought to one person before.
"fuck this ─ someone pass me another beer" garrett muttered, needing a way to turn his mind off for a couple of hours.
Summary: Beau has hidden his best friend, Y/N, from the group for years. She and him had been friends since middle school, living next to one another growing up, and now the pair were in the same college. Then the day happens when Beau finally decides to introduce them to her. They all immediately are entranced by her and her personality, John Logan especially…
Warning(s) throughout the series: strangers to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, mentions of abuse, mentions of softball plays/games, mentions of PTSD, angst, fluff, smut (18+)
A couple weeks after the softball game, things had settled into something surprisingly normal. It was at least as normal as life could be when Y/N had somehow become part of Beau's friend group.
Now she regularly ended up hanging out with them after practices, grabbing coffee between classes, or getting pulled into whatever ridiculous situation Dean and Tucker had created that week. She dragged them out for late night food runs, which Beau had warned them about this becoming an overnight thing, but they loved the last minute adventures.
Which was exactly how she ended up in a library conference room with Beau on a Thursday afternoon, or at least, they were supposed to be studying. Instead, both textbooks sat untouched, and Y/N was highlighting notes while Beau spun slowly in his chair.
"You know," he said, making her snort.
"That's never a good way to start a sentence."
"I've been thinking."
"Your brain doing work? Now that’s much worse,” she retorts, earning a pencil at the head from Beau, causing them to both giggle.
"I haven't asked what you think about everybody."
Y/N glanced up, raising one eyebrow, highlighter in hand. "Everybody?"
"The group."
"Oh?” she trails off, and a small smile appears immediately.
"Well?” Beau leaned forward.
"This should be interesting,” Y/N laughed before letting out a sigh, and counting each person on her finger as she talked. "Dean's insane, but Tucker is somehow worse. I think it’s because of how he gets when he’s cooking, though."
"Correct, and very correct."
"Hannah's probably the smartest person I've ever met, and she really knows how to send positive messages,” she then moves her hand at him. “Did you know she even sent me a little happy message before my last game? I love her.”
Beau laughs and nods. “She’s great with everyone, she wants them to feel successful.”
"Allie is genuinely one of the nicest and funniest people alive. I need to shop in her wardrobe, and she knows this.”
"She has style, I can’t argue that."
"Garrett is definitely the dad of the group, though,” she jokes, and Beau purses his lips to muster a laugh. “He definitely will be that dad who runs into a friend in the Home Depot parking lot, pulls out a couple lawn chairs to sit and talk,” she adds, and Beau bursts out into laughter.
“Tucker has told him the same thing! He hates when people figure that out."
Y/N grinned and shrugged. "He gives off exhausted dad energy. After dealing with that group? I don’t doubt it for a minute."
Beau immediately laughed, pointing at her. "I'm telling him you said that."
"Oh, please do. I will say it to him,” she shot back making them both laugh, and then Beau tilted his head.
"And Logan?" he asks, his tone nothing but smug. Y/N's highlighter immediately stopped moving for exactly half a second. Beau caught it easily, his grin widening.
Because of course he did, and unfortunately, the faint pink appearing in her cheeks wasn't helping her case. Beau's laughs turned into little giggles."Oh my."
"Beau."
"You like him."
"No."
"You do."
"Do not."
"You absolutely do."
Y/N buried her face in her hands, which was essentially a confession. Beau knew her too well, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. "This is absolutely incredible."
"And you're annoying."
"I've waited days for this."
Y/N groaned. "You sound like Dean,” she throws back at him, hearing him gasp loudly with a dramatic fall back against his chair. "That's the meanest thing you've ever said to me."
She laughed despite herself, and then threw another pen at him, in which only made him laugh harder. Eventually he calmed down enough to sit forward, but he was still grinning, probably still too pleased with himself.
Beau started to say something, and Y/N immediately pointed. "No."
"Oh, come on."
"Nope."
"Just one more question."
"No."
"One."
She narrowed her eyes, and Beau tried his best to look completely innocent. He asked her anyway. "How much do you like him?"
"You're the worst, Beau Maxwell,” Y/N groaned.
"Answer."
She looked down at her notebook, followed with a shrug. "He's nice."
Beau barked out a laugh, looking at her like she had two heads. "That's your answer?"
"What?"
"He’s nice?"
"He is!"
"Y/N."
"What?"
"You've watched Tucker accidentally set ramen on fire,” he pointed out, and she laughed.
"You've watched Dean climb through a window because he forgot his keys."
"Unfortunately."
"You know Garrett carries snacks in his backpack like a suburban father."
"So unbelievably true,” she laughs, and Beau’s eyes squint at her suspiciously.
"So when you say Logan is nice, I know that's not what you mean."
Y/N smiled despite herself, because Beau wasn't wrong. Logan was nice, but it was more than that. He listened, like actually listened. He remembered smaller things that she brought up once or twice, and always asked questions.
All of this kind of behavior also was not just with her, it was with everyone. It was one of the things she liked most about him.
Unfortunately Beau was still staring, waiting.
"You're smiling,” he sings out, immediately making her shake her head.
"I'm not,” she mocks back, and he hums.
"You are."
Y/N covered her face as she could feel Beau looking back at her victoriously.
Then his expression softened slightly, because underneath the teasing, there was something else there he always noticed. It was something protective. "You know,” he starts off, keeping his gaze on her, watching as Y/N glanced up.
"What?"
"I like that it's him. Logan, I mean,” he hums, the teasing disappeared completely.
Y/N looked surprised.
Beau shrugged, settling into his seat. "I'm serious."
"Why?" she asked with a slightly confused frown. Beau was silent for a moment.
"Because,” he sighs, his tone a bit more softer than the last, nodding at her knowingly. “I've seen who you date."
Y/N winced. "Beau."
"I'm serious, Y/N."
She looked down at her notebook, and immediately knew where this conversation was heading. Her ex.
The one topic neither of them liked discussing. He was the guy she'd spent nearly a year with, who had slowly convinced her she wasn't enough. Whether it was her talent, her skill, her looks, her body.
Every achievement somehow became something to criticize. Every mistake, whether it was their relationship or during her games, became ammunition.
He'd mocked her and made fun of her schedule, or how she played. He got angry, and would pick fights if she was hanging with teammates at any point after a game or practice had finished. He would absolutely lose it on her when she spent time at Beau’s.
By the end of it, she had spent more time apologizing than smiling, and taking the remarks or the fake apologies he’d tell her after he would abandon her on the side of the road, or shove her against a wall.
Beau had watched the whole thing happen, waiting for her to finally leave.
Y/N still remembered the day she told him it was over, and how hard Beau had hugged her. He had helped build her confidence back up piece by piece, with the help of their old friends and her teammates.
"He treated you like shit, Y/N. I will never blame you for what he did," he says, and she nods knowingly. She always understood Beau’s wording, even if it came off harsh. It was tough love that she needed to get back up again. “I just hated that you kept thinking you deserved that treatment, and that it was okay.”
Y/N looked away, not knowing what reflexed her to quickly respond. "He wasn't always-"
"Don't."
She stopped when Beau interrupted her, because Beau's voice wasn't angry. It was just firm.
"He wasn't,” Y/N went quiet, and Beau sighed.
"He made you cry more times than I can count,” he says, his voice never rising, staying calm as he talked to her. “Honey, he made you feel guilty for literally everything. He even told you softball wasn't important."
Y/N grimaced as she stared at the table, because that one still always hurts, even now. Beau's voice softened. "I cared. Still do."
Y/N swallowed, nodding slowly. "I know."
Beau leaned forward slightly. “And it’s not always just me who will care. It’s your team too, and the group? Shit, they were telling me how much of a crime it was that they didn’t get to meet you till that game,” he laughs, watching her chuckle. “But I also know, they would do anything to see you happy. They would never hurt you.”
Y/N nods, giving him a sad, but understanding smile. Beau lightens up the mood a bit as he wiggles his eyebrows. "And Logan would be standing at every single game, cheering you on in the stands, if you let him."
Y/N looked up, and Beau continued. "He wouldn’t have asked for stats or about your life story if he wasn’t serious about you. Drove me fucking insane, lemme tell you," he whines out, making her snort.
"So I’ve heard,” she giggles, and they both look at one another. Beau's expression turned serious again. “I just need you to know something,” He states as Y/N listens. "Logan isn't him."
Her smile faded slightly, but Beau's gaze never wavered.
"He doesn't play games, and he will never tear you down. Especially when you’re doing something you love."
She nodded as she swallowed. Because somehow that mattered more than she wanted to admit, which Beau noticed. He always did.
Suddenly he looked every bit like the overprotective best friend he was. "If he ever hurts you, I'll kill him."
"Beau!” Y/N burst out laughing.
"I'm serious."
"No, you're not."
"Oh yes, I absolutely am."
"You like him too much,” she snickered as she shook her head.
Beau nods, tapping his chin with his finger like he was thinking. "You may be right, and that's probably why he'd survive."
Y/N laughed harder, Beau finally smiled widely before he pointed at her. "But for the record."
"What?"
"You like him."
Y/N immediately groaned, knowing that their serious moment disappeared.
"I knew it."
"You're fucking impossible."
"And you're crushing on Logan, Y/N."
Y/N threw her highlighter at him, but this time he dodged it while laughing, still looking too pleased at his findings.
The conversation should have gone back to studying. Instead, almost forty-five minutes later, Beau was still sitting across from Y/N, who had completed approximately three lines of notes and thrown almost every one of her pens at him.
A very productive afternoon. "Anyway," Beau said, finally glancing at his phone, Y/N immediately narrowed her eyes. "We should go."
"Go where?"
"Malone's."
Y/N blinked as her eyebrows furrowed, going back to writing up some of her notes. "Why?"
"It’s karaoke night?"
“And? Karaoke night is every week,” she snorts, finishing up the last page of her notes. Y/N calmly started putting her books into her backpack. "Also, I can't."
Beau snorted. "Really?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
She opened her mouth, but then paused. "Homework."
Beau stared at her with confused wide eyes. "Homework?"
"Yupper."
"From the studying we haven't done?"
Y/N frowned. "That's not the point."
"Try again,” Beau laughed, and she grabbed another notebook.
"I have practice tomorrow. It was two-a-days week, so I am exhausted."
"So?"
"I need sleep."
"It's five o'clock, old lady."
"Exactly."
"Y/N."
"What?"
Beau crossed his arms. "You realize I've known you for years, right?” he trails off, causing her to immediately look away.
She was trying to hide a guilty look, but it didn’t get far, because now Beau knew. "Oh my," he giggles, making her look up at him as she starts to clean up her things.
Beau looked delighted. “Because you love me to death,” he snorts back, making her give him a look. "You don't want to go because Logan will be there."
"That's not true."
"It is very true."
"Not a chance."
"Y/N M/N."
She buried her face in her hands, freezing her movements at her middle name leaving his mouth, Beau nearly fell out of his chair laughing. "This is incredible! You’re getting nervous."
"I don't get nervous."
"You literally play softball in front of hundreds of people."
"Exactly, which is why I’m not nervous, Maxwell."
Beau ignores her denial, egging her on once more. "But one hockey player says hello and suddenly you're making up fake homework,” he snickers back, grabbing his backpack to stand up while Y/N pointed at him.
"I hate you,” she mumbles, going to walk out of the study room.
"No, you don't,” he answers, trailing behind her, Beau looked entirely too pleased with himself. He then grabbed his keys. "Come on."
"No."
"I wasn’t asking."
"I wasn’t agreeing."
"I'll buy food."
Y/N hesitated, and Beau smiled. "Aha."
"No."
"I saw that."
"You didn't see anything, Maxwell."
"The food almost worked,” he jokes, holding the door open for her as they leave the library. She shook her head, smacking his chest as she passed by him.
"It did not."
"I’ll buy you their basket of loaded fries."
Y/N looked away, stuttering in her steps, and Beau gasped. Because unfortunately Malone's fries were incredible, and Beau knew it.
"You're bribing me."
"Correct I am."
"You really fucking suck."
"Fine,” she huffs out, and Beau immediately throws both arms into the air. “I need to get changed.”
Almost an hour later they walked into Malone's, and they both immediately regretted absolutely nothing. Dean and Tucker were already on stage, Dean was singing entirely off-key, but Tucker was somehow worse because he was on key.
Neither seemed concerned, only amused and buzzed, but the crowd was losing their minds.
Garrett looked exhausted, while Hannah was crying laughing, and Allie had her head on the table because she couldn't breathe.
Y/N stopped walking, her face turning up in amusement, she held onto Beau’s bicep. "Now what in the fuck is this,” she laughs out, and Beau sighs with a nod.
"Yeah this is completely normal,” he laughs out, then watching as the song completely collapses after that. Mostly because Dean started laughing too hard to sing.
As they moved through the crowd, Y/N spotted Logan, almost immediately.
Because apparently her brain was programmed to do that now.
He was standing near a group by the stage, laughing at something somebody said with one hand wrapped around a drink, as he was looking completely relaxed.
Somehow that made everything worse, and Beau noticed instantly.
"Oh look,” he says slowly, his tone becoming smug as a smirk finds its way onto his face. She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "Don't."
"I hate you."
Beau laughed, and then steered them toward the table. Garrett spotted them first, opening his arms up with a bright smile. "There they are."
Hannah immediately smiled, pulling Y/N in to sit next to her and Allie. "Finally."
Allie pointed toward the stage, a slight giggle leaving her lips. "You missed Tucker attempting a high note."
"Attempting?"
Garrett points over at her. “Now that's generous."
Y/N laughed as she slid into the empty chair, while Beau sat across from her. Almost immediately Garrett looked between them, and smirked. "Did Beau have to bribe you?"
Y/N froze, and they all looked over at her, then the entire table burst out laughing.
"How the fuck?" Y/N exasperates, her eyes wide with astonishment at how easy he was able to call that out, while Garrett looked smug.
"Easy,’ he chuckles with a shrug. "He just looked way too proud walking in."
“What was the bribe?” Hannah trails off, knowing Beau too well, and Y/N laughs. "Two baskets of loaded fries."
They all burst into giggles. “You’re kidding.”
Y/N pointed at Hannah. “Hey, don’t hate on the loaded fries, for one thing,” she laughs. “And for two, he's manipulative."
"I prefer persuasive."
"You're neither. You’re actually a pain in the ass."
The conversation continued, flowing so easily and comfortably. Exactly like it had become since she met them all. Talking about everything and nothing at the same time. Dean and Tucker finally stumbled offstage to thunderous applause, the two immediately headed toward the table.
"Y/N!" Dean dramatically collapses into the chair beside Beau, winking over at Allie for a moment who rolls her eyes playfully. Then he looked back at Y/N, who was sitting there with an amused smirk. "Did you see greatness?"
"I saw something," she offered with a chuckle, her arms crossed while leaning on the table, Dean pouted, and Tucker looked offended.
The table dissolved into laughter again, joking back and forth with the two for the next hour, the night stayed exactly like that. Dean and Tucker arguing over who had performed worse, while Garrett tried unsuccessfully to restore order.
Allie and Hannah laughing at everyone, Beau had a few wings in his system, and was now acting like a menace. Every now and then, whenever Y/N looked across the bar, she'd catch Logan smiling at something or laughing.
Which Beau absolutely noticed, but for once? He decided to keep his mouth shut, that was at least until the car ride home.
Logan had been halfway through a conversation near the stage when he finally glanced toward the table, and froze.
Y/N was there, sitting between Allie and Hannah, laughing at something Garrett had just said. For a second, he completely lost track of whatever conversation he was having, and the guy beside him noticed immediately. "You're not listening anymore."
Logan’s eyes snapped away from her, and back to his friend. "What?"
"Exactly,” he chuckled back, a knowing smirk on his face. Logan looked back toward the table, and unfortunately, Dean spotted him at the exact same moment. The grin that appeared on Dean's face was genuinely horrifying.
Logan immediately regretted everything, because before he could stop Dean, he stood up and yelled across the table. "John Logan, you better get your cute ass over here,"
Every head turned, including Y/N's. The second she saw Logan, a smile appeared, and somehow that made the walk over all the more nervewracking for Logan..
Logan shook his head as he got closer, he pointed at Dean. “I think it’s time you take a break from the cocktails."
They all erupted into a fit of giggles, Allie goes to stand up, and smugly eye Logan while nodding at her old seat. Right next to Y/N. Dean and Allie were both looking far too pleased about that coincidence. "Sit,” Allie offers sickeningly sweet, as she goes to sit on Dean’s thigh.
Logan glared at them both, only for them to smile wider. He eyes them as he goes to sit down. Y/N immediately tilted her head, giving him a bright smile, pushing down all the nerves that were trying to surface.
Logan smiles back at her before nodding. "I heard Beau had to bribe you to come,” he jokes, making her groan and point at him.
"Don’t even start."
Logan laughed. "What was the bribe?"
"Loaded fries."
"Wow, and in all honesty?" Logan nodded seriously. "That's reasonable."
"Thank you, see," she chuckles. “They all thought I was nuts, but they get me going. Every single time.”
Logan laughed, and Y/N found herself smiling again. The conversation drifted naturally after that. Everyone was talking and eating, but somehow Y/N and Logan kept ending up in little side conversations.
The kind that happened even in a crowded group. "How's practice?" Logan asked, wiping his hands on the napkin.
"Painful,” Y/N groaned dramatically. “Two-a-days ended this week, so we’re all feeling it a little bit more.”
"That bad?"
She throws another fry into her mouth, then side-eyes him with a look. “The pulls were so bad, one of our girls had to carry a mini trash bin with her. Our conditioning coach hates us."
"Sounds familiar,” he chuckles, and she looks at him.
"Hockey conditioning?"
"Unfortunately."
Y/N shook her head, taking a sip of her drink as she hissed. "Couldn't be me."
"You literally voluntarily squat for like seven innings,” he points out, turning his upper body towards her, leaning his elbow on the table while smiling in amusement.
"That’s different."
"Different how?"
"It just is."
Logan laughed. "Solid argument,” he laughs, and she smiles sarcastically. "I know."
The smile she gave him was playful, but he could see the confidence. It was the same confidence she'd had the first day they met, in which Logan found himself grinning right back.
Across the table, Hannah noticed immediately, then nudged over towards Allie. Allie followed her gaze, smiling widening. She snags Dean and Beau’s attention, trying to have them not make it obvious.
Dean turns to look at Beau with a knowing smirk, the two both nodding before they laugh, and go back to their food and conversations.
A little while later, Dean and Tucker got dragged back toward the stage for another karaoke round, which left the table slightly quieter.
Logan leaned back in his chair, eyes looking over at her as she sipped her soda. "You coming to any hockey games?"
Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking over at him. "Was that smooth?"
"Not a bit."
"It sounded like an invitation,” she hums, leaning her chin on his hand, elbow on the tabletop.
Logan nods with a light grin. "It kind of was,” he admits, and Y/N smiled.
"A little confident, I see,” she jokes, making Logan shrug.
"I learned from watching you,” he shot back, not missing the way her smile she gave him grew, and for a second neither looked away. Something felt different now, almost like it was more comfortable. The energy becomes more intentional.
Beau happened to glance over at exactly the wrong moment, or maybe the right moment, because he caught the entire thing.
The eye contact and the smiles when they talked. His protective instincts activated immediately, but he also pushed himself to let them be. He knew Logan, and he knew Y/N.
Y/N blinked, seeing the way Logan kept looking over at her every now and then. The grin he gave her made her roll her eyes, though it didn't hide her smile.
Somehow after their little moments, every conversation after that seemed to carry a little more weight. A little more teasing, where both definitely knew and could that something was there. It was building.
By the time the night started winding down, the tension between them had become obvious enough that even Tucker noticed, which was saying something.
He leaned toward Garrett.
"Have they been flirting all night?" he asks, making Garrett take one look across the table.
Y/N laughing at something Logan had said to her in a volume only they can hear, Logan looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Garret sighed with a nod. "Very much so."
"Wow."
"Yep."
Across from them, neither Y/N nor Logan heard a word, too busy talking to each other, and smiling.
By the time Malone's started turning the lights up, the crowd had thinned considerably, and the karaoke machine had finally been shut off which was probably a mercy for everyone involved.
Tucker had disappeared nearly thirty minutes ago, Dean left with Allie after arguing with Tucker about who sang better, and Garrett had left with Hannah. A few other groups were filing out and somehow Y/N was still sitting at their booth, checking her phone and waiting.
"Unbelievable,” she mumbles to herself, going to pull up Beau's contact, pressing call and letting it ring.
No answer.
Y/N closed her eyes, scoffing to herself. "Of course."
Because she already knew exactly what had happened, knowing Beau had absolutely gotten distracted by a girl she caught him eyeing up by the photobooth. Again.
She dialed him once more, but groaned when it went straight to voicemail.
"Dumbass," she chuckles to herself, knowing full well he would be apologizing up and down in the morning. A bartender called out sweetly to her that they were closing, Y/N sighed, thanking them warmly, and grabbed her jacket.
She'll figure it out. She usually does.
As she headed toward the exit while staring down at her phone, she rounded the corner, only to promptly walk directly into someone.
"Oh!" she squeaked out, as a hand immediately steadied her hips before she could stumble.
"Easy,” A familiar voice hums out, making her look up. She laughed, and used his forearms to steady herself.
"Sorry Logan,” she says. “Apparently I forgot how to walk."
"Good thing I was here,” he jokes back. “I’d hate to have to hear about that in the morning.”
"Such a hero."
"I know,” His grin appeared instantly, and unfortunately it made her smile. Logan glanced around the mostly empty bar. "You waiting for someone?"
"Supposedly."
"Beau?"
"Ding ding ding."
Logan immediately laughed, and that told her everything she needed to know.
"What?"
"Oh nothing."
"Logan,” her grip tightened a tad on his arms as he shook his head.
"No, that's exactly what I expected,” he says back. "You got abandoned, sweetheart."
"No shit,” she laughs back. "He probably got distracted by his photobooth girl."
Logan laughed, not realizing the little squeeze he did on her hips sent shivers down her spine.. "That's terrible."
“Yet, he’s still Beau,” she answers, before she checks her phone again. Still nothing.
Logan looked toward the parking lot, then back at her, and nodded down at her. "I can take you home,” he says simply, like the offer came so casually. Y/N blinked.
"You don't mind?" she asks him, and he shakes his head, already going to take her hand into his.
"Nope,” he says, holding open the door for her as they step outside. "Why would I?"
She smiled warmly up at him as they walked, and for some reason that smile made Logan's stomach do something weird.
"Okay,” she nods back, her answer being curt and simple, making him look back at her with slight surprise.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
His grin widened, unlocking his truck. "Wow."
"What?"
"I thought I'd have to work harder than that,” he joked, and Y/N laughed.
"Sorry to disappoint."
He fake pouts while holding open the passenger door for her. "I had a whole persuasive speech prepared."
"Did you really?” she giggled, and he shook his head. "No."
She shoved his shoulder as he laughed, letting him close the door once she was in.
The drive started easily. The way conversations somehow always seemed to with them, with the radio playing quietly in the background.
"You really thought Beau ditched you?" he starts off, more so in a joking manner, making her snort.
"I know Beau,” She laughed, nodding at him before leaning her head against the seat as she looked at him. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Do hockey players always volunteer as chauffeurs?" she asks, and Logan looks thoughtfully at her for a moment, pretending to think.
"Only for elite softball players."
"Oh, is that the qualification? Does that include a minimum stat average requirement?” she snorted, and Logan groaned, going to shake his head. "Not you too."
"I'm never letting that go,” she laughs, making him huff with a pout.
"That is just wonderful,” he trails off, one hand on the wheel while the other sat comfortably on the gearstick.
"You should've seen your face when Dean exposed you,” she adds, shaking her head. “Totally worth it.”
"I wanted to disappear."
Y/N laughed, and Logan couldn't help noticing how easy it was to make her laugh, or the fact of how much he liked it.
The conversation continued, whether it was about classes, sports, embarrassing stories.
By the time they were halfway across town, it felt less like getting to know each other and more like continuing a conversation they'd somehow already started weeks ago.
"You know," Y/N said, she turned to face him fully, a small smile on her face. "You're different than I expected."
Logan glanced over, a confused expression on his face, leaning forward a bit. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good,” she assured him, watching as his smile appeared. "I thought you'd be quieter."
"I am quiet,” he snorts, and she gives him a look before looking outside. "No."
"No?"
"Not around people you're comfortable with."
Logan blinked because that was surprisingly accurate. "You figured that out already?"
She looks back at him with a look he can’t read. "I just tend to pay attention is all,” Y/N shrugged. Something about the way she said it made the air shift slightly, and Logan noticed.
Y/N noticed him noticing, and neither looked away immediately. Suddenly the inside of the truck felt a little smaller, even a little warmer.
Then Logan laughed softly. "Okay, now I know why Beau likes you."
Y/N smiled. "He loves me,” she fakes a dramatic sigh. “He'd be devastated if I disappeared."
"He'd put your face on milk cartons."
Y/N burst out into a fit of laughs, her eyes flickering between his own, soon the moment had passed. Though not completely.
Eventually they pulled up outside her house, the porch light was still on, and there were a couple cars sitting in the driveway.
Everything looked normal, she turned to face him one more time. "Thanks for the ride."
"Anytime."
Y/N smiled, and then leaned over the center counsel, pressing her lips firmly onto his cheek, then headed toward the house. Logan froze at the warmth from her lips, feeling the ingles they left behind, his face heating up from her touch as he watched her walk up the front steps.
She turned back once, giving him a sly smile, before unlocking her front door and stepping inside. Once the door had closed, he felt his breath fall out of his mouth, making him bite his lip as he thought back to her, and how they had been all night.
“Fuck, what’re you doing to me,” he chuckles lightly to himself, then finally pulled away.
Although, he didn’t end up getting very far, feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. He glanced down when he hit a red light.
Y/N.
A smile immediately appeared as he opened the message.
Y/N
Are you still nearby?
Logan frowned, then typed back.
Logan
Yeah. Why?
Her response came almost immediately.
Y/N
I may have a slight problem.
Logan
What kind of problem?
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, and then reappeared. Logan stared, and then laughed at her response.
Y/N
The kind where I walked into my living room and immediately walked back out.
Logan
Roommate?
Y/N
And apparently company.
Logan
How bad?
Y/N
I need bleach for my eyes, Logan
I don’t even know how they managed the position he had her in.
Logan nearly choked laughing, and then the next message arrived immediately.
Y/N
I'm sitting on my front steps right now. I was going to see if you were up for a late night adventure.
Maybe ice cream, commit a hate crime against Dean or Beau. Or just keep a girl company
He shook his head. Poor girl.
Then another text.
Y/N
Please laugh quietly.
That was too late, as he was already laughing. Finally he replied back, with a wide smile on his face.
Logan
How about a place to stay?
There was a brief pause as her bubbles kept disappearing and reappearing for a bit.
Y/N
Maybe.
Logan didn't even hesitate with his next message, his heart beating faster.
Logan
Come stay at the hockey house.
Y/N
Seriously? You don't mind?
Logan
Not even a little.
There was another pause, but longer this time.
Y/N
You're sure?
Logan smiled, shaking his head.
Logan
Y/N.
Y/N
Yeah?
Logan
I've had to unclog our pipes because Dean flushed too many condoms.
Y/N
That's horrifying.
Logan
Exactly.
Y/N
And?
Logan
Nothing your roommates are doing can be worse than living with these idiots.
So when I say I want you to come stay, I’m not asking
A laughing emoji appeared, followed by her response.
Y/N
Fair point.
As Logan grinned when he made a U-turn, another text appeared from Y/N.
Thank you :)
His smile softened.
Anytime.
For some reason, he found himself very glad he'd decided to wait until she got inside before driving away. Logan was back in front of her house less than five minutes later.
Y/N was still sitting on the front steps, her arms wrapped around her knees, probably trying very hard not to think about what she'd just accidentally witnessed in her own living room.
The second his truck pulled up, she stood, walking quickly back to his truck as he pushed the door open, Logan rolled down the window.
"Still traumatized?" he jokes, making her grimace.
"Deeply."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Twelve."
Logan laughed as she climbed into the passenger seat. The moment the door shut, she pointed at him, seeing the look on his face. "Don't."
"I'm not saying anything!" he wheezed out, trying to muster his laughs.
"You were absolutely about to say something."
"Oh yes I was,” he admits watching as Y/N groaned.
Logan's grin widened. "What did you even walk in on?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Did he have her upside down?”
"LOGAN."
He nearly doubled over laughing, watching as she hid her face in her hands, trying to push away the images.
"That's not a no."
"I will jump out of this car."
"Who am I supposed to cheer for at softball then if you’re in a body cast?" he fake whines, and her eyes playfully glare at him. Unfortunately, she laughed a few moments later, which only encouraged him.
"Poor thing."
"I need therapy."
"You need different roommates."
"Also true."
Logan shook his head as he pulled away from the curb. "You know Beau is never letting them live this down."
"Oh he won’t be finding out, over my dead body."
They both continued laughing about it, as Y/N rested her head against the window. The exhaustion from the week finally caught up, and Logan noticed immediately.
"You look tired,” he pointed out, and she laughed softly.
"I am tired."
"Then sleep in."
She shook her head. "I'll be gone before you wake up."
Logan glanced over, frowning instantly. "What?"
"I'll head home early,” she shrugs. “So you don't have to stress about getting me out of there.” she jokes, and Logan shakes his head.
"No."
Y/N blinked. "No?"
"No."
"You don't get a vote,” She laughed.
"I absolutely do when it’s my house, and my guest."
"You don't have to-"
"That's not how voting works." he interrupts, watching Y/N roll her eyes, and Logan smiles.
Then his voice softened slightly. "Seriously, just get some sleep. I know how two-a-days can get."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
The answer came immediately, like he'd already decided. Her breathing froze for a moment at his words, watching as he looked at her for a few moments, then back at the road.
Y/N frowned. "What?"
"You've looked exhausted all week, Y/N," he points out. “Mentally and physically. So sleep as much as you need, the house will be quiet. With being a full-time student, working, and balancing a college sport, you need to rest all of you. Sleep all day if you have to, don’t stress about leaving.”
She froze slightly, because that surprised her.
"You noticed?" her voice was a bit softer, a tone he has not yet heard. Logan looked back at her confused.
"Yeah, of course,” he says softly. “You work hard as a player, and the way you play is a gift. It will go places, but you need sleep, sweetheart.”
Y/N looked away, something uncomfortable twisted in her chest.
Because she hadn't expected that. Not the noticing, or the concern. Before she could stop herself, the words slipped out.
"Whatever you say,” she muttered, her gaze turning to look forward, missing the way Logan frowned.
"What?"
She shrugged, pursing her lips. "It's just softball,” it came out like a reflex. The second she said it, she hated it.
Because it wasn't just softball, it was her sport. Her passion. It was something she'd worked her whole life for. A job profession she was working into. She had scouts from AUSL and Team USA on her case, watching and sending multiple deals her way.
Yet somehow those words still existed in her head, like they belonged there.
Logan glanced over, his expression immediately changing.
"Don't do that,” he says immediately, shaking his head. Y/N blinked.
"What?"
"That."
She looked confused, Logan kept one hand on the wheel. "Don't talk about yourself like that." His answer came so fast she almost missed it, as Logan's brow furrowed.
Because her reaction wasn't what he'd expected, not at all. Her confident demeanor had slipped slightly, Logan seeing something flicker in her eyes.
"You okay?"
She laughed softly with a nod, but it sounded sad. "Yeah, I’m fine."
"No,” he says slowly. “That was something. The way you said it, I can tell.”
The concern in his voice caught her off guard. She contemplated with herself for a bit, letting out a small sigh. "I knew someone who used to say stuff like that,” she admits, letting the words hang there.
The truck suddenly feeling smaller, Logan's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. Y/N looked out the window.
"They said it so much it stuck with me,” she says once more, bringing her legs up to her chest. “I have and am currently still working on it, but most days are harder than others. Especially when things don’t go as planned.” She shrugged, like she'd already gotten used to it.
Logan noticed, and that realization genuinely upset him because she was saying it so casually. Like she'd spent far too long hearing it, eventually started believing parts of it.
"You know that's not true, right?" he said softly, and Y/N smiled faintly.
"Now I do,” she says with a nod. “I’m working on it.”
Logan nodded, letting them sit in the silence for a few moments.
"For what it's worth?" he spoke up once again, she glanced over. "I think you're incredible."
The words came out before he could stop them, and Y/N froze. She saw the complete honesty behind his eyes, the way he wasn’t hesitating, but he looked nervous. He didn't take it back though, and somehow that made it even more real.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfy. It felt meaningful. Finally Y/N smiled, one that was soft and real. "Thank you."
Logan smiled back. "Anytime."
The hockey house was surprisingly quiet when they arrived, most of the lights were off. The chaos temporarily slept or they were elsewhere.
A rare phenomenon.
Logan led her inside. "Welcome back to the zoo."
Y/N laughed, letting Logan lock up behind them before they climbed the stairs, eventually reaching Logan's room. The second they stepped inside, he headed straight for his dresser.
No hesitation whatsoever. "What are you doing?" she asks with an amused look on her face, and he looks at her for a moment.
"Grabbing clothes."
"For who?"
He gave her a look, and Y/N laughed. "Right."
A few moments later he handed her a t-shirt and sweatpants, both obviously way too big.
"These okay?” he asks her softly, she could see the nervousness behind his eyes flickering, and she nods.
“Absolutely,” she answers, grabbing them from his hands, then Logan immediately grabs a pillow.
Y/N frowned. "What are you doing now?"
He motions towards the door. "I'm gonna crash in Garrett's room."
She blinked. "What?"
"You take my room, I go to Garrett’s,” he chuckles.
"Logan."
"What?"
"This is your room."
"Glad you have eyes," he jokes, making her flip him off with a chuckle.
"So I’m saying,” she says walking towards him. “Sleep in your room, I can head downstairs."
"I'm not kicking you out."
"You're not kicking me out, I’m saying I will go sleep on the couch,” Y/N laughed as Logan crossed his arms, looking entirely too stubborn. She pointed at him. "No."
"No?" he trails off, stalking closer to her, now inches apart. She looks up at him, not backing down from her answer, smiling at him while shaking her head.
"No."
"Sweetheart, you can have my room."
"You deserve your bed."
"So do you."
"Logan."
"Y/N."
She rolled her eyes while he grinned. She hated how much she liked that grin. "You're impossible."
"I've been told that,” he mutters back softly, letting his eyes flicker down to her lips for a second. She must’ve caught his glance, because she bit her bottom lip after.
They stood there staring at each other, both refusing to budge.
The smile tugging at her lips grew, and Logan noticed immediately. He smiled right back, and she got closer to his lips, barely brushing.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he says before, kissing her nose and backing toward the door. Something in her chest tightened, it was the good kind.
The dangerous kind.
And judging by the look Logan gave her, and the way he was looking at her, he felt it too. Both of them ended up smiling long after the door closed.
The hockey house was completely silent. Just darkness and complete quiet.
Y/N woke up with a sharp inhale, and for a second she didn't know where she was. Her heart was pounding, and her chest was tight. The remnants of the dream are still clinging to her.
Not even a dream, really. A memory disguised as one.
Her ex's voice. The same comments, and the same criticism. His screams at her, his hands on her. It was flooding her mind that night. Every word and every wrong touch she'd spent months trying to forget.
Somehow her brain had decided to replay it. It had gotten more and more prominent as week passed by. She sat up slowly, the oversized Briar Hockey t-shirt Logan had given her hanging off one shoulder, wiping away the wetness on her face underneath her eyes. Her pulse gradually slowed, and the room came back into focus.
Logan's room.
The hockey house.
Safe.
Everything was okay.
Still, she knew she wasn't getting back to sleep anytime soon.
With a sigh, she climbed out of bed and quietly made her way towards the door.
A few minutes later she was standing in the kitchen, one of the dim lights over the counter was on. A glass of water in her hands as she found herself leaning against the kitchen island
The house remained silent, as she stood there, trying to shake the lingering feeling.
Trying to convince herself she wasn't back there, and that she wasn't that same version of herself.
The one who apologized for everything, who constantly second-guessed herself. She took a slow sip of water, eyes going into a daze.
She forced herself to think about something else. Anything else.
Softball.
Her team.
Beau.
The idiots she'd somehow become friends with.
Allie.
Hannah.
Garrett.
Dean being incapable of acting normal for more than three seconds. Tucker somehow surviving adulthood.
Logan.
A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. The smile faded slightly when she realized she'd been thinking about him a lot lately, more than she'd intended.
More than she probably should.
"You okay?" A soft voice says, which nearly made her jump. Y/N spun around, seeing Logan standing in the doorway.
Sweatpants, and messy hair.
He was clearly half asleep with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the doorway, and somehow still looking concerned.
She let out a breath. "You scared me."
"Sorry,” he chuckles, his voice quiet. He stepped further into the kitchen. "Couldn't sleep?"
Y/N hesitated, and then shrugged. "Something like that,” she answers back before taking another sip of her water.
Logan studied her for a moment, taking in her appearance. The way his t-shirt on her figure was sliding off her shoulder, her tired expression, hair a bit messy. She looked gorgeous.
His expression immediately softened, because now that he was closer, he could tell something was wrong. "You sure?"
Y/N looked down at her glass, knowing that the silence answered for her. Logan walked over and leaned against the counter beside her.
Not too close, but it was just enough. After a moment he spoke again. "Bad dream?"
“Yeah,” she answered as she looked over, a little surprised. "How'd you know?"
He shrugged. "You looked like I used to,” he admits, looking between her eyes, then studying her facial features. The answer caught her off guard.
She glanced away, and then nodded once. "Yeah,” she hums. The kitchen grew quiet again, neither rushing the conversation. Eventually Y/N let out a breath. "I haven't had one in a while."
Logan nodded, like he understood exactly what she meant. "The kind you hoped were gone?"
A small laugh escaped her. "Exactly,” she says. “Beau used to have to hold me. After I first started getting them. Him or my roommate did, otherwise I couldn’t relax. They were going away after a while, but not as permanent as I’d hoped.”
He was quiet for a second, and then asked gently, "Wanna talk about it?"
Y/N considered it, then shook her head.
"Not yet."
"That’s okay," he assures her softly, and she looks at him. He nods at her reassuringly. There was no pressure to push to talk. He was just showing he was open and understanding.
Which somehow made her chest ache a little, because she still wasn't entirely used to that. After another minute, Logan straightened slightly, nodding his head towards the stairs.
"Come on."
Y/N frowned, and Logan just held out his hand for her to take. "What?"
"I’ve got an idea,” he says, smiling lightly when she takes his hand.
"That's ominous."
He smiled.
"A little."
A minute later they were back upstairs in Logan's room. Y/N looked confused.
"Logan,” she says, and he goes to lay down in his bed. He looks up at her.
"Come here,” he says softly, patting the spot next to him. Y/N understood immediately. She padded over towards where he was laying, and crawled in next to him. He looked at her. “Do you trust me?”
She nods, not having to think twice, and he nods back at her. Logan doesn’t waste another second laying down, slithering his arms around her waist to pull her to him. Y/N’s entire body relaxed the second his arms wrapped around her, almost like she could feel the anxiety washing away.
They laid together for a while with neither of them saying anything. Y/N held onto Logan tighter, closing her eyes with a sigh. "You don't have to be alone with it,” he says softly, making her heart squeeze unexpectedly.
The simple sincerity of it, and the complete lack of judgment. The house is still quiet.
Safe.
Eventually she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her hands tightening around his hoodie sleeves. "I forgot how much I hated those dreams."
Logan nodded, a long pause between them both. "For what it's worth?" he says, Y/N glanced over her shoulder, looking back at him. He was already looking down at her. "They don't get to decide who you are."
The words were simple, but they hit harder than he intended.
Because they weren't really about the dream, and both of them knew it.
Y/N looked down, and then smiled slightly. The tension in her chest easing a little more, piece by piece, just until eventually exhaustion started winning. Logan noticed immediately, tucking his face into her neck. "Better?"
Y/N nodded. "Yeah,” she sighs with a hum, letting her body fully relax into him.
"Good,” he hums back, letting the room grow quiet again. Comfortable. Eventually she settled back against his chest, eyes slowly beginning to feel too heavy to keep open.
At some point they both drifted off, her nightmare forgotten, not even trying to hint at returning. The rest of the world is quiet. For the first time in a long time, Y/N slept peacefully.
Logan woke up to his phone vibrating against the nightstand, and for a moment he didn't move. He was still half asleep.
Then another vibration.
And another.
A groan escaped him as he grabbed his phone.
Garrett
Practice got moved up.
Coach is feeling evil
Dean
GET UP FUCKER
IF I'M AWAKE YOU SHOULD SUFFER TOO
Logan immediately regretted checking his messages, because then he became aware of something else. The warmth wrapped around him. His eyes drifted over, and instantly a smile appeared.
Y/N was still asleep ,curled up next to him, beneath the blanket. Hair was a complete mess, but she was looking more peaceful than she'd looked all night.
Logan's smile somehow got bigger, which was ridiculous. Yet here he was staring, just like he did at her softball game.
After another moment he shifted slightly closer, putting his phone away and snaking his arms back around her. "Y/N."
Nothing, the girl was fast asleep.
He smiled, and then gently brushed his lips against her shoulder. "Hey."
A soft groan, which was progress.
"Y/N,” he hums in a soft voice, watching as her eyes slowly opened.
Immediately squinting at him, sleep still evident. "What time is it?"
"Too early,” he answers, his chin on her shoulder, she made a face.
"Rude."
"I agree."
Her eyes drifted closed again, holding onto him tighter. Logan laughed quietly, his heart squeezing at how cuddly she was in the morning. He made sure to take mental note of it. "Unfortunately, I have practice."
"Worst sentence ever,” she says with a groan that escapes her.
"I know,” he answers back softly.
"Skip it."
"I would if I valued my life less."
That made her laugh. It was barely there and it was a sleepy one, her face still half buried in the pillow. Logan smiled. "I have to go,” he trails off softly, squeezing her once more before he slowly unwrapped his body from her own.
Y/N blinked up at him, and then frowned slightly. "Okay,” the confusion in her voice made him laugh.
"You don't have to leave,” he says while getting up from his bed, and she pauses.
"What?"
"You can stay,” Logan shrugged as he gathered his hockey bag and gear. He said it like it wasn't a big deal, and like his heart wasn't doing cartwheels. "Sleep in."
Y/N looked surprised. "Seriously?"
"Yeah."
A small, tired smile appeared. Logan nearly forgot how to function, and then he made the mistake of speaking honestly. "I kinda like waking up and seeing you here."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, making them both freeze.
Then Y/N smiled, and it was the kind that made his chest hurt. "Promise?"
Logan blinked, and then nodded with a grin. “Pinky.”
“Good,” she mumbles, snuggling herself back into his sheets. "Because I kinda liked waking up and seeing you too."
Well fuck, that was going to take everything in him not to play hooky for practice this morning.
Practice was awful, and not because of the actual practice. It was because Logan couldn't stop smiling, which immediately became a problem.
The second he stepped into the locker room, Dean narrowed his eyes. "What the fuck?"
"What?" Logan says, adjusting his skates.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
Garrett looked up from tying his skates, Logan looking back. Garrett narrowed his eyes, and then paused. “You are never this happy when there’s a six am practice.”
Tucker immediately looked over, and then frowned. "Why does he look happy?"
The entire room got quiet, because they all knew that Logan never looked happy before sunrise. This was deeply concerning.
Dean stood while pointing dramatically. "What happened?"
Logan looked back down while fixing his gear. "Nothing."
"You’re the worst fucking liar, Johnny Boy."
"Nothing happened."
Garrett folded his arms, a knowing and smug smirk on his face. "You're glowing, dude. It’s fucking scary," he giggles, making Logan flip him off with an eyeroll. "I'm not glowing."
"You kind of are."
Logan buried his face in his hands, knowing that the interrogation would not stop all morning.
Thirty minutes later it somehow got worse.
Because Dean noticed something, stopping mid skate. "Wait."
Everyone looked over, Logan froze, and Dean gasped. The loud dramatic kind, because Dean always caught on, somehow. "Wait."
"What now?"
Dean pointed. "Y/N."
The room froze, and Logan immediately knew where this was going. Dean’s eyes lit up. “It has to do with Y/N! I fucking knew it!”
"Oh no."
"OH YES,” Dean nearly lost an edge trying to skate backwards toward him. "Tell me I'm wrong."
"You're wrong,” Logan scoffs, trying to hide the bright red that his face was becoming. Maybe he could blame it on being all sweaty. "He's wrong," Garrett agreed immediately.
Dean pointed at him, then frowns. "Thank you. Wait-"
"No," Garrett interrupted. "I'm saying you're wrong because it definitely isn't just Y/N."
The entire group collectively made the connection, and then they stopped skating. Coach blew his whistle from the other end of the ice, but nobody cared. Tucker's eyes widened.
"Wait."
"No," Logan warned, pointing his stick over at his friend. Tucker’s wicked grin grew more and more.
"Did you spend time with Y/N last night?"
"I-No."
"You hesitated."
"I did not."
"You literally did,” Tucker wheezed out, putting his hands up in shock, and Dean's jaw dropped.
"No fucking way."
Logan closed his eyes. "Dean-"
"You slept with Y/N!"
The entire rink went silent.
Several heads turned, and Coach immediately blew the whistle again. "WHAT DID I JUST SAY ABOUT STANDING AROUND?"
Nobody moved still, because Dean was already having a breakdown. "You little shit, you did!"
"No I did not!” Logan groans.
"You absolutely did."
"I didn't."
"Then why are you smiling?" Tucker laughs, a smirk thrown his way as he crosses his arms, and Logan shrugs.
"I don't know!"
"Nobody smiles this much naturally. Especially at six in the fucking morning, at an early prac,” Dean snickers, pointing over at Logan while shaking his head.
Garrett skated over. "You know what?" he said thoughtfully. "Dean actually has a point."
"See? Thank you!" Dean nods, making Logan flip him off.
"I hate both of you."
Tucker looked horrified. "Wait,” he trails off as everyone groans. "No, seriously."
Tucker pointed. "He's lying," Tucker announced. Logan froze, and the entire team noticed. Dean looked ready to explode.
"He's absolutely lying," Garrett agreed.
Logan groaned. "Can we practice?" Logan looked like he wanted to jump into the ice and disappear.
"No," Dean said, ignoring Coach's whistle blowing from across the rink. "So where is she?"
Logan nearly dropped the puck. "What?"
"Y/N."
"What about her?"
Dean smirked. "You know exactly what about her,” he trails off, and Logan rolls his eyes. Garrett suddenly snapped his fingers pointing. "Malone's."
"Remember last night? She showed up with Beau, he was her ride,” Garrett says, looking too pleased with his brain slowly clicking into place. Logan rolled his eyes, seeing his friends turn to look at him.
“Beau left with photoshoot chick,” Dean trails off, squinting his eyes at Logan. He shrugs, like it was not a big deal. "Relax," Logan said. "He didn't leave her stranded. He left with some girl from Malone's, and I brought her home."
"Home?"
"She needed a ride."
Dean looked like he'd just discovered buried treasure. "You were alone."
"Dean.”
“So you brought her home?” Tucker asks with a curious expression on his face.
“Yes, her house,” he says, shooting a puck elsewhere. The boys immediately quieted.
"Okay," Garrett said, nodding slowly. "Reasonable, but there’s more. I can tell.”
Logan lets out a huff and nods. "Her roommate had a guy over,” he starts, and Dean furrows his eyebrows.
"Like a boyfriend?"
"No."
"Ah a hookup guy,” Dean nodded.
"The hookup guy."
Logan rubbed his face. "She walked in on them," he admits, and Garrett started laughing again.
"Oh, that's brutal,” he says between laughs, and Logan shrugs. "Apparently they didn't hear her come in."
Tucker cringed. "Oh no."
“What position were they in?” Dean says with an eyebrow raise, which got him a puck to the shins. Logan continued talking.
"So she texted me,” he said simply, and Dean's eyebrows shot up.
"She texted you?"
Logan immediately regretted saying that, and the entire group caught it.
"Interesting,” Dean trails off with a nod. “Very interesting."
"Shut up, Dean,” Logan groans, and then Garret cuts back in
"So she texted you," Garrett continued, "and then?"
"I picked her up."
"And then?"
"I brought her back to the house,” Logan says, like it wasn’t already obvious, but he catches the gleeful look on his best friend’s face.
"And then?"
Logan glared, while Garrett looked delighted. “And then she stayed over.” Dean nearly crashed into Tucker.
"Y/N stayed over?" he yells out, making Logan give him a crazed look.
"Keep your fucking voice down!"
"Why?"
"Because other guys are staring!"
"Good!"
Logan groaned, hearing Coach blow the whistle again, and still, nobody listened. Garrett was laughing too hard to breathe. "She actually stayed over?"
"Nothing happened,” Logan says, shrugging while skating away, but the boys followed.
"That's not what we asked,” Tucker points out, and Logan eyes him.
"Tucker."
"Logan."
Dean skated closer. "Did she sleep in your room?"
"No-” The answer came too fast.
Everyone gasped, Dean pointing at him with his stick. "HE'S LYING."
"I'm not lying!"
"You answered that way too quickly!” Garrett wheezes.
"Because I knew you fucks would ask!"
Tucker looked genuinely confused. Logan finally realized there was no escaping this. He didn't answer fast enough.
Garrett's eyes widened, smile doing the same thing. "So that’s a no."
Dean's mouth dropped open. “Logan?” he trails off knowingly. Logan immediately started skating away.
"NO." he yells back, but the boys chased him.
"John Logan!"
"Leave me alone."
"LOGAN."
Dean caught up first, skating in front of him to cut him off. "She didn't sleep in your room."
Logan stayed silent, and the screaming started instantly. “No fucking way!” Dean looked ready to pass out. "She slept in your room!"
"It wasn't like that."
"You shared a bed," Tucker adds.
"There was nowhere else to sleep,” he argues, and looks at them all. "We slept."
"You shared a bed-”
"Dean, I swear-"
Dean looked seconds away from tears. "Y/N. In your bed."
"Yes."
Coach started skating toward them. Fast, but none of them noticed. Tucker was grinning. "Oh shit."
"What?" Logan groans out.
"If she came back from Malone’s that means she had to sleep in something else."
Logan didn't answer, and the boys froze. Dean's eyes widened to impossible proportions.
"Oh boy, you are absolutely fucking smitten,” Logan immediately knew he'd screwed up but walking in as chipper as he did. He couldn’t help it. Coach finally reached them.
"What exactly is so fucking fascinating that you've all forgotten how to play hockey?" Nobody answered, because then Dean pointed directly at Logan.
"Y/N slept at the house."
Coach blinked. "...Okay?"
The team collectively stared, and Coach looked between them. Then Logan, and then back at them. Realization hit, and Coach shook his head. "You idiots are acting like they got married."
"They basically did."
"They absolutely did not,” Logan spoke back, throwing a puck at Dean’s head. Garrett wiped tears from his eyes.
"Logan, buddy,” Garret snickers.
"No."
"Buddy."
"No."
"When are you planning on admitting you're in love with her?"
Logan nearly choked, and the entire team erupted, but judging by how red his face got? Nobody needed an answer.
The rest of practice was torture.
Every drill, skate, or water break. Somebody brought it up. Dean was now convinced Beau orchestrated the entire thing. "He definitely had to have abandoned her on purpose."
"He did not,” Logan says between breaths, sitting on the bench while drinking some water.
"He absolutely did,” Garrett cuts in, coming in from the ice."The evidence is compelling."
"There is no evidence," Logan frowns in confusion. “You guys are fucking insane.”
"He's her best friend,” Tucker says, walking down to sit on the bench next to Dean. "He's playing matchmaker."
Logan wanted new teammates. Immediately.
By the time they got back to the hockey house everyone was starving, and ready to collapse Then they opened the door, and stopped.
The smell hit first. Breakfast.
Actual breakfast.
Not protein bars, or cereal. Real food.
Dean almost looked emotional. "Is that bacon?"
They followed the smell into the kitchen, and froze.
Because Y/N was standing at the stove, music playing, in what looked like her workout clothes.
Her hair was pulled back, Logan not wasting another second to scan her figure. She had on his oversized shirt from last night still, tucked under what guessed was her sports bra, so it looked a bit cropped.
The workout spandex shorts hugged her body right, showing off her softball ass and legs, his thought immediately thinking about how she could probably strangle him with them while he was tongue deep in between her-
"You fucking cook?" Tucker gasps, and Y/N turns around with a large smile of amusement.
"I think she needs to move in.”
"Marry me."
"Immediately."
Y/N laughed. "Good morning."
Logan stopped walking, because somehow she looked even prettier than she had last night. He felt like he was malfunctioning. Which didn't seem fair.
He didn’t know if it was her outfit, her smile, or the fact that she was casually making breakfast for everyone. He just knew he was doomed.
Dean noticed immediately, smirking wide. "Oh."
Logan glared, and Dean grinned. "I saw that."
"Saw what?" Logan says, playing dumb before going to drop his bag down.
"The look."
"There was no look."
"There really was,” Garrett cut in and nodded, and Y/N looked between them.
"You guys good?" she chuckles, setting down the plates on the counter.
"Very."
Logan wanted to die.
A few minutes later everyone was gathered around the kitchen, eating and talking while trying not to inhale food.
Y/N laughed. "I figured you'd be back around now,” she explains, when they asked her about breakfast. Dean pointed dramatically. "You made all this?"
"Yeah,” she shrugs. “I woke up and thought you guys might need the fuel.”
"You're an angel,” Dean moans out, taking another bite of food.
"That's what I keep saying," Garrett added, and Logan groaned.
Shitheads. All of them.
Then Y/N shrugged, pouring herself a smoothie she made. "I also used your guys’ backyard setup, if that was alright,” she says, and everyone paused.
"Our what?"
"The lifting area? In the backyard?"
Garrett blinked. "You worked out?"
"Yeah?” she trails off. “Sorry-”
“Don’t apologize, I think we just kind of forget you lift too,” Tucker says immediately, a wide smile on his face. The hockey players looked horrified especially, because she had voluntarily exercised before breakfast.
Psychotic behavior.
"Why?" Dean chuckles. “Voluntarily before noon?”
Y/N laughed. "Because I have practice later."
Dean looked personally offended. "She's one of those people."
"One of what people?"
"The productive ones,” Dean shot back, and she flicked him off, Garrett sighed dramatically while shaking his head. "Disgusting."
The table laughed, and then Y/N pointed at them, sipping on her smoothie. "Actually."
"What?"
"I rent field time sometimes,” she explains, and nods. Everyone looked over. "You guys should come."
Dean blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah, definitely," she nods. “Beau comes and helps me practice all the time. I can show you guys the works.”
The room immediately exploded, agreeing and beaming with excitement about getting to hang at the fields. Then Tucker casually looked toward Logan, then toward Y/N, and back toward Logan.
A dangerous smile appears.”Hm,” he trails off, making her smile in a confused way.
"What?"
"If he doesn't ask you out soon, I will."
The entire table erupted, Dean pointed dramatically. "Same."
Y/N narrows her eyes at Dean. “You have Allie, don’t even try that.”
Dean shrugs. “Honey, when I tell you she would try to beat me to it, she would. She wants you more than me,” he jokes, making her snort.
“Tell her give me a time and place,” she shot back, and his mouth dropped.
“Do not! She is mine, L/N!!” he says when standing up, Garrett palms his face.
"Sit down."
"No."
Y/N was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, meanwhile Logan looked ready to throw everyone through a wall. Which only made the group laugh harder, and sitting across the table, Y/N couldn't stop smiling.
Especially when she caught Logan smiling right back.
Breakfast somehow turned into everyone lingering around the kitchen long after they finished eating.
Nobody seemed particularly interested in leaving, partly because the food was good, and partly because Y/N had somehow become one of their favorite people to have around.
Especially because watching Logan attempt to act normal around her was becoming a sport. A sport everyone enjoyed.
"Okay," Dean announced, leaning back against his chair. "New proposal."
"Oh no," Garrett muttered, hissing at his friend’s words, which made Y/N laugh. "That's usually how bad ideas start."
Dean flipped off Garrett, and then pointed dramatically toward her. "You should just move in."
The room exploded, and Y/N nearly choked on her drink.
"What?"
"I'm serious!”
"No, you're not."
"I am."
Garrett nodded thoughtfully. "The food quality has increased substantially."
"Hey!” Tucker calls out. Y/N points at him.
“He’s the chef of the kitchen, best food I have ever had was from that man,” she points out, and Tucker smiled sweetly at her
"I'm just saying,” Dean jokes, but then he pointed toward Logan. "And look how happy he'd be."
Logan immediately threw a grape at him, and Dean ducked still laughing. Y/N shook her head. The room dissolved into laughter again.
Then Dean's phone started ringing, causing everyone to look over. Dean glanced at the screen, and immediately grinned up at the group. He slid over to answer.
“Goodmorning, sunshine,” Dean says in a fake warm voice. turned the phone around.
"Dean?" Beau’s voice comes in, a couple quiet snickers and snorts leave their mouths.
"Unfortunately,” he laughs, the room got quiet with everyone listening. Y/N immediately narrowed her eyes because she knew that look. Dean was planning something.
On speakerphone, Beau sounded completely normal. "Have you seen Y/N?"
Dean exchanged a look with Y/N, and she gave him a knowing look. "Actually,” he trails off, while Y/N covers her face to prevent from laughing. Beau immediately sounded suspicious.
"What?"
Dean leaned back in his chair. "Funny story."
"Dean."
"The boys and I were actually gonna ask you something."
Silence, and then Beau spoke. "What did you do?"
The room lost it, trying their best to keep quiet because knowing that Beau immediately assumed the worst made it even funnier. Dean looked offended. "Nothing!"
"Liar."
Garrett jumped in. "Did you know how she got home?" he asks, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. The line went completely silent, and Y/N nearly fell out of her chair trying to contain her laughs.
Because she knew exactly what was happening. Meanwhile Beau was rapidly approaching cardiac arrest. "What do you mean?"
Dean glanced around, trying not to laugh. "What do you mean what do I mean?"
"Dean."
The panic was immediate, and real.
Tucker decided to help, which made everything worse. "We haven't seen her since last night."
Y/N buried her face in her hands, while the boys were crying. On speaker, Beau sounded ready to drive through a wall. "What do you mean you haven't seen her?!"
Garrett had to bite his hand, Dean couldn't breathe, and Tucker nearly fell out of his chair.
Then, the call disconnected.
"He hung up."
"He absolutely hung up."
"He's in full panic mode."
"One hundred percent."
Less than ten seconds later, Y/N's phone started ringing. The entire table lost it again.
"Answer it,” Logan chuckled, and she shook her head. She froze, not knowing how to react.
She looked at the screen.
Beau
"Oh this is gonna be good."
Y/N waited, till it rang a few times, and then answered. "Hello?"
"Where are you?"
Y/N smiled innocently. "Huh?"
"Y/N."
"What?"
"Where in the fucking shit are you?"
She looked around the table, seeing everyone listening. Everyone trying not to laugh. "Interesting question."
"Y/N."
"Very philosophical, if you think about it."
"Y/N,” he says, now realizing she was fucking with him. She grinned.
"Could anybody truly know where they are?" she asks, and Beau made a noise that sounded genuinely homicidal.
The entire kitchen dissolved, and even Logan was laughing now. Finally Y/N took pity on him.
"I'm fine,” she laughs out, and then there was a pause. Then a very long exhale.
"You’re a little shit,” he says into the phone, which made Y/N smile slightly. Because for all his chaos, Beau genuinely worried. "You're unbelievable."
"I learned it from you,” she shot back. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
“You left me at Malone’s,” she shot. “I could’ve been kidnapped.”
The argument was automatic, and then Beau suddenly paused. “Y/N you’ve walked home with one shoe, and a forgotten purse before,” he chuckles, making her snort. “Plus, I knew Logan was still there."
The room immediately got quiet.
"Oh?" she lets out, looking over at Logan for a split second, who looked just as intrigued. A small smirk playing on his lips.
Beau groaned. "I knew he'd take you home."
Every head turned toward Logan immediately.
Dean slapped the table, pointing at Logan. "I FUCKING KNEW IT."
Garrett pointed dramatically. We so fucking called it at practice."
Beau groaned louder. "I fucking hate all of you."
Y/N laughed. "So you did abandon me," she trails off and looks at Logan. He smirks at her and mouths ‘I was right’ and she sticks her tongue out at him.
"I strategically relocated,” he answers back, earring an eyeroll from her. “You keep rolling your eyes, they’re gonna get stuck that way,” Beau calls out, her mouth dropping in awe.
"Rude."
"It worked, though didn’t it?"
"Still rude."
A pause, and then Beau asked her another question. "So where are you?"
Y/N smiled. "I'm at the hockey house."
The silence on the other end was incredible. “No shit, seriously? He brought you home?”
The room exploded where Dean actually stood up, Garrett nearly fell out of his chair, and Tucker was screaming. Y/N couldn't stop laughing.
Meanwhile Logan had buried his face in his hands because apparently this was his life now.
Beau sounded entirely too pleased with himself. "I am a fucking genius."
"No."
"I am."
"No."
"He absolutely is!” Dean hollers in, hearing Beau howl out a laugh.
Y/N rolled her eyes, and then glanced toward Logan, who already happened to be looking at her at the exact same moment.
For a second neither looked away, both smiling, and knowing exactly why everyone was losing their minds.
The moment lasted all of two seconds before Beau ruined it.
"Logan,” he calls out from the phone, causing Logan to look up.
"What?"
"You're welcome,” with that, Beau hangs up the phone, and the entire room erupts into hoots and hollers.
Logan groaned, and Y/N laughed. The kitchen immediately exploded into applause, talking nonstop about how well they knew Beau, and that this had been known all along.
Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend's little sister.
wc: 7.10k not sorry; graham!reader; figure skater!reader; brother’s best friend; best friend's sister; hockey player x figure skater; tw for this chapter: underage drinking (for americans)
Part I | Part II
The music was already loud before Y/N even made it up the front steps.
It blasted through the walls hard enough to shake the windows while bodies crowded the porch, half the campus apparently determined to celebrate Briar’s hockey team latest win like they’d personally scored the goals themselves.
Y/N adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and glanced back at the three girls behind her. “This,” she said dryly, “is exactly how people get diseases.”
Her friend Chloe laughed. “Oh my God, stop acting like you’re above this. Your brother literally lives here.”
“Exactly,” Y/N replied. “I know what kind of diseases exist inside this house.”
Another girl, she didn’t even know beside her nudged Y/Nel’s shoulder excitedly. “Still can’t believe your brother’s Garrett Grant.”
“Graham,” Y/N corrected automatically.
“Whatever. The point is your family tree is carrying our social lives.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a little as she pushed the front door open.
Instant chaos. Bodies everywhere. Beer spilled on the floor already. Music too loud. People shouting over beer pong in the dinner table.
Home, basically.
“Baby G!”
Dean appeared first from the living room with the energy of a golden retriever who’d somehow learned how to drink alcohol. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite Graham.”
“You say that every time jus to piss Garrett off.”
“But I mean it every time.”
Dean immediately threw an arm around her shoulders and started pulling her through the crowd while her friends looked one second away from passing out from excitement.
Y/N heard one of them whisper: “Oh my God, that’s Dean Di Laurentis.”
She rolled her eyes. Poor girl.
“They are all freshman, Dean,” Y/N warned. “Behave.”
“I’m always behaving.” he winked.
The kitchen erupted into cheers suddenly as several hockey players stumbled in carrying cases of beer. And right in the middle of them. Logan.
Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, curls messy under a backwards cap, and that lazy, effortless kind of confidence that made it seem like he belonged everywhere he stood. The warm glow from the kitchen lights softened the sharp edges of his face while he laughed at something one of the upperclassmen said, easy and unguarded for once.
Unfortunately for Y/N’s sanity, Logan always looked unfairly good without even trying.
Y/N’s friend beside her went completely silent. Then: “…holy shit.”
Y/N snorted. Because– Yeah… holy shit
That was usually people’s reaction to Logan.
He looked up a second later, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her. And immediately smiled, walking towards them.
Well, well,” he called over the music. “Graham brought friends.” His mouth curved into a smirk. He wasn’t interested in the girls at all, he just knew the comment would earn him an eye roll from her, and for some reason, he never got tired of being the reason for them.
Y/N flipped him off instantly. “They’re innocent freshmen. Leave them alone.”
“I don’t want to be left alone,” one of her friends whispered weakly.
Dean and Logan chuckled.
Y/N rolled her eyes, but her gaze drifted back to Logan anyway. He looked different tonight.
Not physically, though the messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, post-game adrenaline and the heat of his first and probably only beer for the night certainly weren't helping.
No, it was something else.
Confidence had always followed Logan like a shadow, but tonight it seemed sharper somehow. Brighter. Real. Not made up. Like he was carrying the energy of the entire arena with him.
Which, to be fair, he practically was. He'd scored a hat trick. The crowd had spent half the game chanting his name. The team had won. Briar was on top of the world.
And Logan knew it.
The worst part? He wore real confidence disgustingly well.
Y/N liked to think she knew better than most that Logan hid behind a smile. Behind the flirting, the confidence, the constant jokes, there was always something he kept carefully out of reach. A part of himself he rarely let anyone see.
But hockey? Hockey was different.
Hockey was the one place where nothing about him felt rehearsed. There was no charm. No mask. No carefully crafted version of John Logan. Just him.
It was obvious in the way he moved on the ice. In the way his entire face lit up after a good play. In the pure, almost boyish excitement he could never quite hide after a win.
Whatever insecurities he carried, whatever demons he kept locked behind that easy smile, they disappeared the second he stepped onto the rink.
And maybe that was why Y/N liked watching him play. Because for a few hours, she got to see the real version of him. The one who wasn't pretending to be anything at all. The one who looked genuinely happy.
As if sensing her staring, he glanced over.
"Careful, Graham," he said, pointing lazily at her with someone else's beer. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking you're impressed."
Y/N snorted.
"I'd rather walk barefoot through this kitchen. You scored three goals and somehow became even more arrogant."
Logan grinned. Actually grinned.
Like he'd been waiting for her to bring it up. He looked pleased.
Not because of the game. Because she'd noticed.
"Wait," he said, trying and failing to sound casual. "So... you saw that?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Y/N stared at him and blinked.
"Logan."
"What?"
"My brother was playing."
Logan immediately regretted it. Of course she saw it.
Her brother was the fucking captain of the team. Why the hell had he gotten excited in the first place? Like she'd been sitting in those stands watching him.
Idiot.
The stupid little spark in his chest fizzled out instantly. There it is, reality. He should've known better.
"Right," he said, taking a sip of his beer. "Yeah sure."
But then Y/N tilted her head slightly.
"and," she added, "you played really well."
Logan looked up.
"What?"
"You did." She shrugged. "Three goals is kind of incredible, Johnny !"
For a second, he just stared at her.
Y/N fought the urge to smile. Then break the character and finally did. Because there it was, the exact moment the compliment landed. He tried to play it cool and was able to recover quickly.
"Well," he said, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself, "I am kind of incredible."
Y/N laughed.
"Fuck off. I'm never complimenting you again"
Logan laughed softly under his breath. Too softly. Too naturally. Her friends exchanged looks.
“Where’s Garrett?” she asked.
“Somewhere upstairs with Hannah”
“Sounds right.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Garrett suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.
He spotted Y/N instantly. Then spotted the freshmen girls behind her.
“Well,” Y/N sighed. “Speaking of the devil”
Garrett pointed directly at Logan before even reaching the bottom step.
“You.”
Logan blinked innocently. “Me?”
“Don’t.” throwing back to the conversation they had days ago in his room.
Y/N laughed. Her friends looked terrified.
And Logan—
Logan just grinned slowly like Garrett’s threats had become background noise years ago.
“Relax, Johnny wasn’t flirting with them…” Y/N said innocently. Then she paused. “…yet.”
Dean chuckled somewhere behind them while Garrett looked one second away from developing a stress-induced migraine. Y/N ignored all three of them.
“Anyways,” she continued, turning toward the girls beside her, “come meet my brother since apparently he’s, like, a celebrity or something.”
“Oh my God,” Chloe whispered, panicking instantly.
Garrett groaned. “Y/N—”
Too late. Y/N grabbed his wrist and physically pulled him forward into the circle of freshmen girls despite his resistance.
“This is Garrett Graham,” she announced dramatically, like some kind of sports commentator. “Captain, hockey future, and out of the market, unfortunately for you girls."
Garrett deadpanned. “I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not.” she held his arm keeping him in place.
Her friends looked fascinated. Which happened a lot around Garrett.
He had that effect naturally. Big presence, sharp stare, the kind of confidence that made people straighten unconsciously when he walked into a room. Y/N, didn’t see him like that at all. Mostly because she’d spent her entire childhood bullying him frequently.
“Hi,” one girl squeaked nervously.
Garrett softened almost immediately. Not by much, maybe two percent, but for him that was practically warmth. The girls standing behind Y/N didn't look like the kind of people she usually spent time with. If he were being honest, he wasn't even convinced most of them were real friends. They seemed far more interested in the hockey house and the players than in Y/N herself. But she was trying to branch out beyond the skating world, trying to fit in with normal college girls for once, and Garrett wasn't about to embarrass her in front of them.
So he slipped easily into the role they were all expecting: Briar's captain, friendly, polite, approachable. If making a good impression helped Y/N feel a little more comfortable, then he could play the part for a few minutes. Besides, it was nice seeing her with people outside the rink for a change. "Hey," he said politely.
Y/N looked smug. “See? He’s house trained.”
“Shut up”
Behind them, Logan watched the entire interaction with amusement tugging at his mouth.
Most people looked at Y/N and saw confidence. The loud laugh, the quick comebacks, the way she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow end up talking to all of them within ten minutes. She moved through the hockey house like she'd been born there, stealing drinks, insulting people affectionately, making herself comfortable wherever she went.
But Logan had always thought there was something a little misleading about that version of her. Not because it wasn't real—it was. Y/N genuinely was funny and talkative and ridiculously easy to like. The thing was, people assumed that meant she was easy to know. She wasn't. Growing up with their dad she had, she'd learned early how to smile through discomfort, how to hide pain behind politeness, how to make difficult things look effortless. Figure skating had only reinforced it. Years of performing had taught her how to stay graceful when she was exhausted, how to make every movement look intentional, how to let people see exactly what she wanted them to see.
It was almost funny, really. For someone who looked like such a social butterfly, Y/N kept her world surprisingly small. Most friendships drifted in and out of her life without ever getting particularly deep. The people she truly let in could be counted on one hand: Garrett, the boys, Hannah and Allie. That was it. And whenever anyone pointed it out, she'd just shrug and insist she already had everything she needed.
And Logan was sure she meant it.
Logan’s eyes stayed on Y/N a second longer than necessary as she laughed again, and as she walked around introducing her friends to different guys on the hockey team, head tipping slightly toward her friends, arguing with Garrett about something stupid.
Easy. That was the word for her.
Everything with Y/N felt easy. And Logan still hadn’t realized yet that maybe that was the problem.
Y/N was halfway through introducing another girl to one of the denfesemen when a girl appeared beside Logan near the couch.
Pretty. Blonde. Smiling at him.
“Congratulations on the game” she said with an already flirty undertone, leaning against the side of the couch beside him. “So... you’re Johnny.”
Logan’s eyes was still clued toward Y/N across the room.
She was laughing at something Garrett said, one hand gripping his forearm while he looked deeply unimpressed by her existence.
Logan looked back at the girl beside him. He reconized the girl as one of Y/N’s friends.
“…don’t call me that.” he said quite rude without even noticing.
She blinked. “What?”
“Johnny.” He took another sip of beer. “Don’t call me that”
The girl laughed awkwardly. “Oh. Sorry. Y/N talks about you guys all the time, so I guess it stuck.”
That made something strange settle low in his chest. Y/N talks about you guys all the time. Not just Garrett. But also not just him. But them.
And really, why wouldn't she talk about them?
Y/N spent so much time at the hockey house that half her college memories probably happened within these walls. Movie nights, team dinners, study sessions, late-night food runs, stupid inside jokes that somehow never died.
Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being Garrett's little sister who occasionally stopped by and simply become part of the group.
Logan wasn't sure any of them had even noticed when it happened. But apparently Y/N had. And apparently she'd been carrying them around in her life ever since.
“You don’t like it, huh?” the girl teased lightly.
Logan realized a second too late she was still talking to him.
“What?”
“The nickname,” she said. “You hate it that much?”
“No,” he answered automatically. Then quieter: “Just sounds weird from other people.”
Her smile shifted slightly then, like she finally noticed he wasn’t really paying attention to her.
Because he wasn’t. Not really.
His attention kept drifting back across the room. Y/N had moved closer to Garrett again, still talking animatedly with her hands while her friends listened. Garrett pretended to look annoyed, but Logan knew him well enough to catch the tiny things underneath it.
The way Garrett stayed turned toward her automatically in crowded rooms. The way his eyes tracked her without thinking. The way Y/N leaned into him casually because somewhere deep down she’d never doubted he’d be there.
Protective. Constant. Safe
It made him think.
Maybe because ever since Garrett had finally told them the truth last year, Logan hadn't been able to completely stop wondering about it. Not about Garrett, about Y/N.
Garrett's stories had always revolved around bruises, shouting matches, slammed doors, and a father who seemed determined to turn every room he entered into a battlefield. Logan knew enough to understand why Garrett carried some of the things he did. Knew enough to understand where the anger came from. But Y/N had always been the missing piece of that story.
He'd never asked. It wasn't his business. Garrett had trusted them with his memories, and Logan wasn't about to start digging for details that hadn't been offered. Still, he couldn't help wondering where Y/N fit into all of it. Where she'd been during those years. What she'd seen. What she'd heard through bedroom walls. How much of it she remembered, and how much of it Garrett had managed to shield her from.
Because sometimes Logan looked at her and saw someone who seemed completely untouched by that kind of childhood, bright, confident, quick to laugh. Then other times, he'd catch small things that made him think the opposite. The way she avoided conflict she couldn't joke her way through. The way she brushed off things that should probably bother her more. The way she seemed determined to carry every problem by herself rather than ask for help.
Like somewhere along the way she'd learned the same lesson Garrett had. Just in a different form. Hide the damage. Keep smiling. Make sure nobody notices.
Garrett had spent most of his life protecting Y/N. Which made this… Whatever this weird thing inside Logan’s chest was… feel worse somehow. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Because standing here watching them, it was impossible not to see how much trust existed there. How much love.
And Logan was suddenly terrifyingly aware that he was looking at Garrett’s little sister too long again.
The girl beside him tried one last time anyway.
“So,” she smiled, letting her fingers brush lightly against his arm, “are all hockey players this antisocial or just you?”
Normally, Logan would've flirted back without thinking. Easy smile. Easy charm. Easy conversation. The girl was pretty. She was standing right next to him, clearly interested, practically handing him an opening. Usually, that would've been enough.
Instead, he barely reacted.
Because his attention kept drifting across the room.
Y/N was near the middle of the living room now, laughing as Hannah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A second later, the two girls grabbed Garrett from opposite sides and started trying to drag him toward whatever disaster counted as dancing tonight.
Garrett immediately looked annoyed. Or at least he tried to. His mouth was already twitching before they even managed to pull him away from the wall, the corner of it betraying him as Hannah laughed and Y/N nearly doubled over from her own success.
The idiot was enjoying himself.
Logan felt a soft smile tug at his mouth before he could stop it.
The girl beside him followed his gaze.
Watched Y/N and Hannah continue harassing Garrett while he complained the entire time, letting them pull him farther into the crowd anyway.
Then she looked back at Logan. And suddenly went very quiet. “Oh,” she said.
For the first time all night, Logan actually looked at her and he realized exactly what she'd been seeing.
Understanding flashed across the girl's face almost instantly. Then came sympathy. Which was somehow worse. The girl looked back at Logan and laughed softly.
Logan frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, still smiling. Then her eyes flicked toward Y/N again.
Before Logan could come up with a response, she shook her head, amusement replacing whatever disappointment she'd felt.
"Good luck with that, Logan." she said sarcastically and he noticed she avoided the nickname.
"With what?" he asked immediately.
But she was already backing away into the crowd.
"You'll figure it out."
And then she was gone.
No teasing. No accusations. No chance for him to explain that she had the wrong idea.
Logan stared down into his beer for a moment before his eyes drifted right back across the room. Straight to Y/N. And somehow that only made the girl's comment worse. But the worst part is he still didn’t even know what exactly he’d been caught doing.
———————
The party kept moving around.
Music louder now. More bodies packed into the house. The heat unbearable from too many people dancing too close together.
And somewhere in the middle of it all that, Y/N.
She’d abandoned her jacket hours ago, now down to a cropped Briar U shirt and jeans, hair messy from dancing while Hannah and Allie screamed lyrics around her. Her "friends" were nowhere to be seen anymore, and honestly she felt way better arounf Hannah and Allie anyways.
She looked happy. Not polite-smiling happy. Not teasing-the-boys happy. Actually happy.
Free in a way Logan didn’t think he’d ever really noticed before. And maybe it was because this place felt safe to her. The hockey house, Garrett and the boys. She moved through the crowd without hesitation, laughing freely, accepting drinks from Dean without checking them first, throwing her head back when her friends dragged her into another terrible dance circle.
Comfortable.
Because she trusted that nothing bad would happen here. And that somebody would take care of her if it did. Logan watched her spin badly with Hannah and Allie to some early 2000s song while Dean nearly fell over beside her and Tucker recorded the whole thing laughing.
A smile tugged at Logan’s mouth despite himself.
“Dude.”
Logan blinked and looked back toward the couch.
One of the upperclassmen frowned at him. “Are you even listening?”
“…not really.”
“No shit.”
Logan huffed quietly into his beer and leaned back further into the couch cushions.
Conversation started around him again almost immediately, hockey schedules, classes, some argument about playoffs, but it all blurred together after a while.
Because every few minutes his eyes found her again.
Y/N stealing somebody’s drink. Y/N laughing so hard she doubled over. Y/N dancing terribly on purpose just to make her friends laugh harder. Every glance lasted a little too long. Every time he looked away, his attention drifted right back. He never noticed her like that before. And the more he noticed it the worse it felt.
Because Garrett trusted him.
Hell, Y/N trusted him. She was not only her best friend’s sister, she was his friend too.
She walked into this house without thinking twice because somewhere along the line, the boys had become safe too. Safe enough to steal their drinks, fall asleep on their couches, and trust that nobody would ever see more of it.
The thought settled heavily in Logan's chest.
Because he'd always hated when people said men and women couldn't just be friends. Hated the idea that every friendship secretly came with an expiration date, that eventually one person always wanted more. And yet, watching Y/N laugh her way through the crowd without a second thought, Logan felt like an asshole.
Because as far as she knew, he just another one of the boys.
Then suddenly—
“Jhooooonny.”
A body dropped onto the couch beside him hard enough to make him jolt slightly. Followed by Garrett, Tucker and Dean.
Y/N grinned at him lazily, very obviously drunk.
Her cheeks were flushed pink from dancing, eyes bright and unfocused while she stole the beer directly from his hand without asking.
“People’s princess,” Dean said sitting on the armchair. “Finally tired of entertaining your subjects?”
Y/N pointed at him dramatically. “Dean understands me.”
“You spilled vodka on my shoes twenty minutes ago.”
“And yet you forgive me because I’m charming.”
“No,” Garrett muttered, appearing behind the couch suddenly. “he forgave you because you’re five seconds from falling over.”
Y/N gasped softly. “I’m not even that bad”
She leaned further into Logan’s side as she said it, completely unbothered. Logan went still instantly.
“Hi,” she said suddenly, squinting up at him. “Why do you look depressed?”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Yeah,” she nodded seriously. “But, like… depressing.”
Dean burst out laughing.
Y/N ignored him completely and kept staring at Logan with drunken concentration like she was genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.
Then she narrowed her eyes.
“…you’re thinking too loud. You just scored 3 goals in a important game, you are no fun”
Logan looked down at her—
really looked at her—
and suddenly realized just how close she was.
Close enough to see the faint glitter still stubbornly clinging near the corners of her eyes. Close enough to smell alcohol mixed with her perfume. Close enough that if she leaned even a little more—
His throat tightened.
Y/N blinked up at him slowly with heavy, sleepy eyes, still waiting for an answer to whatever nonsense accusation she’d just made. Completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. Logan swallowed hard before he caught himself.
Then immediately leaned back, giving her shoulder a light shove taking his beer back.
“Shut up,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle. “You are dead-ass drunk.”
Y/N gasped dramatically like he’d deeply insulted her.
“I’m not drunk.”
“You almost walked into my lamp ten minutes ago.” Tucker accused
“The lamp moved.” she said dramaticlly
Dean nodded solemnly from the floor. “Honestly? I saw it too.”
“Thank you.”
Garrett looked exhausted. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
Y/N ignored him entirely and stole Logan’s beer again before he could stop her.
“Hey—”
“You share,” she informed him.
“You’ve had, like, four drinks already.” he took his beer back
“And?” She tilted her head lazily against the couch cushion. “I want to have five" she pouted
And suddenly Logan felt hyperaware again of the fact that she was practically folded against his side.
This felt dangerously wrong. Not because she was doing anything inappropriate. Y/N was just being Y/N. Comfortable, loud, affectionate when drunk, the problem was that she didn’t know the effect this suddenly had on him.
“You are,” she insisted, poking his ribs weakly. “You are all weird and quiet.”
Logan nearly choked on his beer. “No, I’m not.”
Y/N chuckled again, soft and tired this time, until she suddenly dropped her head onto Logan’s shoulder like gravity simply gave up on her. Everything in Logan’s body locked instantly.
Y/N was already half asleep.
“She’s done,” Tucker announced from the other couch.
“No shit,” Garrett muttered.
Y/N made a small annoyed sound without lifting her head. “I’m literally awake.”
“Congratulations,” Logan said dryly, staring very hard at the opposite wall instead of the warm weight resting against him. “Do you want a medal?”
“…yes. the golden one, in the olympics” she said sleepy
Dean lost it laughing again.
And Logan smiled despite himself. Which was exactly the problem.
“Damn it,” Garrett muttered.
Logan glanced up.
Across the living room, Hannah and Allie were fully passed out on the opposite couch, tangled together next to Tucker.
And Dean—
disappeared suddenly, probably with the brunette he was hooking up with twenty minutes ago.
Garrett took a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like the entire party was personally attacking him. “This is why I hate throwing parties,” he muttered. “Everybody has fun, then somehow the house is destroyed, the beer's gone, and we're the ones cleaning up tomorrow.”
"That's leardship Gare" Y/N mumbled
Garrett ignored her and continued “And don't even get me started on freshmen who discover alcohol for the first time and immediately forget how to function.”
“Love you too,” Y/N mumbled sleepily against Logan's shoulder.
Garrett pointed at her immediately.
“You are exactly who I'm talking about."
“No, I'm not.” She cracked one eye open. “I'm your favorite.”
“You're currently drooling on Logan."
Logan nearly inhaled his beer wrong.
Y/N lifted her head just enough to look offended "Liar ! I don't drool."
Then she dropped right back onto his shoulder anyway.
Logan was painfully aware of: Y/N curled into his side. His arm resting along the back of the couch behind her. The fact that he hadn’t moved away once.
Garrett sighed heavily.
“Hey,” he said finally, looking directly at Logan. “I gotta take Hannah and Allie home before it gets too late”
Logan blinked once.
“And?”
“And Dean disappeared.” Garrett jerked his head toward Tucker. “Tucker’s drunk off his ass.” Then finally: "So do you mind taking care of Y/N?”
The room seemed to go strangely quiet for a second. Garrett trusted him. And Logan felt like the world’s worst person suddenly. Because Garrett asked the question so easily.
No suspicion. No hesitation.
“Yeah,” Logan answered automatically, voice rougher than intended. “Course.”
Garrett nodded once like that settled it completely.
“Just make sure she drinks water before she passes out.”
Y/N lifted one finger into the air dramatically without opening her eyes. “Hydration is important for high performance athletes.”
“You had vodka mixed with an energy drink.”
“Balance.”
Garrett rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly shaking his head. Then he moved toward the couch, crouching briefly in front of Y/N.
“Hey,” he said quieter this time. “I’m taking Hannah back to campus.”
Y/N blinked slowly at him. “Kay.”
“You staying here tonight?”
She nodded immediately, not even thinking about it. “Mhm.”
“Okay.” Garrett brushed messy hair back from her forehead automatically. “Lock the upstairs bathroom door this time if you shower in the morning.”
Y/N looked offended. “That happened one time.”
Garrett laughed under his breath despite himself before standing again. Then he looked toward Logan one last time.
“Text me if she gets worse.”
Logan nodded once.
And just like that, Garrett handed over the most important person in his life without a second thought.
“I’m not even that drunk,” Y/N complained immediately after Garrett disappeared toward the front door with Hannah and Allie barely conscious behind him. “I don’t need a babysitter”
Her words blended together just enough to completely destroy her argument. Logan looked down at her incredulously.
“You can barely keep your eyes open.”
“I’m just relaxing.”
“You called the lamp hostile earlier.”
“Because it was.”
Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically before letting herself fall backward against Logan’s shoulder again with absolutely no concern for personal space.
“He’s so dramatic, I swear,” she mumbled. “Like, oh no, Y/N had fun at a party, somebody alert the authorities.”
Logan huffed out a laugh despite himself.
“G is just protective.”
Y/N groaned instantly. “He’s insane.”
“He worries"
“Too much.” she added.
She shifted again until she was practically folded into Logan’s side, one leg thrown lazily across the couch cushion beside him. Logan was trying very hard not to think about the fact that her face was tucked against his neck now. He swallowed once and stared straight ahead at the crowded living room like it personally offended him.
Y/N snorted softly against Logan’s shoulder, clearly amused. Then she tilted her head up suddenly to squint at him.
“You smell nice.” Everything in Logan’s body stopped functioning for a full second. Y/N blinked slowly, still completely serious. “Like laundry detergent,” she informed him.
Logan dragged a hand down his face. “You are never drinking again.”
Y/N smiled sleepily then, small and lazy and entirely too comfortable against him. Her fingers absentmindedly curled into the sleeve of Logan’s hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe for her, it was. That was the problem. Because for Y/N, this meant nothing.
Meanwhile Logan was sitting there hyperaware of every point where she touched him while guilt slowly ate through his bloodstream.
Tucker noticed. Of course he did. His drunk eyes narrowed slowly between the two of them. Logan looked up noticing Tucker's eyes on them and stomach dropped immediately.
“I’m gonna take her upstairs,” Logan announced to nobody in particular.
Mostly because he desperately needed to get out of this couch before Tucker’s drunk ass accidentally developed observational skills.
Y/N barely protested when Logan stood and took her hand, helping her up from the couch carefully. The second she got to her feet, she swayed slightly. He reached out quickly and steadied her.
“Wow,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed. “So strong.”
Logan laughed. “You're a figure skater. You're supposed to have better balance than this.”
Y/N squinted at him. “I can skate backward.”
“You can't walk forward.”
“Details.”
She stumbled toward the stairs with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be walking unassisted. Logan followed automatically, one hand hovering near her elbow just in case.
Halfway to the staircase, she faltered. Not from the alcohol this time. A small wince crossed her face before she could hide it, her hand briefly brushing her knee. Logan noticed immediately.
"You okay?" he rushed to her side "What hurts?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"My knee's being dramatic."
"You mean injured?"
"I mean dramatic."
Y/N blinked at him. Then shrugged.
"Yeah. Probably danced too much."
"You dance for an hour and injure yourself?"
"I skate for six hours and injure myself," she corrected. "I dance for an hour and I feel it"
Logan narrowed his eyes. She ignored him. Then she looked up at the staircase. And stopped completely. A look of deep suspicion settled on her face. "...there's more of them than before." brushing the subject with jokes.
Logan stared. "The stairs?"
"Yeah... and they are moving."
"They are literally the same stairs."
Y/N squinted harder. "and multiplying."
"Jesus Christ."
Before she could attempt climbing again and accidentally throw herself backward down the staircase, Logan exhaled sharply and bent slightly to lift her instead.
One arm under her knees. The other around her back. Easy and effortless.
Y/N let out a startled laugh immediately as he picked her up bridal style. Her head tipped backward dramatically while her arms looped loosely around his neck for balance.
“Show off,” she mumbled drunkenly.
Logan rolled his eyes as he started upstairs carefully. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” Y/N sighed dreamily. “I’m graceful.”
Logan laughed quietly under his breath before he could stop himself. Y/Ne looked up at him then, smile softer now, eyes heavy and unfocused in the dim hallway lighting.
And God. That was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Then suddenly she spoke again.
“Did you know,” Y/N slurred thoughtfully, “I quit pairs when I was little?”
Logan glanced down at her. “You did?”
She nodded against his shoulder.
“Yeah. My partners could never lift me properly.”
There was something about the way she said it casually, even though this was brand new information, that immediately put Logan on edge.
Y/N just kept going. “I hated pairs, honestly. Being thrown around, being caught, trusting somebody not to drop you.” She wrinkled her nose. “None of my partners were ever very good at it.”
Then she laughed softly. “One of them told me I was too heavy.”
The hallway suddenly felt very quiet. Logan stopped walking.
“What? Does Garrett know about this?”
The look of horror on her face was immediate. “Oh my God, no. He'd literally murder a second grader.”
Logan considered that for a second. “Maybe he should have.”
Y/N blinked up at him. “We were like seven.”
“I don't care.” The answer came so fast it almost surprised him.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “He was seven too, Jhonny.”
“Then he was a seven-year-old asshole.”
That actually made her laugh.
Y/N yawned and rested her head against his shoulder again.
“Besides,” she mumbled sleepily, “it worked out. I was always better on my own anyways.”
She looked completely unbothered, like comments like that happened all the time. Like she'd already accepted them as normal. Somehow, that made it worse.
Logan tightened his jaw and started walking again. "Sounds like your partners sucked."
Y/N laughed softly. "Most of them did."
"They had one job. Catch you."
"That's not technically their only job," she informed him. "But that is a very hockey-player way of looking at it."
"Maybe." He glanced down at her. "Still. If somebody's trusting you enough to throw themselves into the air, you don't get to screw that up."
For a second, she looked thoughtful. Then a sleepy smile spread across her face.
"You would've been a great partner."
Logan snorted. "I'm pretty sure figure skating requires grace and coordination. I'd be kicked out on day one."
That made her laugh. And he smiled to himself proud of it "Maybe... But at least you would've caught me."
The words were casual. The effect they had on him wasn't.
As she said them, her fingers tightened absentmindedly around his bicep where her arm rested. Logan nearly missed a step. Y/N blinked down at her own hand, then squeezed experimentally once more.
"...wow."
Oh no.
"I never realized how fit you were," she mumbled, squeezing again as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do. "This is insane."
"Y/N." he warned
"What?" she asked innocently, looking up at him while continuing her completely unscientific investigation.
"Jesus Christ." he groaned
She laughed softly, still completely unaware of the fact that she was actively shortening his lifespan. Or maybe she was. Drunk Y/N was difficult to read.
Logan tightened his grip under her knees slightly and pushed Garrett’s bedroom door open with his shoulder. The room was dark except for the lamp near the desk.
Y/N immediately sighed dramatically once they entered. “Oooh my kingdom.”
“It’s your brother’s room.” he said unpatient.
Logan walked toward the bed carefully while Y/N kept talking nonsense against his shoulder.
“You hockey boys are weirdly muscular,” she informed him seriously. “Like scientifically concerning.”
“You are never drinking vodka again.”
“Okay but” she poked his chest weakly “your arms are ridiculous.”
Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. This was torture. Actual torture. Because Y/N sounded completely casual about it. Meanwhile Logan’s brain was actively trying to kill him. He lowered her carefully onto Garrett’s bed, expecting her to let go.
She didn’t.
Her arms stayed looped lazily around his neck while she looked up at him from the mattress with heavy eyes.
Too close. Again. Logan swallowed hard.
“Alright,” he said roughly. “You gotta let go now.”
Y/N frowned slightly like she genuinely needed a second to process the request.
Then finally “Oh. Sorry” she chuckled and slowly, she loosened her arms.
But instead of fully letting go, her hand caught the collar of his shirt lightly before he could pull away.
Logan froze instantly. Y/N squinted at him with sleepy concentration.
“You’re handsome,” she informed him very seriously.
Logan actually choked a little on air. “Okay,” he said quickly. “Goodnight.”
Y/N started laughing again as he immediately tried stepping backward out of reach.
“Relax, Johnny,” she teased softly, falling sideways into Garrett’s pillows. “You look scared.”
Scared wasn’t exactly the word for it. Terrified felt more accurate. As he organized the bed for her to sleep in. A few seconds of silence, that honestly felt like forever. Y/N looked like she considered something for a moment before finally speak.
“So did you?”
Logan, halfway through pulling the blanket over her, looked up in confusion.
“I did what?”
Y/N shifted onto her back dramatically, squinting at him with a teasing little smile.
“Hook up with Chloe.”
Logan blinked once. “…who?”
“My friend,” Y/N clarified with an exaggerated eye roll. He still looked confused so she added “The blonde one.”
“Oh.”
“She wanted to hook up with you,” Y/N continued casually. “Has been talking about it all week.”
Logan snorted softly despite himself. Y/N looked deeply unimpressed. “Really annoying, by the way.” She threw herself harder into Garrett’s pillows like the entire situation personally offended her. “Acting like you guys are celebrities or something,” she muttered. “It’s stupid.”
Logan crossed his arms lightly, leaning against Garrett’s desk now.
“You literally introduced your brother like he was royalty downstairs.”
“That was ironic.”
“Sure.”
Y/N ignored him.
“She kept begging me to introduce you guys,” she continued. “I told her I wouldn’t, but then she was like, ‘I’ll just talk to him myself.’”
Her voice changed mockingly on the last sentence. Logan laughed quietly under his breath. Then Y/N looked back at him again.
“So?” she asked. “Did you?”
There was something oddly focused about the question despite how drunk she was. Curious and watching him carefully anyway.
Logan shrugged once. “No.”
Y/N blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“…why not?”
The question came too fast. Like she asked before thinking about it. Logan noticed immediately. Y/N noticed too, judging by the way her expression shifted slightly afterward. But instead of backing off, she doubled down.
“She’s pretty,” she said defensively. “Like... a lot”
“Never said she wasn’t.”
“She literally spent two hours fixing her hair before coming here.”
“Really? Didn't notice” he said crossing his arms.
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him from the bed. “You flirt with everyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Johnny,” she deadpanned. “I’ve seen you flirt with the library lady.”
Logan laughed. Actually laughed. And Y/Nel hated for one brief second how good he looked doing it. Drunk thoughts. Dangerous territory.
“She wasn’t really my type,” Logan said finally.
Y/N tilted her head slightly against the pillow.
“And what exactly is your type?”
The room got quieter somehow. Suddenly Logan could hear every small sound in Garrett’s room: the muffled conversations dowstairs through the walls, Y/N’s breathing, his own heartbeat being deeply unhelpful.
Because Y/N was looking at him now. Really looking at him. Drunk curious eyes soft in the low light. Logan forced himself to shrug casually.
“Don’t know,” he lied.
Y/N hummed sleepily like she didn’t believe him for a second. Then, after a pause:
“Yeah... maybe brunettes are more your thing.”
Logan’s breath caught so subtly he almost thought he imagined it himself. Y/N, meanwhile, was already sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes half closed again. Completely unaware of the damage she was causing.
Logan walked away and stayed still near the doorway for a second, hand already on the light switch.
Y/N’s breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. And for one dangerously peaceful moment, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.
Good. Because he needed distance. Cold water. Maybe psychological intervention. He reached for the switch.
Then—
“Don’t leave, please.”
The words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear them. Logan turned immediately. Y/N was still curled into Garrett’s blankets, eyes barely open now, voice rough with exhaustion and alcohol. But the teasing was gone.
“I don’t like being alone like this,” she admitted softly.
Something in Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly she didn’t sound drunk anymore. She sounded vulnerable. Young. And underneath the sleepiness and slurred words, there was something deeper there too. Something sad enough that Logan felt it instantly without fully understanding why.
Y/N shifted slightly against the pillow, blinking toward the dark hallway behind him.
“Where’s Gare?” she asked quietly. Not Garrett. Gare. Like small. Childlike. Old habit.
Logan leaned against the doorframe slowly. “He took Hannah back to campus, remember?”
Y/N frowned weakly. “Oh.” she said in relization.
Silence stretched for a second. Then quieter:
“He always stays.”
And there it was. That deeper thing again. Logan knew enough about Y/N and Garrett’s childhood to understand what she wasn’t saying out loud. Garrett always stayed because growing up, somebody had to.
Somebody had to stand between her and the yelling and slammed doors and bruises Garrett pretended nobody noticed. Somebody had to make sure she felt safe. And apparently even now, drunk and exhausted, part of Y/N still searched for her brother first when she felt vulnerable.
Logan’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Hey... it's okay. I can stay.” he said softly before he could stop himself.
Y/N looked at him sleepily. Logan hesitated only half a second longer before walking back toward the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge beside her.
Y/N relaxed almost immediately. Like his presence alone settled something anxious inside her. That should not have affected him as much as it did.
“You gonna stay?” she asked quietly.
Logan looked down at her for a long moment. Then sighed softly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
Y/N’s eyes closed again almost instantly after that. Trusting him without hesitation.
And Logan sat there in Garrett Graham’s room beside the girl he absolutely should not be thinking about this way, while guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness twisted together inside his chest.
an: i got a little carried away with this chapter and somehow it ended up way longer than i planned 😭 i really hope you enjoyed it! let me know what you think, i love reading your comments and ideas, also... should i make a taglist? if you'd like to be added, let me know! this fic somehow turned into an 18-chapter monster in my drafts (and it's still growing, which is honestly concerning). meanwhile i'm tagging: @archxve @mcueveryday
new chapters every thursday ♡
Summary: All your life you had been a commoner. Till over night you became a princess due to your father's inheritance you had no idea off. Under your grandmother's wing, you adjust to your new life. Attending your first ball at the Bridgerton household.
"Y/n, the hour is getting late." One of the maidens called out to you from the doorway. "I'll be there in a second." You replied loudly. Keeping your focus on the baskets before you.
Hearing her groan softly in response. "They will still be here in the morning and you can go over them again before the morning glow." She answered, tapping impatiently with her foot.
"I know, I know. I just need to be certain." Waving your hand her way to dismiss the comment. "Why do you always work like you're running out of time." She questioned. "Leave for home, it will be enough." Calling you one last time to call it a night.
Taking a deep breath, you set your hands down on the table. "It will be no longer than a minute. I promise." Folding your hands pleadingly her way. She sighed. Muttering under her breath as she turned.
The faintest of words reaching that you promised it as well last time. A promise you did not uphold. Brushing it off, you continued to focus on the baskets. Counting it to the last vegetables to be right for the order.
They would be disputed to several households across Mayfair. In a few hours with the rise of dawn, lines of house maidens and men would line up for their households order. To keep their kitchens filled with food supplies.
You knew everything would be in order, but still you wanted to be certain. You couldn't afford complains from ladies or gentlemen of the ton. One bad word and your employement could be history.
The employement was what you needed. Needed in order to stay away from poverty. With a few final counts, you exhaled deep. Biting your lip subtlety.
You knew you were exaggerating, still you couldn't shake the feeling off. Taking your coat and small pouch, you glanced one more time over your shoulder. Taking a deep breath, you closed the door behind you.
Early in the morning, before the rooster rose, you were running towards your working place. "Morning Monsieur Jean." Waving happily at the distributor of the vegetables coming from the fields.
He tipped his hat to you with a smile. Humming a tune, you made your way to through the kitchens to the back area. Helping a few fellow workers move the baskets to another area.
By the time the sun had settled on a certain height, the first households came. Head maids and gentlemen. Taking delivery for their lords or ladies. Paying up and leaving with a content smile.
You helped along. Providing each person with their basket for their kitchens. At first you barely noticed it. An eager man in royal colours and a white wig shoving their way through the others to reach the front.
"A miss Y/n, I need a miss Y/n!" Waving his hand with a paper high above his head. Receiving a nudge from one of the other girls made you look up. Hearing the man's calling.
"A miss Y/n!" The desperation growing thicker in his voice. Clearly being out of place and wishing to get away from the large crowd. Wiping your hands down on your apron, you moved a bit to the side.
"Here!" Calling out with a good wave above your head. There was a sigh of relieve from him. Pushing a way through to you. "Miss Y/n?" He asked again for confirmation. You nodded with a hum. Staring curiously at the odds figure.
Wondering why a member of the royal staff would come to the workinh class area...voluntarily. He gestured for you to move more aside for privacy. "Who is your father." He asked.
You found it an odd question, but replied anyways. Giving him your father's name. The man held out a letter in his gloves hands.
"I have instructions to bring you along afterwards." He spoke. Blinking confused, you gawked at him. "Bring me where?"
"The palace, your highness." He said, dipping into a bow. "I'm sorry what?" You blurted out, hand up to stop him. The man cleared his throat, pointing at the letter.
"All is in there. Your grandmother wishes to meet you. Did you not know? Your father was a prince." He explained. Stunned, you didn't know how to react.
So perhaps uncivilized you laughed loud. "Are you a joke?" Rushed out of your mouth in a rather blunt manner. The man ushered a hand to his chest. "I beg your pardon?" Stunned by it.
Still in shock, you couldn't process the news. "My father was a simple middle class worker." You let out in disbelief of his words. The man cleared his throat. "He was a prince." Reassuring you.
"He might have chosen a life away from the crown, but he is ...was still royalty." He pointed at the letter in your hand. "You'll find all in there."
Nervously you looked down at it. Taking a deep breath, you followed him through the crowd. Leaving with just a small word to the others.
Hopping onto the carriage that was too fancy for your taste. Made you feel like the talk of the town. Closing the little curtains almost immediately. Carriage riding over cobble stone.
Once the busy bustling town had made way for peacer fields, you dared to open the letter. A part of you felt like it was a ruse. An un-true. But it was true.
All the royal delivery gentlemen said was true. Your father was indeed of royalty. Renounced the crown many years ago before you were born. Not even on his death bed he shared a thing.
It made you wonder if your mother knew. Perhaps she was a reason he took upon a simple life. Now your grandmother must have gotten word about your existence, wanting to meet you.
The nerves and thrilling shakes cloaked you. Feeling nervous and excited at the same time. The carriage stopped at a long driveway. An entire line of staff at both sides of the stairways to welcome you.
Getting off you nervously cleared your throat at your simple appearance. Undoing your apron and handing it over to one of the gentle footmen. Keeping focus on your breath, you followed the staff inside.
Passing by halls of paintings. Grand chandeliers and exquisite vases and flowers. At one painting you stopped. Eyes wide with surprise at the portrait of your young father by the queen's side.
A queen that had come to Mayfair as a retreat of her own country. Upon this view, all became true. Knees buckling for the change your life was drastically going to have.
Hurrying after the man, you followed him into the trone room, where you would meet your grandmother for the first time.
The royal life was still uneasy to adjust for you. You had been used to do everything yourself, it felt out of place that everything was getting done for you.
The simplest of tasks that they acquired to do slightly frustrated you. There were quick lessons of behavior. Greetings and titles and which person should sit next to whom.
All a great fuss to you, that a first invitation to a ball became an exciting experience. The first being as it is a masquerade ball. Finding it more exciting to be able to hide.
There had been some news about the newly found princess. Both good and bad. It felt nice to be able to experience the beauty of it anonymously. The mask was a surplus, the crown not so much.
They insisted on you wearing one since it had become an extension of you. An accessoire you couldn't go without. With wonder you stared out of the carriage window. Moving startled back when they opened the door.
Offering you a hand. There were a few eyes upon you, but you only had eyes for the exterior covered in beautiful flowers.
Adding on to the mystic. Taking the lead, you ventured inside behind a group of others. Taking in every side to not miss out a detail.
"Your dance card, miss." You heard, making you jump lightly out of your skin. A smiling footman offered you the tray of dance cards. Curling up a smile, you offered him your hand.
Looking funnily for a moment before the chuckle came. "Is your chaperone around to do it for you or should I do it for you?" He asked. Ashamed you pulled your hand back. You were so used to everyone jumping at every occasion to do everything for you, it felt silly doing it now.
Awkwardly you took a dance card with a cheeky smile. Turning around, you nearly bumped against the chaperone the queen had provided. He bowed at you, making you shush him for being so obvious.
He placed the card around your wrist. Taking a position three steps behind you. Moving forwards, you entered the main hall. Bathing in the shimmering and glittering. Smiling at the costume wear.
Eyes falling on a flickering shimmer in your eye. Lifting your head up to the chandelier. Twinkling like a thousand stars.
Hands behind your back, you slightly swayed your hip in admiration. Lips parting in wonder. The music taking you on a mystical journey.
Benedict Bridgerton had finally arrived. Able to just escape his mother's fury for he knew he was late. Late to their own ball.
Nearly bumping against a gentleman, he hopped on his foot to maintain balance. Taking half a turn to avoid a bump-in. Chuckling at himself.
Eyes going forwards, his movement slowing. Staring half in wonder at the girl who's eyes were elsewhere. Following the gaze, upwards to the chandelier. Lips parting with a breathy smile at the view.
The lights dazzling in his eyes. Resting back on her with a new wonder. Swallowing hard, he approached. Clearing his throat before arriving.
"Everyone is watching each other while your interest lays with the chandelier." He spoke joining your side. Startled by the sudden approach, you blinked surprisingly.
Smiling bashful with a glance away. "Was it that obvious." You replied. Benedict wiggled his hand with half a pout. Making you laugh. Making way for a lady, you started to walk.
Benedict joining you. "I like the princess look. Whom do you represent?" He asked pointing at your crown.
"Oh..." cheeks changing shades. "Right... a costume..." you answered sheepishly. Benedict noticed the man following you. Putting two and two together.
"Wait are you the commoner turned princess?" He questioned. "So much for anonymity." You puffed out. "I....I'm sorry I didn't mean." He immediatley uttered out. Seeing him try to recollect himself made you laugh.
"You know my identity now, may I know yours." Asking in return. He nudged, making you follow him to the outdoors. "Benedict Bridgerton." He introduced himself with a chuckle.
Dismissing the idea that the masks would be removed after midnight. Leading you to the pavilion. "How is the princess life?" He asked with curiosity.
You hummed loud, wandering around in a circle. "There has not been a single simple task that I handled myself. They even won't let me dress myself." You laughed out.
Benedict laughing along. Joining you when you paused at a side. Leaning against the railing. Looking up to the stars. "They are beautiful." You whispered, taking off the mask.
Benedict gasped breahtlessly at you. Taking off his own mask. "Yes." Whispering out. Placing his hand down, it fell down over yours. Making you look up to him.
Gaze caught at each other. Benedict fluttering with his eyelashes. Recognizing the beauty of the little things in your eyes. Giving your hand a soft squeeze. Curling up a smile, you leaned fondly closer.
The clearence of a throat made you pull away. "Your highness." Your chaperone spoke. Nodding you took a step back from Benedict. "I must return." Telling him. "But...but the night isn't over yet." He let out.
Pulling your shoulders up, you knew you had little say in it. Following your chaperone away from the pavilion. Benedict rubbed his hand over his lips. Coming to rush after you.
"When can I see you again?" Calling out. "I don't know." You shouted back. "I will find you!" Saying with a hint of desperation. Watching the new princess dissapear into the night before the stroke of midnight.
summary: in which you take quite a bad fall while snowboarding on a mountain trip, luckily a handsome hockey player is there to take care of you. the only problem? you're the media manger for his team.
part 1
warning: mention of concussion
word count: 1,9k
authors note: had to spoil you guys with a part 2 😝 you guys seem to like john logan but luckily for you guys so do i !!!. i have another john logan request in the works along with a little something for our angel boy beau, i haven’t gotten time to finish it up because i’ve been prioritising my requests, i love getting requests as a new writer so please don’t be shy!!!
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watching the boys snowboard made it look easy. unfortunately, the moment you decided to try it yourself, you realized it wasn't.
you spend a few minutes watching the boys effortlessly glide down the mountain before clipping your own board on and giving it a try, eventually you got the hang of it, surprising even yourself.
“you okay there bambi” dean says teasing as he spots you.
you roll your eyes at his comment.
after a few more minutes of testing the waters, you decide to pick up a little speed, catching yourself laughing with the boys. dean being the only one who had noticed your mood, happy to see that his plan had worked.
“see y/n/n! i told you it would be fun.”
you roll your eyes while not being able to hold back you smile any longer.
for the first time all day, you weren't thinking about work. you weren't thinking about logan. you weren't thinking about the awkward tension that had followed you onto the trip.
you were just having fun.
"I knew this was a bad idea."
the thought flashed through your mind as your snowboard caught an edge. one second you were laughing at something a player had shouted from further down the slope and suddenly , the ground disappeared beneath your feet.
then came the impact.
pain exploded through your side as you tumbled through the snow.
you could hear the laughter between the boys quiet down, a hum of one the boys saying oh shit, and the snow crunching as someone runs towards you. your eyes feeling heavy as you hear someone ordering for ski patrol to be called.
the first thing you felt was the cold, then the feeling of your head pounding, throbbing, pulsating, like a rhythmic ache that mirrors a heartbeat or a drum beat. the pain may felt explosive, you could feel a pulsing sensation affecting your entire head along with your temples.
you could feel someone move you closer, even though it was freezing you could still feel body heat radiating through their snow suit.
a familiar voice causes your eyes to flutter open while squinting and groaning from the pain that felt as if it was now in your eyes as well.
“there she is” says dean while a soft but guilty smile.
next to him you see what looks like the whole team surrounding. a voice causes everyone to take what looked like 10 steps back
"back up. give her some room, to breathe”
you could see dean gently pulled tucker back when he tried to hover over your shoulder.
"but—"
"tucker."
"right. sorry." he said feeling just as guilty as dean did
logan barely spared them a glance, his attention fixed entirely on you.
"hey," he said softly. "can you hear me?"
“can you tell me your name?” he asked even softer than
you blinked up at him, your head spinning.
“john logan,” you mumbled.
his eyebrows shot up, while as face had concern written all over it
“that’s me,” he said, a nervous laugh slipping from his lips. “try again.”
you frowned, still struggling to focus, his voice sounding like an echo in your ears.
“i know.”
the concern look still painted across his face.
“okay, that’s not exactly the answer I was looking for.”
“you’re john logan,” you repeated stubbornly.
despite the situation, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“good to know you remember me,” he said. “now how about you tell me your name?”
before you could reply a voice cut off your train of thoughts
“ski patrol should be here soon, you should probably go with her.” garret told logan while his concerned gaze shifting from logan to yours.
“was planning on it”
logan turns his attention back to you, his facial expression still not relaxing.
“how many fingers am i holding up?” he asked.
you squinted at his hand, taking a second longer than it should have to answer.
“four.”
it was two
“do you know what-“ is question cut off as he hears a vehicle, a look as relief flashes on his face.
he slowly picks you up, supporting your head as you groan in pain.
“i got you baby”
it felt as if your mind had shut off. one second you were laying on the snow, the next your opening your eyes to a bright light and voices of what sounds like logan speaking to what your guessing was a doctor or a medical professional of some sort.
“is she okay?” logan asked.
the doctor nodded. “she has a mild concussion, but she should be fine with plenty of rest over the next few days.”
logan let out a breath of relief.
“we’d like someone to keep an eye on her for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” the doctor continued.
“I’ll do it.”
the words left logan’s mouth before he could stop them.
the doctor raised an eyebrow.
“ i mean, I’ll take care of her,” logan corrected quickly.
the doctor smiled. “then make sure she gets plenty of rest and let us know if anything changes.”
logan nodded, glancing back toward hers, seeing her now awake state.
“got it.”
“my head hurts” you practically whisper afraid that your own voice would make the pounding in your head and ringing in your ears worse
the doctor sends you a soft smile while letting you know he has a bag of meds ready for you and that your free to go home whenever your ready.
as the doctor steps out logan slow walks towards the hospital bed.
“ready to go?” he asks quietly
“where?”
“i’m taking you back to the hotel room, to take care of you.”
before you can say anything he beats you to it
“doctors orders”
“logan you don’t have to do that”
“i do” he says with a soft smile “i want to”
as you guys make it back to your room, you notice his bags littered on your floor. the only problem? there’s one bed, no pull out couch, actually no couch at all, only a chair that sits infront of a vanity table.
that’s tonight’s problem you tell yourself
you leads you towards the bed and tells you to point him towards your bag. as you do he opens the bag to see no warm clothes. without a word he goes to open up his bag pulling out a briar u hockey hoodie along with matching bottoms.
“change, i’ll wait in the bathroom” he walks away without hesitation
as you hear the door click shut you immediately start changing while thinking to yourself, this is so not professional.
you call him out when your done. his eyes do a slow sweep up and down, taking in his clothes on you body. he hands you your meds with a bottle of water telling you to get rest, and that he’ll be back in a hour.
a thought flashes through your mind, wondering if you should’ve asked him to say, the thought long forgotten as you feel your eyes flutter close.
you wake up to the smell of food, slowly turning your head towards the sound of the door clicking closed you see logan walk in with a brown paper bag.
after you guys had finished eating it was quiet, not a bad silence, it was more comforting, almost like you both had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.
logan glances towards you, catching your attention.
“can i ask you something?”
“sure” you answer with a soft smile
“when we were driving to the medical facility, you said something.” he lets out a breathy laugh “and i can’t seem to get it out my head.”
as those words leave his mouth it was like a flicker of memory came to your mind, almost as if you were hungover remembering something you did the night before
“logan”
“i’m here” he says while holding your hand
“i lied”
he hums to let you know he’s listening while brushing the hair out your face and tucking it behind your ears.
“i was mad when i saw you and that girl in the classroom” you whisper out so softly almost, logan not even sure how he managed to hear that.
before he can ask you anything your eyes flutter closed leaving him alone with his thoughts”
you let out an “oh” as you start to remember
he scans your face taking in your expression while letting out a slow breath
“she meant nothing to me, that whole thing was nothing”
your suprised to hear yourself let out the words “didn’t look nothing”
he turn so his body is fully facing yours
“she wasn’t important”
you finally meet his gaze maintaining eye contact
“why do you care so much if i believe that?”
he lets out a breathy laugh, it was more like a nervous laugh.
“because the only person whose opinion I care about is yours”
“logan…”
the room felt silent
your pounding head long forgotten, the only thing you feel is your heart racing.
“i’m serious”
he shook his head
“i was trying to convince myself to move on.”
his laugh was humorless.
“I tried to ignore it, i tried to ignore every long stare every longing smile. I tried to move on. It didn’t work.”
the look in his eyes made your breath catch.
“because it’s you. It’s always been you.”
“logan…”
his name came out as little more than a whisper.
the look in his eyes made your stomach twist.
“this can’t happen and you know that”
or the first time all evening, he looked away.
“I know.”
“then why are you looking at me like that?”
the question slipped out before you could stop it.
his jaw tightened.
“because I’ve been trying not to for months.”
your breath caught.
the room suddenly felt too small.
you should’ve stopped or pushed him.
instead, you found yourself unable to look anywhere but at him.
“this is a bad idea,” you said.
a small smile tugged at the corner of Logan’s mouth.
“probably.”
neither of you moved.
meither of you looked away.
then logan leaned in even closer, your noses touching.
“if you want me to stop,” he said quietly, “tell me now.”
every sensible thought in your head screamed at you to do exactly that.
but the words never came.
his eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest moment.
then he closed the gap between your lips.
the kiss was soft, almost hesitant, like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening either, you felt yourself freeze and pull away only to smile and find yourself leaning back into the kiss.
for a second, everything else disappeared, the rules, the job, the reasons this shouldn’t happen.
there was only logan.
when you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing a little harder.
“still a bad idea?” logan asked.
you stared at him for a moment.
“definitely.”
his grin returned.
immediately leaning back in.
“yeah.”
neither of you sounded very convinced.
authors note: and that’s a wrap yet again, this might actually be my favourite so far. if you enjoyed this and love logan, stay tuned as i am working on another request for him
summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.
notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!
warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.
word count: 12.2k
When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.
You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.
In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.
You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.
A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.
Which brought you to Logan.
You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.
It had not happened all at once.
You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.
You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.
Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.
And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.
You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.
What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.
You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.
When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.
Fuck me, you thought.
And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.
You smiled back and closed your laptop.
Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.
You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.
Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.
You stared at the screen.
Oh.
Oh no.
The real problem came later.
The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.
The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.
So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.
The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.
You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.
You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.
A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.
You did not pout. You were a professional.
"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."
"Sure," you said.
"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."
"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.
"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.
"No. I'm working."
"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.
This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.
You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.
"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."
You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.
"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"
This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.
"I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."
"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"
Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.
You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.
Too late.
"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."
"Logan just photographs well."
"He photographs well."
"Yes."
"That's your explanation."
"That's my explanation."
Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."
"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."
"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."
You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."
"Admit it."
"I plead the fifth."
"That's not how that works."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to. I'm your best friend."
"No you're not. It's Olivia."
"On the team, I meant."
"It's probably Tucker."
"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."
You closed the laptop.
"Go to sleep, Dean."
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.
"Do not drool on me," you said.
"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.
"Don't be disgusting."
"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."
"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."
He closed his eye again.
The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.
Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.
A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.
"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."
You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.
"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.
"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"
"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"
"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."
You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Yes you do."
"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.
"It's a Saturday."
"Content doesn't take weekends off."
"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."
"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."
"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."
You looked up for the first time. "What thing."
"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."
"I am always normal."
"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"
"It was a good play."
"To his face."
"As a professional observation —"
"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."
You turned back to the tripod.
"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."
Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.
"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."
You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.
"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."
He walked away before you could respond.
You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.
You were definitely not going to that party.
The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.
Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.
It had been funny for approximately three weeks.
It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.
It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.
You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.
Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.
"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.
"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."
Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"
"Apparently not," Dean said.
On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.
Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.
"It's painful," Tucker said.
"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.
"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.
After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.
He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.
"You have a face," Garrett said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"
"So her name—" Garrett replied.
Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"
"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."
"So tell him to do something about it."
"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."
"A push," Garrett repeated.
"A significant push."
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."
"A financial one," he said.
"Dean —"
"Hear me out."
"I don't think I want to."
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."
Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."
"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."
"By paying him."
"By incentivizing him."
"Those are the same thing."
"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."
Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.
"Noted," Dean said.
He did not change his mind.
Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.
Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.
"What," Logan said.
"I have a proposition," Dean said.
Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.
"What kind of proposition," Logan said.
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."
He didnt't have to specify who the her was.
The locker room was quiet.
Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."
"Logan —"
"No, Dean."
"You like her."
"That's not —"
"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."
Logan said nothing.
"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."
"I was being polite."
"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."
Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.
Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.
Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.
He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.
I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.
"Fine," he said.
Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.
Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.
Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.
Logan took it.
He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.
I was going to do it anyway, he thought.
He almost believed it.
The subject of the party was a sore one.
Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.
Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"We're going," she said.
"I said I wasn't sure —"
"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"
"Dynamic duo."
"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."
"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."
"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."
You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.
"Obviously," you said.
You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.
The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.
You found him in approximately four seconds.
Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.
You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.
Logan crossed the room.
"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"
"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.
Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.
"You look very pretty," Logan said.
"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.
Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."
"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."
She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.
You looked back at Logan.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."
"I had some content to edit," you said.
"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.
"Yeah," you said.
And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"
Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."
"Oh," you said. "That tracks."
"Does it."
"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."
"I'll tell Tucker you said that."
"Please don't."
Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.
"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"
"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.
"Oh, I like where this is headed."
"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."
You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."
"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.
"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."
"Thank you."
"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."
He disappeared back into the crowd.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.
"He's not subtle," you said.
"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."
The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.
At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.
"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."
Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —
"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."
Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."
"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.
He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.
You and Logan both looked at Dean.
Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.
"He planned this," you said.
"Obviously," Logan said.
You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.
"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."
You looked back at him.
"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."
What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.
The first date was a Tuesday.
Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.
He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.
You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.
He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.
You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.
Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.
What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.
You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.
He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.
You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.
"Don't," you said.
"I'm not saying anything," she said.
"You have a face."
"I have my normal face."
"Olivia."
"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.
Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.
Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.
But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.
All of that was true.
The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.
He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.
So he didn't say it.
He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.
He was getting better at believing that.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.
This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.
"Listen to this," you said.
"Mm."
"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."
"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."
"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."
"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.
You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.
"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.
You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.
And then you got to the last one.
"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."
You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.
Logan put his phone down.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.
"What would you pick?" he said.
You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."
Logan looked at the ceiling again.
"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.
"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."
"Right," he said.
He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.
Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.
"Good to know," he said.
You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.
You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.
Logan knew.
He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.
Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.
He closed his eyes.
I have to tell her, he thought.
He did not tell her.
Allie had not been looking for information.
She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.
And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.
She glanced at it automatically. Logan.
Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."
Allie went back to her phone.
"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"
Allie looked up.
Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."
A pause. Dean listening.
"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"
Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.
"What," she said.
Dean turned around.
The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
"Allie —"
"What did you do," she said. Not a question.
Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.
"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."
He told her.
He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.
When he finished she said nothing for a moment.
"She's my friend," she said finally.
"I know —"
"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."
"It wasn't supposed to —"
"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."
"Allie, please just —"
"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"
"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"
"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."
She left.
Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.
He put the phone to his ear.
"She already knows," he said.
You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.
She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.
You stood very still while she talked.
When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.
"Get your keys," you said.
"(Y/N) —"
"Get your keys, Allie."
The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.
The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.
You didn't knock.
You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.
Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.
"Hey —" Logan started.
"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."
The hallway was very quiet.
"Yes," Logan said.
The word landed.
"How much," you said.
"A thousand dollars."
You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."
"It wasn't —"
"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."
"That's not —"
"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."
"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"
"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."
"I was going to —"
"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"
He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned to Dean.
Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.
"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."
"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."
"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"
"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."
"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."
You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.
"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.
"I have to go," you said.
"Please just let me —"
"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."
You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.
You opened the door.
"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."
You walked out.
Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.
You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.
And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.
You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.
A thousand dollars.
The house was very quiet after you left.
Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.
Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.
Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:
You had deserved to know.
You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.
Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.
"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.
"I know," Logan said.
"From the beginning. I told you."
"I know, Garrett."
Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.
Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.
I have to fix this, he thought.
He had absolutely no idea how.
The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.
It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.
You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.
Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.
The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.
You started the following Monday.
The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.
You were fine.
You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.
Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.
You did not respond to Logan.
Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.
Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.
Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.
He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.
He had always been paying attention.
That was the thing that made it so much worse.
Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.
Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.
You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.
They were not gone.
You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.
"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.
The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.
You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."
Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.
"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.
"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."
The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.
Dean was looking at the floor.
Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.
"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."
"But —" Tucker started.
"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."
Jade smiled again.
"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.
"Tucker —"
"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."
The corridor was very quiet.
"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."
Tucker nodded. Still pained.
"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."
"Thanks," you said.
You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.
"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.
You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.
He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.
You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.
Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:
"I know."
Logan started showing up.
Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.
He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.
He started showing up to the football team's games.
Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.
Olivia told you the second time it happened.
"He was there again," she said carefully.
You said nothing.
"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."
You said nothing.
"I thought you should know," she said.
You knew.
You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.
He texted you after the third game.
logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.
You stared at the message for a long time.
yn: how would you know
logan: i was there
A long pause.
logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.
You put your phone down.
You picked it up.
yn: it's okay
Dean did not sleep the night you found out.
He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.
At four in the morning he picked up his phone.
dean: allie
allie: i'm awake
dean: i know i really messed up
allie: yes
dean: i don't know how to fix it
A long pause.
allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.
dean: i am
allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.
dean: she said never talk to her again
allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.
Dean put his phone down.
He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.
You took your own sweet time.
Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.
On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.
He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.
You stopped when you saw him.
He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."
You looked at him for a long moment.
You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.
"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."
The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.
"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."
You looked at him.
You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.
"It's going to take time," you said finally.
Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.
"I know," he said.
"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."
"I know."
"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."
"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"It's enough to start with," you said.
The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."
"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."
You looked at the path ahead.
"I have class," you said.
"I know. Go."
You went.
It was a start.
Logan was harder.
Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.
You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.
He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.
You read them all.
You responded to some of them.
Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.
He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.
He was just — there.
Being different.
The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.
You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.
"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.
You went outside.
The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.
You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.
He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.
"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"Logan —"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."
You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.
"You remembered the peonies," you said.
"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."
"You were paying attention," you said.
"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."
You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.
"This isn't enough," you said.
Something flickered in his expression.
"I know," he said.
"I need more than flowers."
"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."
"Okay," he said.
"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."
"I will," he said.
"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."
"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."
You looked at him.
"The texts," you said. "About my work."
"Yeah."
"You were at every game."
"Yeah."
"Third row back. Left side."
He looked at you quietly.
"I know," you said. "I noticed."
Something in his expression shifted.
"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."
"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."
He nodded.
"Give me the peonies," you said.
He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.
"The rest you can take home," you said.
"Okay."
"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."
Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
You looked at him for one more moment.
"Slow," you said.
"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You went back inside.
You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.
You were not okay yet.
But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.
It was enough to start with.
The getting back together did not happen all at once.
It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.
The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.
It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.
You brought your camera.
Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.
You sat third row left side.
The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.
You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.
Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.
You got the shot.
Forty-three seconds of it, actually.
You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.
Briar won.
The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.
You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.
You looked up.
Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.
"You came," he said.
"I came," you confirmed.
"You brought your camera."
"I brought my camera."
He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"
You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.
Forty-three seconds of it.
Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.
"That's —" he started.
"Genuinely cinematic," you said.
He looked at you.
You looked back at him.
And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.
It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.
"So," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."
Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it."
"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."
"Done," he said immediately.
You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.
Better. Not the same. Better.
Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis is loud, arrogant, and has a smirk with dimples that makes you want to throw something at his face. You called him a playboy to his face. Now he won't leave you alone. You tell yourself he's just annoying you for fun and you want nothing to do with him. Until one day, you realize you're looking for him in every crowd. And that's when you know you're in trouble.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader
Tags/warnings: Introvert girl. Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Denial. Hockey romance. Fluff. Mutual pining. Mild language. Anxiety. Suggestive theme. No explicit content. Using the word (Name).
Word count: 4.1k
Author's note: Hi guys, thanks for being so excited about this story! It really means a lot to me. Sorry it took a while to update. I kinda had writer's block because I've been busy stressing over my thesis and job interview. Anyway, enjoy part 3! 💗
The moment you stepped into your dorm room, you shut the door, dropped your bag carelessly onto the floor, and threw yourself onto the bed. A long, heavy sigh escaped your lips. Today had been so exhausting. The History class had completely drained your energy, and having to follow it up with a group discussion with Leon at the library didn't help.
Closing your eyes, you tried to escape into a deep sleep. But the vivid memory of Dean from this afternoon— his deep, pleading voice and the firm, warm grip around your wrist, sent your eyelids flying open in shock. You quickly sat up, staring ahead in absolute horror.
"That was... not funny at all."
You shook your head, trying to get that moment out of your brain. You dragged yourself up to change into a more comfortable oversized t-shirt, grabbed your laptop, and snatched your favorite snack. Crawling under a mountain of blankets, you decided to lose yourself in your favorite show. For a few hours, you successfully blocked out the outside world, forgot about campus, pushed assignments out of your mind, and tried your best to... forget the electric warmth of Dean’s hand around your wrist.
Until the sharp click of the door opening and approaching footsteps forced you to look up.
"Hey, (Name). Have you been back long?"
You nodded at Jules, watching your roommate walk over to your bed.
"Where have you been? Did one of your classes get rescheduled today?" you asked.
Jules shook their head. "Actually, I just got back from the hockey house. And the thing that's been messing with my head the entire walk back is... Dean was asking about you." Jules gave you a highly suspicious look.
Your brow furrowed. "Why was he asking about me?" you asked, confused. Your heart suddenly started beating fast for no reason.
Jules tossing their bag to the floor before sliding onto the edge of your bed. "That is exactly the question I’ve been asking myself since I decided to leave early. You never told me you actually knew him, (Name)."
You blinked rapidly, caught off guard. "It wasn't exactly worth mentioning." You quickly averted your eyes, staring back down at your glowing laptop screen.
But you could practically feel Jules boring holes into you with a deeply skeptical, suspicious gaze. It forced a soft sigh out of you before explaining. "He’s in my History class, and by some cruel stroke of luck, he’s also my partner for a group project." You shot Jules a strained, forced smile before looking back at your laptop lazily.
"Well... it definitely sounds like he thinks otherwise."
"Well, I don't want to hear a single word about him. Now tell me, why were you even at their house? Was there a party so 'The Fifth Line' admin just back on action?" You threw them a questioning look.
Jules shook their head. "I wanted to borrow Logan's laptop for my class tomorrow because mine is broken. But he refused to lend it to me," Jules grumbled irritably.
"You can use mine. I don't have any classes tomorrow."
Jules’s face instantly lit up with a massive grin. "Seriously? Ugh, you are an actual lifesaver. Big love to you, my favorite roommate!"
You let out a soft chuckle. "Don't overdo it. If I can help, why wouldn't I?"
"But," Jules chimed in, their voice dropping to a teasing pitch, "you still owe me an answer as to how Dean Di Laurentis knows you well enough to be checking up on you."
You rolled your eyes dramatically. "I already told you, we're in the same cla—"
Jules cut you off instantly. "I know that. What I mean is... why would the Dean Di Laurentis go out of his way to ask how you're doing? It is highly, highly uncharacteristic of Dean to remember a girl who has zero connection or business with him."
"We have class business," you answered flatly.
Jules threw you a deadpan look. "Class business? (Name), with him it’s always bedroom business! Hooking up, sex, and all that stuff!"
Catching the flash of shock on your face from the sudden shift in their tone, Jules instantly looked apologetic. "Sorry, I took it a bit too far. I know you don't talk about that kind of stuff, but— okay, forget it. Back to my first question. Do you know why Dean is acting like that?"
You shook your head, attempting to brush it off entirely. "I have no idea, Jules. Maybe he's just curious about his project partner because he didn't know who I was, right? That's normal."
"Yeah, and about that... He literally stalked my Instagram account and showed me a photo of you on my profile. The one of us together that Logan took at Dean and Beau’s birthday party."
You stared at Jules in utter disbelief, trying to treat it as normal behavior even though the erratic pounding in your chest screamed the exact opposite. "Wow, so he really has nothing better to do with his time, huh?" you asked, letting out a bewildered, amused huff.
"Not really. He’s usually busy with hockey, parties, classes if he's in the mood, and girls—mostly girls."
"Jules, you're overthinking this, okay? He's definitely just curious because of the project. Nothing more. So please, can we just stop talking about him?" you pleaded.
"Okay, fine. My lips are sealed." Jules raised both hands in mock surrender, making you smile. "For now."
The last part made you shake your head with a quiet chuckle, completely used to your roommate’s relentless curiosity and refusal to drop a topic.
"Oh, by the way, I’ve been texting you for hours, but my messages are stuck on a single checkmark."
Hearing Jules’s comment as they headed into the bathroom made you glance over at your bag, where your phone had been inside the entire evening.
You unzipped the bag and fished it out. Turning off the Airplane and Do Not Disturb modes you had turned on earlier, your screen instantly exploded with notifications from Jules, closely followed by a barrage of alerts from a brand-new group chat.
(Leon Briar U added you to 'History Group 4')
(Leon Briar U added +1xxx.. to 'History Group 4')
Leon: Hey guys, I set up the group chat
Leon: I’m going to send over the draft I put together, please review it
+1xxx..: Thanks, bud
+1xxx..: I'll look it over
Staring at the screen, you immediately opened your direct messages with Leon. You demanded to know why he made the group and if he had gone out of his way to ask for Dean's number directly.
A few minutes later, Leon typed back.
Leon: Sorry for not telling you, (Name). But after you left earlier, Dean approached me and handed over his number
Leon: He asked me to make a group so he could actually contribute to the discussion
You let out a heavy breath, quickly replying to Leon that it was fine and that you were just curious. Switching back to the group chat, you stared at it for a few seconds before finally sending a simple thumbs-up emoji.
Almost instantly, a new notification banner popped up from an unknown number. Feeling a sudden jolt of nervousness, you instinctively exited the messaging app to read the preview from the notification bubbles instead.
+1xxx.. : Hey, (Name)
+1xxx.. : It's Dean
An uninvited wave of nervousness washed over you as you waited for the next bubble to appear. But minutes ticked by, and the unknown number—aka Dean— didn't send anything else.
Panic and confusion took over. Should you reply? Should you even open the message? Why on earth was he texting your personal inbox instead of keeping it in the group chat? What was the point of a text that was literally just a greeting? He could have done that in front of Leon. Why slide into your direct messages?
"Arghhh!" You aggressively ran your hands through your hair in pure frustration.
Ting!
Your Instagram notification chimed. You stared at your screen in absolute horror as a notification informed you that Dean Di Laurentis had requested to follow your private account.
"What the..." The words died in your throat.
Before the panic could completely consume you, you made a fast decision—you turn off your phone and tossed it to the far corner of your bed, completely out of arm's reach.
You couldn't understand why you were panicking into such a frantic mess. Your heart was practically hammering against your ribs. Worst-case scenarios played on a loop in your head. What if Dean was doing this just to mess with you? What if this was all some game to him? Planning to disrupt your peace with endless texts, or worse— pretending to be nice just to laugh at you later with his friends?
And what if he viewed you as some sort of a 'challenge' simply because you were the only girl acting completely immune to his existence?
Or more worse... what if Dean genuinely wanted to apologize? The problem was, you weren't ready to speak to him. Not over the phone, and definitely not in person. That sounded like a living nightmare.
You dreaded every single one of those possibilities, but the absolute worst fear of all was that... your walls would completely collapse, leaving you to fall for the charms of the guy you had literally called an arrogant jerk.
You let out a stressed laugh. You had to be losing your mind to even entertain the thought that Dean could ever be genuine with you, which was practically impossible. First of all, you definitely weren't his type. Second, you despised drama, and Dean was a walking drama. Third, if you ever got close to Dean, you would instantly become a target for death glares and cyberbullying from the entire Briar U hockey fandom and his endless roster of fangirls.
Okay, that third reason was totally irrational. Because, going back to reason number one, you weren't his type. That realization slowly grounded your sanity, just in time for your phone to buzz again.
This time it was an announcement in the main History class group chat. The professor had suddenly rescheduled next week's lecture to the day after tomorrow due to an emergency trip abroad with the dean.
Instantly, the student-run chat exploded into complete chaos. A rescheduled lecture meant the group presentations were being pushed up to the day after tomorrow. Which meant the final draft of the research article had to be completed by tomorrow.
Leon was already rapidly typing in your group chat.
Leon: (Name), Dean, did you guys see the main chat??
Leon: The presentation got moved to THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW!
Leon: And we all have to speak in front of the class?!! Where are we at with the draft? What's missing??
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Before you could even process the shock of Dean's personal notifications, a new problem dropped out of the sky. A real, academic problem that directly impacted your GPA. You needed to fix this, which meant putting aside all your silly panic and overthinking about Dean.
Before you could reply to Leon's panicked text, new messages from Dean appeared.
+1xxx..: I already checked your draft and merged it with a few of my own
+1xxx..: I'll handle printing out the physical copies and setting up the PowerPoint slides later
+1xxx..: We need to meet up briefly tomorrow afternoon to map out who speaks when, so we don't look awkward in front of the class
+1xxx..: Are you guys can make it?
Leon: Sorry, I have an afternoon shift tomorrow and can't swap because my coworker is out sick
Leon: You guys go ahead and split the sections, I'll take whatever you give me
You stared at the screen, trapped in a wave of anxiety. A massive part of you wanted to avoid him and not reply, but if you refused, you wouldn't be able to prepare your notes early. The awkwardness on stage would become an absolute reality, and you would end up dying of embarrassment.
So with trembling fingers, you finally forced yourself to type a response into the group.
You: I can. Tomorrow at 1 PM, at the library.
You: Please bring your laptop too.
+1xxx..: Sure, see you tomorrow
You let out a sigh of relief. But the relief quickly vanished the second you remembered the pending direct message sitting unread in your inbox. Now that you had active in the group chat, ignoring his personal text was no longer an option.
+1xxx..: Hey, (Name)
+1xxx..: It's Dean
You: Yeah
Okay. Short and simple. That was more than enough. You quickly exited the app and shut your phone off. Taking a long, deep breath, you slowly exhaled. You needed to prepare yourself for tomorrow.
You had to act completely casual. Not overly dramatic. Not too mean. Not too kind. Just normal, calm, and collected.
You could totally handle this.
- - - -
Meanwhile, in an upstairs bedroom of the Hockey House, Dean was staring at his phone screen like the device had just announced the end of the world.
Your one-word reply with no emojis, no exclamation points, and absolutely no small talk, made him groan in frustration. Dean threw his phone onto the bed, then ran his hands through his blonde hair until it was completely messy. In his entire life, he had never been this confused by a text message from a girl. Usually, girls would type long paragraphs full of heart emojis, but this girl responded like a mean, annoying professor.
Dean picked his phone back up. He typed a few of his best flirty lines, then deleted them. He typed a long apology draft, then deleted it again. He was giving himself a headache because his usual talent for texting girls seemed to have completely vanished.
"Ugh, fuck!" he cursed out loud. Frustrated because he didn't know what to reply, Dean finally decided to head downstairs.
The delicious smell of cooking instantly hit Dean's senses. Tucker was busy in the kitchen, while Logan and Garrett were in the living room playing PlayStation together. Every now and then, they shouted curses at the game.
Dean decided to sit on the carpet, leaning against the couch where Logan and Garrett were sitting.
Noticing that Dean was suddenly being very quiet, Logan commented without looking away from the screen. "You okay, Dean?"
"I'm good."
"That’s weird," Garrett commented.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked, confused.
"Usually at this hour, you're busy in your room with a girl—oh, shit!" Garrett muttered, ending with a curse as his game character got hit.
Dean didn't answer and just let out a lazy sigh.
Logan laughed because he managed to beat Garrett’s character, then took a quick look at Dean. "You look like you have a lot on your mind, man."
Dean blinked, surprised his friends were actually paying attention. He cleared his throat before speaking. "I’m just... thinking about something."
Hearing that made Garrett and Logan look at each other. The next second, the game on the TV screen stopped. Logan pressed the pause button. The captain and co-captain of the Briar U hockey team put their controllers down and turned completely to look at Dean.
"Thinking about what?" Garrett asked, his playful face turning more serious.
"About this girl."
Garrett rolled his eyes, little annoyed because he thought Dean had a real problem, not just another girl topic. "If you want to talk about girls or make out and sex, I’m out of this conversation," Garrett said dryly.
"What girl?" Logan asked, noticing that Dean's voice sounded different this time.
"No, no, I don't want to talk about that, G. But... this girl, she’s in my History class," Dean said, pausing to look at Logan and Garrett. "I accidentally messed up my group project with her. I just wanted to break the ice, but she took it the wrong way. And now she hates me and yelled at me."
"Who? I thought every woman at Briar was already crazy about you," Garrett teased.
"Not this one, apparently," Logan said, making Dean glare at him while Garrett laughed out loud.
It was rare to see Dean looking this pathetic.
"Guys, dinner is ready! Oh wait, it's a miracle you're out of your room at this hour." Tucker, still wearing his apron, walked into the living room.
"And without a girl in his room," Logan added, making Tucker look at Dean with a surprised, teasing grin.
"And he’s sad because a girl hates him," Garrett added. Both of them instantly burst out laughing, while Dean flipped his friends off.
"Fuck you, guys."
"Okay, okay, whatever is going on right now, we can talk about it over food. I made a special recipe from my mom today, and I think it goes perfectly with whatever crazy story Dean has." Tucker tried to hide his laughter and told them to move to the kitchen.
"Okay, let's go," Logan was the first to get up from the couch.
"You need energy to be sad, man," Garrett patted Dean’s shoulder before joining them at the kitchen counter.
Dean lazily got up and joined them.
"So, about this girl... Who is she? Have we met her?" Garrett started the conversation while eating.
"I don't think so. Her name is (Name), she’s Jules's roommate—"
"Wait, (Name)?" Logan interrupted.
Dean turned his head quickly, a bit shocked. "You know her?"
Logan's face became completely serious. "She's Jules's roommate, of course I know her. And just so you know, Dean, she’s not the type of girl you usually meet at parties and can just drag into casual things, you know. She’s a good, polite girl who focuses on her grades and doesn't care about glamorous college life. And no offense, but if (Name) hates you and was rude to you, it means you really crossed the line. (Name) is never rude to anyone, not even to strangers."
"I-I'm not trying to use her or anything like that, okay? I know I was wrong, I just want to apologize and clear my name," Dean said defensively, though his heart beat nervously because he could feel Logan’s protective mode kicking in. "I texted her privately earlier, but she just replied 'Yeah'. I just want us to be okay before our presentation in class. I don't want it to be awkward and ruin everything. Especially since I'm meeting her tomorrow to prepare."
Garrett looked at Dean, put his fork down on his plate, and leaned his arms on the kitchen counter. The teasing look on the captain's face was now completely replaced by serious eyes.
"Dean, listen. A girl like (Name) won't care about your cheap playboy charm or your overconfident attitude. If you go see her tomorrow with the intention of 'flirting' to get close, she will just hate you more and think you’re not serious."
Tucker, who was chewing his food, nodded in agreement. "Garrett is right, Dean. From what Logan said, her studies are important. So if you want to clear your name, leave your narcissistic attitude behind tomorrow."
"Then what should I do?" Dean asked, his voice sounding frustrated and defeated— a very rare sight for Dean Di Laurentis.
Logan tapped the kitchen counter gently to get Dean's attention. "If you're serious about what you're saying, then show her you can be responsible, Dean. Respect her boundaries, and make her see that you're not as bad as she thinks."
Dean went quiet. Garrett and Tucker's words, along with Logan's warning that night, filled his mind. He looked at his phone screen one more time, thinking about your short reply. For the first time in his life, the Briar hockey star realized he had to act like an adult and drop his pride to win back a girl's respect.
Next afternoon, the atmosphere in the library was incredibly stiff. Dean was really trying to follow his friends' advice. He showed up on time wearing a casual hoodie, stayed very quiet, and looked completely lost on how to start a conversation because he didn't want to seem narcissistic or saying something stupid in front of you.
Sensing the painful awkwardness, you forced yourself to speak. You told Dean to open his laptop right away so you could check Leon’s final draft. However, when you found out that Dean hadn't finished the presentation slides yet, you didn't say much. You just pulled his laptop right in front of you, deciding to take over and finish the rest of the slides to keep your grades safe.
But your plan to stay calm and collected failed. Well... partially. Because as you were sitting there helping with the PowerPoint slides, you couldn't focus at all. You were really struggling to fix the charts. This was what happened when you didn't sleep all night.
The cursor on Dean’s screen was moving all over the place because your hand on the mouse felt so weak. You had tried to fix the chart data three times, but the formatting was still a mess and kept showing errors. Your head started to throb from pure frustration, and having Dean sitting right next to you only made you feel incredibly nervous.
You let out a frustrated sigh, getting ready to delete it and start all over again, when a large hand suddenly moved smoothly over yours.
Dean placed his palm right over the back of your hand holding the mouse.
The sudden touch made you hold your breath. His palm was warm and a little rough from years of holding hockey sticks— so different from your own hand, which had gone freezing cold from the library’s air conditioning. Before you could panic and pull away, Dean gently took the mouse from your grip.
"Let me take over," Dean whispered softly, leaning close to your ear so he wouldn't break the quiet rules of the library.
Dean slid his chair a few inches closer to yours, closing the distance until your arms were almost touching. His masculine scent completely surrounded you again, making your heart beat wildly against your ribs.
You sat frozen in your seat as Dean’s fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. Within seconds, he easily fixed the chart on the slide until it looked perfect.
You blinked, completely surprised. "I didn't know you could actually be this fast," you murmured quietly, completely losing the angry tone you usually used with him.
Dean turned his head, looking at you from an impossibly close distance. A slow smirk appeared on his face, showing the dimples on both of his cheeks. But the look in his eyes this time felt much softer— he was just teasing you, without any of the old arrogance.
"Of course I can," Dean whispered playfully. "You know, besides being a 'playboy, arrogant jerk, and narcissist' like you called me the other day, I'm actually a pretty smart student. My grades are mostly A's."
Hearing Dean use your exact insults back at you made you roll your eyes. "Oh, really? I thought your brain was only full of hockey, parties, and a list of girls' phone numbers," you shot back sarcastically.
But instead of getting mad, Dean just let out a soft chuckle. "The list of girls' numbers on my phone is completely gone, if you want to know," Dean said casually. His eyes locked onto yours with a deep look that made your cheeks feel burning hot. "And for this project, you've been doing all the hard work from the start, even before we were close. And now you're offering to help make my slides. You're exhausted— I can see the dark circles under your eyes. So, let me finish the rest. You can just rest now. Read a novel, play with your phone, or sit back and look at my handsome face from up close. It's up to you."
You instantly turned your head toward the library window, biting the inside of your cheek to hide the smile that was about to break out. You hated to admit it, but his stupid comment was just... funny. In an annoying kind of way.
You cleared your throat and looked back at Dean. "We're not close, by the way." Sliding his laptop right in front of him, you added, "But thanks. I'm going to take my break at the cafeteria."
You stood up from your chair. "Do you want anything?" you asked, looking down at Dean as he looked up at you.
"Just... come back fast? You know, I feel a little scared in this big quiet library all by myself."
You rolled your eyes. "Why? Because you're used to being surrounded by pretty girls?" you asked sarcastically.
Dean winked at you. "Wow, you really get me. I'm more and more sure that you actually like me."
"In your dreams, Di Laurentis."
You quickly turned around and walked toward the cafeteria, trying to calm your racing heart. You left Dean behind, who quietly watched you leave with a soft smile until you disappeared past the library doors.
she looks so perfect (part 3) | john logan x reader
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
warnings: nothing really - but angst, sad!!! and yearning!! drinking? swearing, John logan and Garrett fighting :(
author's note: thanks for all the love!!! here is part 3!! let me know your thoughts!!! tell me if you have ideas about what should happen next!!! I love your guy’s comments loool they’re funny
The tires of Logan’s truck tore into the gravel of the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust as he braked hard into his usual spot. He cut the engine, but the sudden silence inside the truck did absolutely nothing to calm the suffocating frustration vibrating in his chest. Shoving his way out, he slammed the truck door shut behind him with a heavy, metallic bang that echoed across the yard.
He stormed up the porch steps and pushed through the front door of the hockey house, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Walking straight into the kitchen, he dropped his keys onto the granite island. They hit the surface with a sharp, loud clatter—not thrown, but heavy enough to instantly kill the casual chatter in the room.
"Whoa, everything alright, dude?" Tucker asked, pausing with a wooden spoon in hand.
The kitchen was warm, smelling of garlic and simmering marinara sauce. Garrett was standing by the stove, while Dean leaned against the counter, a glass of water in hand. The calm, familial atmosphere of the room felt completely at odds with the frantic, wounded energy radiating off Logan.
"Why the hell is she being like that?!" Logan burst out, running a hand over his face and through his hair in pure frustration. He began to pace a short, tense line between the fridge and the island, his shoulders tightly coiled.
Garrett set down the knife he was using to chop vegetables, exchanging a heavy, knowing look with Dean before looking up. An underlying edge of irritation was already creeping into Garrett's expression. "You found y/n?"
"Yeah, I found her. She was sitting at Malone's by herself," Logan said, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of disbelief and a sharp, defensive edge. "And she was just so cold, man. I skipped the second half of practice for her. I literally went to her usual library spot, went to Havenport lounge, her usual spots - because she wouldn't answer her phone, and when I finally get there, she barely even looked at me."
“And you two - won’t tell me shit.” He pointed at Hannah and Allie, who widened their eyes but stayed silent. “Is there something wrong - is her dad contacting her again or something?”
Everyone was silent.
Hannah felt so bad for Logan, it’s like an elephant in the room that everyone sees but him. She reached out her hand to comfort him, “No, Logan. Her dad isn’t, it’s just that we don’t even know what to tell you,” she sighed.
"What do you mean? She told me to leave her alone," Logan said, the words clearly stinging him deeper than he wanted to admit. He looked over at Garrett, his eyes wide with a desperate, furious confusion. "Like I was a total stranger. She refused to come to dinner. I don't get it. What the hell did I do? Why is she completely freezing me out?"
Garrett gripped the edge of the stove, an annoyed, incredibly tense breath escaping his nose. He looked at Logan— he thought Logan was being a total idiot, entirely blind to the way you loved him, and even more blind to his own buried feelings for you. Sure he was with Grace but he doesn’t act like this for anyone else other than you. There’s no one he’s this worried about or thinks about more than you.
But Garrett wasn’t trying to betray you.
"Maybe she just wants to be by herself. She will figure it out herself, just leave her alone and let her cool off." He continued prepping.
"Leave her alone?" Logan repeated, looking at Garrett like he'd lost his mind. "She's my best friend, Garrett. I'm not just going to let her treat me like garbage and walk away.”
Garrett let out a harsh, cynical breath, shaking his head as he picked up a towel to wipe his hands. He looked at Logan, completely exasperated by his roommate's sheer density. "Look, just drop it for tonight. I'll text her. I'll talk to her later and check in."
The words hit Logan like a physical slap.
A sharp, ugly wave of jealousy and indignation flared up in his chest, making him look at Garrett with narrow, peeved eyes. "You'll talk to her?" Logan scoffed, his voice dripping with sudden bitterness. "What makes you think she’s going to answer you?"
Garrett just stared at him. He thought Logan was acting childish.
It felt like a direct blow to his ego, a territorial instinct kicking in before he could even stop it. The idea that Garrett thought he could get through to you more than him was insulting.
"I know her better than anyone in this house, Garrett," Logan muttered, his jaw tight as he stared his captain down. "I know her better than you. If she’s pissed off, she talks to me. She always talks to me."
"Yeah, well, clearly not today," Dean said under his breath from the counter, taking a slow sip of his water.
Garrett put down the knife he was using to chop the vegetables for Tucker’s dish. “Alright, outside Logan,” everyone stared.
————————
He stormed out to the porch through the heavy glass door and Logan followed him immediately, the sliding door shutting behind them with a sharp click, cutting off the warmth of the kitchen and the watchful eyes of Allie, Hannah, Dean and Tucker.
Logan was fuming. “What? Did you guys fuck? Is that what everyone’s not telling me? You going to tell me you guys hooked up or something and she’s avoiding us all together or she’s feeling ashamed to tell me?” Logan asks in an accusatory tone, grasping at straws—making things up because he has absolutely no idea.
Garrett snapped to look at him, the irritation on his face had hardened into something much heavier. “You fucking serious right now?!”
He took a step forward, invading Logan's space. "You think this is about me and her having some cheap hookup? You think she’d freeze all of us out over that?"
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh that cut right through the chilly night air.
"I’d never do that to Hannah.” Garrett said, poking a firm finger into Logan’s chest. "Use that pretty fucking brain of yours. She’s hiding because of you. Because while you've been busy playing this oblivious, protective guy best friend routine and making up wild theories, you’re blind to her feelings - don’t act like you don’t know." Garrett scoffed.
Logan blinked, he was silent because he couldn’t lie that he didn’t have an idea of what Garrett was talking about. Logan knew how he used to feel about you, when he first met you - he wanted you, he had been trying so desperately to ignore any of those feelings since he thought you’d never want to settle for him.
Garrett stood in front of Logan, the height difference wasn't much, but right now, Garrett looked massive, fueled by a protective fury he’d been suppressing every silent smoke sesh you and him had and he had to watch you be so down. He looked at Logan—really looked at him—at the genuine confusion and desperation in his friend's eyes, and felt a wave of pure exhaustion.
"You really don't get it, do you?" Garrett said softly. "You are so blinded by your own need to keep her by your side that you refuse to see what you're doing to her."
"Doing to her? I'm not doing anything to her!" Logan defended, his voice cracking slightly. "I care about her. That’s it. I care about her, and I want to make sure she’s okay."
"And what about Grace, Logan?"
The mention of the name hung in the air like a sudden drop in temperature. Logan stiffened, his mouth opening slightly before closing again.
"Grace has nothing to do with this," Logan said, though the conviction had leaked out of his voice, replaced by a defensive edge.
Garrett took a step forward, invading Logan’s space, his eyes boring into him.
"You sure about that?" Garrett challenged, a lethal edge slicing through his tone.
He’s going to lay it all out there. This had to stop. “Logan, does Grace know you text Allie and Hannah to make sure y/n gets home safe from her evening class? Does Grace know that you sat in your car with y/n three weeks ago after your brother told you your mom went back to rehab? Does Grace know you’ve been fixing y/n’s dad’s car for free every three months and telling him not to talk to her - without telling her? Does she know you write in every single one of y/n’s finals in your calendar - just so you can wish her good luck?”
Logan flinched as if he’d been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale under the porch light. He opened his hands, closing them into fists, looking suddenly small.
"How... how do you know about…th?" Logan whispered.
"Because I’m not a fucking idiot." Garrett hissed, stepping even closer, his finger hovering inches from Logan's chest.
"You have a girlfriend, Logan. But you liked y/n the moment you met her. You had feelings for her, you said that. Don’t even lie to me right now."
"It's not like that. I’m over her, I told you. I don’t- Gar, it’s not-“ Logan stammered, his eyes darting away, looking wildly around the empty yard as if looking for an escape. "I'm just... I'm just trying to be a good guy. Her dad's transmission was shot, he couldn't afford—"
"Fuck off man!" Garrett roared, the sudden volume making Logan jump. "Stop lying to yourself. You string her along. Constantly. You know you do. You keep pulling her back in. Every time she takes a step away, you show up with a toolbox, or a text message, or a 'good luck' call, reminding her exactly what she can't have.”
Logan opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He looked down at the extra key on his keychain—the one that fit y/n's front door, the one he’d had for two years after you had an anaphylactic allergic reaction - Logan had demanded you hand over the spare keys just in case anything ever were to happen and never given back. Logan had only told Garrett about his feelings for you two years ago - but you weren’t ready for anything then. So he moved on, and you both were hooking up with other people. You’d never want him, he thought.
"You want to talk about how you're just 'being a good guy'?" Garrett asked, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet rhythm.
“Logan, I’ve never seen you be so worried about literally anyone else. You always think about her, you think to get her an extra coffee or cookie when we go to Lucky’s with Hannah, you drop anything to drive her, you skip practice because you needed to find her to ease your mind, and when anything is ever wrong in your life the only person you want to talk about that stuff is - is with y/n. Don’t you think that’s odd and I don’t know, Logan? Fucking insane? considering you have a girlfriend?”
Logan flinched, his jaw tightening so hard a vein throbbed at his temple. "She’s like-my family. She knows me, I know her. We talk about these hard things okay? It’s just what we do, I mean, what we did. And sure I-I did want to be with her, but that was before. It’s done now."
“Yeah okay. Keep lying to yourself bud. Are you done playing house with two different girls Logan? Or you’re not ready to face yourself yet?” Garrett spat. He’d always defend you. A hundred fucking life times - he’d defend you. You were his family. And he was fucking sick and tired of you crying because of John Logan.
“You love Grace? Sure. Fine. Then go be with Grace - but you have to let y/n go. Stop stringing her along. It’s killing her,” he scolded Logan.
“But - you already knew that.” Garrett pushed passed Logan irritated, leaving him on the back porch with the weight of his own choices finally crashing down on him. He had to face himself.
Summary: A Briar physiotherapist unknowingly becomes Dean Di Laurentis’s rebound after his breakup fallout, only to fall deeply in love with him before discovering she was never his first choice.
Enjoyy
The sterile scent of the Briar University training room had become a second skin to you, a comforting blend of rubbing alcohol, wintergreen liniment, and the sharp tang of sweat. As the hockey team’s newest student physiotherapist, you began to learnthe exact threshold of the boys' pain tolerances. You knew that Beau needed to be bullied into icing his shoulder, and you knew that John Tucker, always the quiet, steady anchor of the house, would sit silently on your taping table, offering soft-spoken gratitude while you worked out the knots in his back. They became older brothers to you, protective and annoyingly loud, wrapping you into their chaotic orbit until you felt entirely a part of their world. But everything changed the night Dean Di Laurentis stumbled into the training room after his world imploded. You hadn't known about the brutal bar brawl with Hunter Davenport, you only knew that Dean’s knuckles were split open, his eyes hollow and burning with a frantic, dangeroues energy. When you gently cleaned the blood from his skin, he hadn’t looked at you like a helper, he had looked at you like a lifeline. What started as late-night comfort in the quiet training room quickly bled into a breathless, secret arrangement. He proposed friends-with-benefits with a devastating, lopsided grin, and you, already half-enamoured by his magnetic charm, had readily agreed, entirely unaware of the ghost haunting his every move.
For months, the relationship felt like a beautifully wrapped gift. From your point of view, it was unexpectedly cutesy, defying everything the campus whispered about Dean’s ruthless playboy reputation. He wasn't distant, in fact, he was suffocatingly attentive. At the massive off-campus house parties, Dean would pull you tightly against his chest, his hands anchoring around your waist, burying his face in your neck and kissing you with a desperate, public intensity that took your breath away. He insisted on you wearing his oversized, heavy Briar hockey hoodies, wrapping the thick fabric around your shoulders and smirking when his jersey number draped down to your thighs. When you sat on the living room couch, curled up between Tucker and Beau talking about upcoming rehab schedules, Dean would arrive like a whirlwind, shoving himself into the tight space next to you just to drape his heavy arm over your shoulders, claiming your space in front of everyone. It felt like devotion. You felt cherished, protected, and completely integrated into his life, completely blind to the fact that his eyes were always darting toward the entryway of the room, tracking the door with a sharp, calculated desperation.
There were only small, inexplicable ripples in your perfect pond, mostly stemming from Hannah. Whenever you were at the house helping Tucker with his nutrition plans or laughing with Beau, Hannah treated you with a cold, guarded distance. She wasn’t outright cruel, but her politeness felt like a wall of ice. Whenever Dean would pull you into his lap in the kitchen, Hannah would stiffen, murmuring an excuse to leave the room, her eyes flashing with a judgmental pity that you couldn't quite decipher. You brushed it off as her simply being protective of the hockey house dynamics, especially since Allie, was rarely around when you were. On the rare occasions you did see Allie across a crowded party, she looked at you with a heavy, sorrowful expression that made your stomach twist, though you never understood why. You didn't know the history. You didn't know about the casual agreement that broke, the mutual panic, or the devastating betrayal with Hunter that had shattered Dean's pride. You just thought you were a girl falling, effortlessly in love with a boy who seemed to be falling right back.
The illusion shattered into a million jagged pieces during a victory party at the house, a night where the air was thick with cheap beer and loud music. You were standing near the kitchen island, waiting for Tucker to grab you a soda, when Chloe, one of the team’s most notorious puck bunnies, leaned against the counter next to you, a cruel, amused smirk playing on her lips. She swirled her red cup, looking at you with mock admiration before drawling, "I honestly have to hand it to you. I don't know how you handle it, having Allie and Dean in the same room like this after everything." You blinked, the loud music suddenly fading into a dull buzz in your ears as you frowned, asking her what she meant. Chloe let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Oh, come on. Don't play dumb. The massive, bloody fistfight Dean got into with Hunter over Allie? The fact that he was so broken he would have taken anyone to get back at her? And then tonight... I mean, it’s pretty bold of Dean to bring Allie back to his childhood home over winter break to meet his parents, but he won't even let you leave a toothbrush in his bathroom. You’re brave, honey."
The floor felt like it was tilting beneath your feet, the breath completely knocked from your lungs. The world narrowed down to a suffocating pinpoint as Chloe’s words echoed through your mind, instantly recontextualizing every single memory of the last few months. The aggressive, public displays of affection. The frantic way he insisted you wear his clothes at parties. The heavy, performative making out whenever certain people walked into the room. It hadn't been devotion, it had been a weapon. He had been using your body, your warmth, and your genuine affection to stage a play for an audience of one.
Slipping away from the kitchen with a trembling chest, you found the boys Tucker, Beau, and a few other players huddled in the quieter hallway near the back exit. Your face was stark white, tears burning the backs of your eyes as you walked straight up to them. "Did Dean get into a fight with Hunter over Allie before we started seeing each other?" you asked, your voice cracking, stripped of all its usual warmth. "Did he take Allie to meet his parents?"
The reaction was instantaneous and damning. Beau, usually so loud and quick-witted, immediately looked down at his shoes, his jaw tightening in uncomfortable guilt. Tucker, your closest confidant, froze entirely. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, he just looked at you with a profound, agonizing silence that confirmed every single horrific realization crashing down on you. They knew, they had always fuckin known. Hannah’s icy distance, her complete refusal to let you into the inner circle, suddenly made sickening sense, she was loyal to Allie, the girl Dean actually loved, the girl he was trying to torture by using you.
Just then, Dean’s phone, which he had carelessly shoved into your jacket pocket earlier while he went to grab a keg tap, buzzed against your hip. With trembling fingers, you pulled it out. The lock screen illuminated the dark hallway, displaying a fresh text notification. It was from Allie. Can we talk?? It was the final, devastating nail in the coffin, a clear indication that the toxic, unresolved tether between them was alive and well, and you were nothing but a temporary shield he used to survive the fallout.
When Dean finally found you upstairs in his bedroom, trying to gather your coat with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, there was a split second where everything in him seemed to still. The noise of the house downstairs, the music, the laughter, even the world itself felt like it had fallen away the moment his eyes landed on you.
The expression on your face told him everything before you even spoke. Whatever fragile balance he had been holding onto, whatever version of this he had been hoping to control or explain his way out of, was already gone. The easy confidence he always wore like armour slipped off his shoulders in an instant, replaced by something raw and exposed, something almost boyish in its panic.
“Hey—” he started, softer than you had ever heard him speak, like he was afraid of breaking you further just by being too loud. He stepped toward you instinctively, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t dare. “Talk to me baby. What happened?”
You flinched away from him. That single movement hit him harder than anything you could have said. Your voice came out broken, uneven, as though every word had to force its way past something heavy sitting in your chest. “You used me.”
Dean froze completely it wasn’t anger in your voice that undid him. It was the way it trembled, like you were trying so hard to hold yourself together for the sake of not falling apart in front of him. Like you were still trying to understand him even while he had already destroyed the version of him you thought you knew.
You shook yourr head faintly, tears slipping down your cheeks as you continued, each sentence quieter than the last, more wounded. “Every time you pulled me into you at those parties… every time you made me wear your clothes like it meant something… every time you kissed me in front of everyone like I was yours… it wasn’t real, was it?” Your breath hitched, and your eyes finally lifted to his. “It was never me. It was always her. I was just… noise you used to drown her out.”
Something cracked in Dean’s expression then, something deep and irreversible. His jaw tightened as if it he was physically trying to hold himself together, but it didn’t work. The denial never came. There was no instinct to lie to you, not anymore.
Instead, when he spoke, his voice came out rough, stripped of everything but truth.
“I won’t insult you by pretending it didn’t start that way,” he admitted, and the honesty of it made your stomach twist. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing half a step like he couldn’t stand still inside his own skin. “After the fight with Hunter… I was a mess. I was angry at her, at myself, at everything. And when you were there, when you looked at me like I wasn’t completely wrecked…” He stopped, exhaling sharply.” I told myself it was just something to get me through it. Something to make her feel what I was feeling.”
The words landed between you like glass shattering on tile. Your chest rose sharply as if you couldn’t get enough air, but Dean wasn’t finished. And for the first time, there was nothing performative about him, nothing controlled. He looked like someone standing too close to the edge of something he couldn’t step back from.
“But that isn’t where it stayed,” he said, voice quieter now, almost desperate in its honesty. “It stopped being about her. It stopped being about anything except you, I prmoise.” His eyes finally met yours fully, and there was something in them that made your breath catch despite everything. “You didn’t feel like a rebound to me anymore. You felt like the first thing that made sense in a long time. The first and only thing I didn’t want to ruin.”
Your hands tightened around your coat, knuckles white, because none of it made sense with what you knew. Not when you were standing here with the weight of everything he had already done sitting on your chest like a bruise you couldn’t press out.
“You don’t get to say that to me now,” you whispered, voice breaking in a way that made your own heart hurt. “You don’t get to decide it changed after you already made me believe I meant something I didn’t.”
Dean stepped forward again, slower this time, like he was approaching something fragile that might disappear if he moved too quickly. His voice dropped, rougher now, stripped down to something painfully human.
“You did mean something,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation in it. None at all. “You weren’t a placeholder. Not to me. I know that’s what it looks like, I know that’s what I made it look like, but I swear to you… I didn’t know I was falling into you until I already had.”
Your laugh came out wet and broken, shaking your head because it hurt too much to believe him and too much not to. “Then why did I have to find out like this?” you choked out. “Why did I have to be the last person to know what I was to you? Everyone else knew, her , Hannah. Everyone knew except me.”
His face changed at the mention of her, something like shame flashing briefly across his expression before it dissolved into something heavier. He looked away for a second, like he couldn’t hold your gaze under the weight of it.
“I didn’t handle it right,” he admitted, voice low. “I didn’t protect you from any of it. I should have. I know that now.” His hands curled slightly at his sides, like he was stopping himself from reaching for you again. “But what I feel for you isn’t something I turned on and off. It’s not something I planned. It’s just… you became it for me. You became the person I couldn’t stop thinking about, even when I was trying to fix everything else I’d broken.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You looked at him for a long moment, really looked at him, like you were trying to find the version of him you had fallen for and realising it had always been split between what he was and what he wished he had been. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely more than air, “But you didn’t.”
Dean closed his eyes at that, like the sentence physically landed on him. When he opened them again, there was something softer there something unbearably human.
“I know,” he whispered.
And for a moment, neither of you moved. Not because anything was fixed, but because there was nothing left to say that wouldn’t break you both further. Then you stepped back. This time, he didn’t follow, couldn’t dare to move his legs.
He just stood there in the dim light of his room, watching you leave with the quiet, devastating understanding that no matter how real his feelings had become, they had arrived in a story that had already hurt you too much to survive them.
eeee
as soon as i finished off campus u fucking bet i wrote a tucker and dean fic lmaoo. i know he didnt introduce allie to his parents i just wanted it to be more angsty, so yayyyy. hope it was ok, i just wanted to write a angsty fic with dean lol. Its super short and not that indetail so ignore that;))
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – garrett graham doesn’t do girlfriends. she knows that. but after a heated trip upstairs turns into bruised ribs, nursing-student instincts, and accidental tenderness, whatever they’re doing starts feeling a lot less casual.
warnings – suggestive content, alcohol, swearing, hockey injuries, wound care, casual hookup dynamics.
notes from me – idk i just thought this pairing was cute because what’s better than a hockey boy who keeps getting beat up and a girl who actually knows how to look after him??? requests are open!
word count – 5.4k
navigation – masterlist
By the time Garrett gets her upstairs, she’s already decided she’s going to be normal about it tonight. This is, obviously, a lie.
Normal would be letting him lead her through the party by the hand without staring at the back of his neck. Normal would be not noticing the flex of his fingers around hers every time someone bumps into them in the hall.
Normal would be not feeling the whole noisy, beer-sticky, post-game mess of the house narrow itself down to his thumb moving once over her knuckles as he guides her past a cluster of girls outside the bathroom and two guys shouting about somebody’s fantasy lineup near the stairs.
Normal would be remembering that this is what Garrett Graham does. The easy attention. The grin over his shoulder.
The way he touches like he’s not thinking too hard about it, like putting a hand at the small of her back or catching her fingers in his is just what his body does when she’s near enough. The way he makes a person feel briefly, stupidly singular, even in a house full of people who know his name and want a piece of him.
She knows better than to turn that into meaning. She really does.
She’s a nursing student. She has clinical placement at seven on Monday morning and three half-finished flashcards on cardiac meds shoved into her bag and a lab partner who keeps texting her about their assessment.
She understands symptoms. She understands pattern recognition. She understands that if a man who doesn’t do girlfriends makes you feel like a girlfriend for three to six hours a week, and then smiles at you after like he hasn’t just rearranged your entire nervous system, that’s not necessarily pathology. Sometimes that’s just Garrett.
His hand is warm around hers, and she’s a little drunk, and the game had been brutal, and he’d scored twice, and there are girls downstairs wearing Briar colours and looking at him like he’s something they could win if they stood in the right place long enough. And she’s the one he’s taking upstairs.
So. Normal. Definitely. Totally.
Garrett pushes his bedroom door open with his shoulder, tugging her inside after him, and the noise of the party drops at once to a muffled, bass-heavy pulse through the floorboards.
His room smells like clean laundry, cold air from the cracked window, and him underneath it, that warm boyish mix of soap and deodorant and whatever he uses in his hair when he pretends he doesn’t use anything.
There are textbooks stacked badly on the desk, a hoodie thrown over the chair, tape and a half-empty Gatorade bottle on the dresser. Evidence of a life being lived at full speed and cleaned only when Tucker threatens violence.
She gets half a second to take it in before Garrett closes the door behind her. Then he turns, catches her by the waist, and backs her against it.
The breath leaves her in a soft, embarrassing little rush. Garrett, for all his size and all the speed he carries on the ice, is annoyingly good at knowing exactly where someone’s body is in space.
He presses her back into the door with just enough weight, one hand braced near her head and the other sliding to her hip, his mouth already curving like he knows the sound she just made has ruined any chance of her acting composed.
“Hi,” he says, close enough that the word brushes her lips.
She looks up at him. “Hi.”
His grin deepens. “You’ve said that, like, six times tonight.”
“You keep appearing near me.”
“I live here.”
She tilts her head. “That’s probably part of the problem.”
He laughs under his breath, and then he kisses her before she can decide whether that was too honest to have been funny.
It starts the way it always starts, like he’s going to be patient just to prove he can. His mouth settles over hers slowly, warm and confident, one hand still at her waist, thumb slipping over the soft fabric of her dress.
She can taste beer on him, faint and bitter, and the peppermint gum he’d been chewing earlier because Dean had made some deeply unnecessary comment about post-game mouth and Garrett had thrown a bottle cap at his head.
His lips are soft in a way that always feels vaguely unfair, especially against the rest of him, the broadness of his shoulders and the hard line of his body still wired from the game, and when she opens for him he makes a small sound in his throat that goes straight through her like heat.
Her fingers climb into his hair before she can pretend restraint was ever on the table. His curls are a little damp at the roots from the party, from the shower he must have taken after the game, from whatever warmth still clings to him after the crush of bodies downstairs. She tugs, just lightly, and Garrett’s hand tightens at her waist.
“There she is,” he murmurs against her mouth.
She would like to say something clever to that. Something dry and immune. Instead she sucks his bottom lip between hers and feels him go briefly still. Then he groans. It lands low and rough in the small space between them, and something in her stomach tips clean over.
Garrett’s hand slides from her waist to her back and pulls her in harder, until there’s very little room left between the door and him and her body has to make several immediate decisions about survival. Her hands stay in his hair. His mouth opens over hers, deeper now, less patient, and the kiss turns messy in that private familiar way it gets when they are both pretending this is simple.
His tongue against hers. His thumb at her jaw. The scrape of his teeth, quick and careful, when she nips at his lip again because he’s rewarded it once already and she likes the sounds he makes against her mouth.
He kisses down her jaw, and her head tips back into the door before she can help it. His mouth moves warm over the hinge of it, then lower, to the line of her throat where her pulse is doing something medically ridiculous. He finds it with the kind of precision that feels almost insulting. His lips press there once, then again, open-mouthed and slow enough that her fingers tighten in his hair.
“Garrett,” she breathes, and immediately hates herself a little for sounding like that.
He hums against her skin, smugness practically vibrating off him. “Yeah?”
“Don’t be annoying.”
His smile touches her throat. “Be patient.”
She laughs, which comes out unstable because he chooses that exact second to kiss back up her neck, along her jaw, to the corner of her mouth. He catches her there before she can fully get the breath back, and this kiss is less patient from the start. His hand moves up to her jaw, fingers gentle but sure, thumb resting near the corner of her mouth in a way that makes it very hard to remember that she has bones.
She thinks he likes her.
It arrives abruptly, in the middle of his mouth on hers and his hand spread over her back and his knee sliding between her thighs like he already knows where she’ll make that soft sound for him. She thinks it, and then the thought sits there glowing, horrible and warm.
Garrett Graham does not do girlfriends. Everybody knows that.
It’s practically public information. He has hockey, classes, training, games, and the kind of attention that follows him around campus like bad weather. He’s just been made captain, which means half his life now belongs to the team in a more official capacity than it already did. He spends mornings on the ice, afternoons in class, nights pretending he’s not exhausted while some girl in a mini dress lets him drag her upstairs by the hand and tries not to care when he looks at her like this.
And she’s busy too. She is. She has lectures and placement and exams that make her want to peel her own face off. She has care plans to write and competencies to get signed and older nurses who can destroy a person with one look if they prime an IV line too slowly. She’s not wandering around with free time and delusion looking for somewhere to put both.
But Garrett’s hand’s at her throat, careful and warm, and his mouth is on hers like he has nowhere else to be, and she likes him so much that for a second it’s genuinely inconvenient to breathe.
His knee shifts higher between her thighs. The feeling catches before she can stop it. A little drag of pressure through the thin fabric of her dress and the heat already sitting low in her body, and her hips move once, almost by accident, chasing it.
Garrett’s response is immediate. His breath breaks against her mouth, not quite a laugh and not quite a groan, his fingers flexing at her jaw. “Fuck.”
The word should make her feel powerful. And it does. Unfortunately, it also makes her stupid.
She does it again, on purpose this time, and Garrett kisses her harder, his free hand sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, to pull her closer against his thigh. The door is cool at her back. His body is hot everywhere else.
The party downstairs has become a distant, irrelevant animal. She can feel the dull beat of music through the wood, the pressure of his hand at her waist, the soft roughness of his lips when he drags his mouth from hers just long enough to breathe and comes right back like leaving was a mistake.
He turns them without really breaking the kiss, one hand moving to her back, walking her backward across the room. It’s smooth for approximately three steps, and then her knees hit the edge of the bed. She drops onto it with a soft, inelegant oof.
Garrett pulls back just enough to look at her. For one second, neither of them says anything. She’s sitting on the edge of his bed with her dress riding higher than she left the house intending, boots planted on his carpet, hair probably already a mess from his hands. Garrett stands between her knees, flushed and grinning down at her like this night has gone exactly where he wanted it to.
God help her, she grins back.
“Smooth,” he says.
“You shoved me.”
“I guided you.”
She has just enough time to roll her eyes before he pulls his shirt over his head, and then the entire mood changes.
The heat’s still there, because Garrett Graham shirtless is, objectively, not a situation a girl can be expected to process with clinical detachment.
His shoulders are broad and strong and his chest is exactly as unfair as she remembers from the other times she’s had the opportunity to lose her mind about it. There are abs. Obviously there are abs. Annoying, well-defined, deeply unnecessary abs that make some extremely unhelpful part of her brain go momentarily blank.
But over all of that, dark and yellowing and fresh and ugly, are bruises. A lot of them. Across his ribs. One spreading along his side in a purple smear that disappears toward his back. Another near his shoulder. Smaller marks scattered over his chest and stomach, some fading green at the edges, some new enough that the skin around them still looks angry. There’s a cut near his collarbone she hadn’t noticed downstairs and another thin scrape along his ribs, red, but not bleeding now.
She knew the game had been rough. Everyone had known. The hits had been loud enough from the stands that one of her friends had flinched into her shoulder and muttered, “Jesus, is that legal?”
She had watched Garrett get slammed into the boards and get back up like irritation was the only possible consequence. She had seen him grin through blood on his lip after the second period and had thought, with equal parts lust and alarm, that hockey players were not right in the head. But seeing it like this, close enough to touch, is different.
“Whoa,” she says, before she can soften it. Her hands come up instinctively but stop short of his skin. “Garrett. Hey. Hold on a second.”
He glances down like he has forgotten his own torso exists, then gives a small frown. “Oh. That.” His gaze lifts back to her, careless in a way that would be more convincing if she hadn’t spent half her week learning exactly how many bad decisions people described as nothing right before they became triage paperwork. “Yeah, you get used to it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Because that looks insane.”
“It’s fine.” He bends toward her, one hand already coming to her jaw, under the impression that his very stupid body can simply be kissed out of the conversation. “C’mere.”
He kisses her, and she lets him for about two seconds because she’s only human and his mouth is still his mouth. Then she makes a small, involuntary squeak of disapproval against his lips.
Garrett pulls back, forehead dropping to hers, jaw tight with the particular frustration of a man who can feel the night slipping out of his control and doesn’t appreciate the medical profession’s role in it. “What?”
She blinks up at him. “Can I at least look at them?”
His eyes narrow. “At what?”
“At your ribs, Garrett.”
“Jeez. They’re ribs. They’re still there.”
“Are we sure?”
That gets the corner of his mouth, barely. “Pretty sure.”
“Are you sure you didn’t break one or some shit?”
He lets out a groan and then, with all the theatrical suffering of a man denied his constitutional rights, flops backward onto the bed beside her. The mattress bounces under his weight. “We’re not gonna fuck, are we?”
She stares at him. Garrett looks over with the aggrieved expression of someone who believes he’s asked a very fair question.
She rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Can I just look? Please?”
“This feels like a trap.”
“You took your shirt off and revealed a fucking crime scene.”
He gives her a look so flat she nearly laughs at his stupidity. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s bruising over your ribs.”
He sighs, long and dramatic, then lifts one hand and gestures vaguely down at himself like a monarch granting access to disputed land. “Fine. Nurse me.”
“I’m not a nurse yet.”
“Great. So this is amateur hour.”
She shoots him a look, eyes narrowing. “Oh. Would you like me to stop touching you?”
“No,” he says too quickly, and then has the audacity to look slightly offended when she smiles.
She shifts onto the bed properly, one knee tucked under her, trying very hard to keep her attention on the task and not on the fact that Garrett is lying shirtless under her hands with his jeans still slung low on his hips and his hair a mess from her fingers.
The bedside lamp is on, yellowing the room softly, catching over the bruises and the lines of his stomach. Downstairs, someone yells, followed by laughter and a dull thud that neither of them bothers to investigate.
She presses two fingers gently along his lower ribs first. “How’s this?”
“Fine.”
She moves slightly higher. “Here?”
“Fine.”
She pulls her hands back and looks at him. “Garrett.”
“What?”
“Use a word that isn’t fine.”
He looks at the ceiling like she’s placed an enormous burden on him. “Manageable.”
“Wow. Thank you for your courage.” She presses again, lighter this time, watching his face. “Here?”
His mouth tightens before he can stop it.
She catches it immediately. “That hurt.”
“No.”
“Your entire face just did a thing.”
“My face does a lot of things. Girls usually love it.”
“Garrett.”
He exhales through his nose, then gives in by about one inch. “It’s… tender.”
“Tender like sore, or tender like don’t touch me there again unless I’m dying?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Answer.”
“Sore,” he says, then adds, because he’s incapable of letting her have anything cleanly, “but if you wanna touch me there again under different circumstances, I’m totally open-minded.”
She presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, and fails. “You’re actually the worst patient I’ve ever had.”
“I’m your hottest patient.”
She tilts her head. “Mm. Unfortunately.”
His grin flashes, quick and pleased, before she moves her hand higher and finds another spot that makes the muscles in his stomach tense under her fingertips.
Her brain, horribly unprofessional, registers the abs again. A full, useless, warm-body register of the hard give of him under her hand, the smooth heat of his skin, the fact that his stomach jumps a little when her fingers pass too close to the waistband of his jeans.
She’s touched him plenty of times. In significantly less educational contexts. But this feels different because she’s trying to be careful, and careful, with Garrett, is its own kind of intimacy.
“You’re staring,” he says.
She looks up and finds him watching her with one brow raised. “I’m assessing.”
“You’re assessing my abs?”
“They’re in the way of the bruises.”
He grins, head pressing back into the mattress as he adjusts his hips. “Tragic for you.”
“Deeply.” She drags her gaze back to the bruising near his side because if she keeps looking at his face while touching his stomach, she’s going to become useless to both medicine and feminism. “This one’s ugly.”
“Yeah, that guy was huge.”
She glares at him, one eyebrow raising in disapproval.
Garrett huffs. “What? I didn’t just let him hit me.”
“Sorry. I forgot he was supposed to ask for approval first.”
He laughs, then winces, one hand coming toward his ribs before he stops himself. “Ow. Jesus. Don’t make me laugh.”
Her face changes at once. “See?”
“I’m fine.”
She clicks her tongue once in frustration. “You just winced.”
“Because you’re funny.”
“Because your ribs hurt when you laugh,” she runs her hand across his chest again, genuinely concentrating on the damage now.
“Could be both.”
She gives him a look and reaches up to brush his hair back from his forehead, more because she wants to than because it serves any medical purpose.
His curls slip through her fingers, soft and warm, and his eyes do something quieter for half a second. Eyelids dropping halfway. Then the usual Garrett comes back over it, but not quite fast enough.
Her hand lingers. “I’m gonna get you some meds, okay?” she says, voice lower now.
He groans. “Can I get head first, or…?”
She huffs and smacks him lightly on the chest before she thinks. Garrett winces.
“Oh shit.” She jerks her hand back immediately, horror punching through the laugh. “Sorry. Sorry, my bad. My bad.”
He turns his head on the pillow and gives her a look of grave betrayal. “Jesus. Some nurse you are.”
“I said I wasn’t a nurse yet!”
“Yeah, and thank God. Accreditation board dodged a bullet.”
“I hate you.” But she’s smiling when she says it, which rather ruins the effect. She climbs off the bed, tugging her dress down as she stands because it’s migrated during the assessment with absolutely no respect for her professionalism. “Stay here.”
Garrett lifts his head slightly. “Where else would I go?”
“Knowing you? Back onto the ice to get punched again for sport.”
He opens his mouth to object. She points at him from the doorway. “Stay.”
His grin turns slow and irritating. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
His mouth opens again, probably to say something dirty, but she slips out before he can.
The hallway is louder than his room by several degrees, music and shouting rushing back in around her. She shuts his door behind her and stands there for a second with her hand on the knob, blinking herself back into the party version of the house. Two girls come up the stairs laughing into each other, one of them barefoot, both of them carrying cups. A guy she vaguely recognises from one of Garrett’s classes is sitting on the floor by the wall, looking solemnly into a bag of chips like it might answer something for him.
The bathroom is blessedly empty when she gets there. She flips on the light and starts opening cabinets.
Condoms. More condoms. A suspiciously ancient bottle of hair gel.
“Ew,” she mutters, pushing aside something at the back of the cabinet that may once have been a protein shaker lid and may now qualify as a biohazard. “Men should not be allowed storage.”
More condoms, because this house is prepared for everything except basic first aid. A packet of painkillers finally appears behind a half-used tube of toothpaste, and then antiseptic wipes in a box that looks like it has survived three tenants and a small war. She checks the date, then grabs them along with a clean washcloth from the stack under the sink.
When she gets back, Garrett is still on the bed, thank God, though he’s propped himself against the pillows now and is holding his phone above his face. He looks up when she comes in, and the expression on him changes in a way she wishes she hadn’t noticed.
The grin comes first, of course. It always does. But underneath it, there’s something softer. Something almost pleased. “You robbed our bathroom?”
“You own, like, ninety-three condoms and one bottle of painkillers.”
“Sounds balanced.”
“One of the condoms was in the medicine cabinet stuck to expired hair gel.”
He frowns. “That’s probably Dean’s.”
“Everything disgusting in this house cannot be Dean’s.”
“It actually can.”
She shuts the door with her hip and comes back to the bed, setting the supplies on his nightstand. “Sit up.”
He obeys, but makes it look like he’s doing her a personal favour. She hands him two tablets and the Gatorade from his dresser because hydration is hydration, even if blue sports drink feels questionable as medicine. Garrett takes them, eyes on her the whole time, then swallows with a grimace.
“See?” she says. “So brave.”
“I’ve been through a lot tonight.”
“You almost got laid and instead got ibuprofen. Devastating.”
He presses his lips together in an attempt not to laugh. “Finally, someone understands.”
She sits beside him, half-turned toward him, and tears open an antiseptic wipe. “This might sting.”
“Baby, I play hockey.”
She presses the wipe lightly to the cut near his collarbone.
Garrett hisses. “Fuck.”
She pauses, looking at him. He stares back, offended.
She smiles sweetly. “Baby, you play hockey.”
“Yeah, well, hockey doesn’t usually come in… little wet napkin form.”
She laughs despite herself and keeps going, careful now, dabbing around the scrape rather than dragging across it. He watches her while she works. She can feel it. The weight of his attention moving over her face, the line of her mouth, the way her hair keeps falling forward no matter how many times she tucks it back. The room feels warmer than it did before she left. Smaller, too, with him propped against the pillows and her sitting close enough that her knee presses against his thigh.
For a while, the party fills the places where neither of them speaks. Bass downstairs. Footsteps in the hall. A sudden burst of Dean’s voice somewhere below them, unmistakable even through the floor, followed by what sounds like Logan yelling, No, absolutely not, in a tone suggesting absolutely yes.
Garrett’s fingers touch her hair before she realises he’s lifted his hand. He brushes it back from her cheek, slow and absent, tucking it behind her ear with more care than the gesture needs. His hand doesn’t leave right away. His thumb grazes once near her temple, barely there, and when she looks at him, the grin is gone.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs.
The words are quiet enough that the party almost swallows them. Almost.
Heat rises immediately under her skin, stupid and quick. She looks down at the antiseptic wipe in her hand like it’s become fascinating. “You’re concussed, I think.”
Garrett shakes his head. “Mm-mm.”
“Garrett.”
“Was thinkin’ it before the game too.”
That makes something in her chest go inconveniently soft. She tries very hard not to let it show. She really does. Unfortunately, her face has chosen this exact moment to resign from service. Her mouth wants to smile. Her skin is warm. Her hands, which were perfectly capable five seconds ago, are suddenly very interested in folding the used wipe into a tiny, useless square.
“That’s probably still, like, concussion-adjacent,” she says.
He laughs, softer this time so it doesn’t hurt as much. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make a joke when I say something nice.”
She looks up at him then. Her mouth opens, then closes.
Garrett’s expression shifts, not smug now. Curious, maybe. Careful in a way that sits strangely on him because he wears confidence so easily that it’s easy to forget he can be gentle without making a performance of it.
“I don’t know,” she says finally, because it’s the most honest answer she has and still only half of one.
His thumb moves once over the strand of hair between his fingers. “Okay.”
She huffs a small laugh. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves faintly. “I can work with I don’t know.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“I’m a generous guy.”
“You asked for head while actively bruised.”
The smile comes back properly then, and the room unclenches around them.
She reaches for another wipe, but Garrett catches her wrist before she can open it. “Hey.”
Her pulse gives a small, irritating kick. “What?”
He doesn’t say it immediately. That’s unlike him enough that she notices. His fingers stay around her wrist. “You looked good at the game. You were… you were wearing that little Briar sweatshirt.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you making fun of my sweatshirt?”
“No.” His eyes flicker across her face. “I liked it.”
The warmth under her skin gets worse.
“You scored twice,” she says, because deflection is now a survival tool.
His grin tilts. “I know.”
“Cocky.”
“You brought it up.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away again.
His fingers slide from her wrist to her hand. “You looked pretty in my colours.”
Her heart does one of those hard, stupid beats that feels less like romance and more like a medical event.
She looks down at their hands because his are big and warm and bruised at the knuckles, and because looking at his face suddenly feels like stepping too close to the edge of something. “You can’t just say things like that when I’m trying to, like, provide healthcare.”
“Why not?”
“Um, boundary confusion.”
“You’re sitting on my bed in a tiny dress.”
“And administering antiseptic.”
“Mixed signals all around.”
She laughs, and Garrett smiles at her like he meant to make that happen, like getting laughter out of her is its own private stat he’s keeping somewhere in his head.
For a second, she lets herself stay there. Lets herself sit with the warmth of his hand around hers, the lamp light over his bruised chest, the ridiculous intimacy of painkillers and antiseptic wipes and his hair still messy from her fingers.
The whole night has gone sideways. From heat to something softer without losing the heat completely. From his knee between her thighs to her thumb brushing lightly near a bruise on his ribs. From fuck me to don’t make me laugh, it hurts.
Maybe this is what makes her like him so much. Not the obvious things, though the obvious things are doing their best. It’s that Garrett, who has every reason to stay easy and shallow and wanted by everyone, keeps accidentally becoming specific with her. Specific in rooms. Specific with his hands. Specific in the way he remembers what she wore to his game and says she looked pretty like it’s been sitting in him all night, waiting for somewhere to go.
She clears her throat and reaches for the last wipe. “I still need to clean that cut.”
Garrett’s eyes flick down to her mouth, lifting onto his elbow. “Mhm. After?”
She pushes him back down. “No, before.”
“So strict.”
“Alive men get privileges.”
He sighs and leans his head back against the pillows, exposing the line of his throat like he’s submitting to the terrible injustice of being cared for by a girl in a mini dress. “Fine. Do your worst.”
She shifts closer, half in his lap now because it’s the only angle that makes sense and absolutely not because her body has been looking for excuses since the hallway.
His hand lands at her thigh automatically, warm over the hem of her dress. He doesn’t move it higher. He doesn’t make a joke. He just rests it there, thumb slow against her skin while she dabs antiseptic over the scrape near his collarbone.
This time he doesn’t hiss.
“Good boy,” she murmurs before she can stop herself.
Garrett’s eyes open. The air changes instantly. Her hand stills. His mouth curves slowly, and the bruises, the ibuprofen, the entire attempted medical intervention lose significant ground against the expression on his face.
“Oh yeah?” he says, positively beaming.
She points the wipe at him. “Do not.”
His hand tightens lightly on her thigh, amusement low in his voice. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m warm.”
“And you’re in my lap.”
“For medical purposes.”
“Right.”
She gives him a look, but it’s hard to make it stick when he’s smiling like that and when she is, in fact, half in his lap, one hand on his chest, the other holding antiseptic.
Garrett’s gaze softens again, almost unfairly fast. “C’mere.”
“I’m right here.”
“Closer.”
She should say no on principle. She doesn’t. She lets him pull her in carefully, mindful of his ribs even when he clearly isn’t, until her forehead rests against his. The party moves under them, distant and messy and young. Someone bangs on a door down the hall. Somebody else laughs too loudly. Garrett’s room stays dim and warm around them.
His thumb brushes once over her thigh.
“Are you gonna sleep here?” he asks, quiet enough to make it sound casual and not at all like the question has changed shape in his mouth.
She pulls back a little to look at him. “What?”
He shrugs, but it’s a bad shrug. Too careful. “I mean, you can. If you want. Since you’ve already ruined the original plan.”
She stares at him.
Garrett’s brows lift. “What?”
“The original plan being sex?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “And now your backup plan is… a sleepover?”
“Don’t make it sound lame.”
“It’s incredibly lame.”
His eyes move over her face. “You wanna leave?”
She doesn’t. The answer is immediate and sits in her before she can make it sound prettier.
“No,” she says.
His face shifts again, the smallest flicker of satisfaction moving through it before he reins it in. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
For a moment, they just look at each other. She’s waiting for him to make a joke. He’s probably waiting for her to make one. Between them, the thing neither of them has named sits warm and too close, wearing all the shapes of what this is supposed to be and none of them fitting quite right.
Then Garrett leans in and kisses her. Softer this time. Still warm, still him, still enough to make the room narrow, but without the frantic press from the door, without the urgent slide of his knee between her thighs.
His mouth moves over hers slowly, his hand rising to her jaw, thumb touching the corner of her face. The sweetness of it makes her chest ache in a way that’s frankly rude after everything else he’s already done to her tonight.
When he pulls back, he stays close. “You gonna keep nursing me,” he murmurs, “or am I cleared for kissing?”
She looks down at his bruised ribs, then back at his face. “Light kissing.”
He runs his thumb over her bottom lip. “Define light.”
“Um. No additional injuries.”
“So that rules out Dean joining.”
She laughs, louder now, and he smiles against her mouth before kissing her again, like the laugh is something he can catch if he moves fast enough.
Downstairs, the party gets louder. Upstairs, Garrett Graham lets her press one more cautious hand to his ribs and pretends not to notice when she leaves it there longer than she needs to.
Sipnosis: Where the school playboy and your brother's best friend asks you for advice on how to be good "boyfriend material" to win over your best friend Allie. Part 2/5.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!reader. (Minor John Tucker x reader so small you miss it lol)
Part One Here.
MDNI, hockeyplayerreader!, kinda friends to lovers but reader can’t stand dean, brother’s best friend, needy dean, dean doesn’t know how to handle his feelings, pet names, masturbating, YEARNING.
Part Two.
The air in the car shifted instantly. The playfulness in his gaze was unmistakable—he was doing it again, leaning into that magnetic, dangerous charm that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He was treating the intimacy of the rain-drenched car like it was just another stage for his act.
You straightened up, pulling your damp hair back from your face, and met his eyes with a cold, firm stare that effectively shattered the moment.
"Stop it," you said, your voice sharp enough to cut through the sound of the rain against the roof.
Dean blinked, his smirk faltering just a fraction. "Stop what? I’m just sitting here, Maxwell."
"You’re doing the thing," you snapped, pointing a finger at his chest. "The 'Prince' act, the heavy-lidded look, the deliberate proximity—you’re trying to turn this into a hookup because that’s your default setting when you feel vulnerable. And that, right there, is exactly what needs to change."
He pulled back slightly, his expression shifting from amusement to a flicker of genuine irritation. "I’m not doing anything. It’s a rainy night, we’re in a car. Relax."
"No, I won't relax," you retorted, leaning toward him to make sure he couldn't deflect. "You said you wanted to fix things with Allie, but the second the conversation gets real, you try to make it about you and some girl in a car. If you can’t turn off the 'sex machine' persona for thirty minutes to have a conversation without trying to flirt your way out of it, then you aren't ready to talk to her. You’re just looking for the next distraction."
"You're exhausting," he muttered, but there was no bite in it. "You know that, right? Most people would have just... gone with it."
The silence that followed was long and heavy. Dean looked away, his jaw working as he stared out at the rain-streaked windshield. He looked annoyed, but beneath that, you saw the telltale signs of a man who’d just been called out on his biggest defense mechanism.
"I'm not most people," you said, your voice softening just a little. "I'm the only person you've got right now who actually cares enough to tell you that you're full of it. Now, are you going to take me to my home, or am I going to walk home in this storm?"
Dean let out a long, shuddering sigh. He reached out, his hand hovering over the ignition before he dropped it back to his lap, defeated. He finally turned back to look at you, and for the first time, there was no mask.
"Fine," he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ll take you home, princess… just shut up.”
The silence on the way to your apartment was so thick you could cut it with scissors. Your mind was a chaotic mess, your heart racing as if you were in the middle of a failed game with Coach Hollander screaming at you from the stands. But it wasn't because of a game, or anything like that.
You couldn't believe your racing heart was thanks to Dean Di Laurentis.
Dean didn’t break the silence either. His hands were locked on the steering wheel, his knuckles pale, his gaze fixed on the road ahead with an intensity that suggested he was struggling not to look at you. Every time the car hit a bump, or he shifted gears, his arm brushed against yours, and you felt an electric jolt that made you want to jump out of the moving vehicle.
Finally, he pulled up to the curb in front of your building. He didn't turn off the engine. The car idled, a low hum that did nothing to soothe the tension vibrating between you two.
"You're not going to say anything else?" he finally broke the silence, his voice rough and low. He wasn't looking at you; he was staring at the building entrance. "You said you wanted the truth. Now you're acting like you want to run away."
"I'm not running," you lied, feeling your breath hitch. "I’m just... processing. You dropped a bomb on me, Dean. You expect me to have a reaction ready in five minutes?"
He finally turned his head. In the dim light of the dashboard, his eyes looked darker, haunted by everything he had just confessed. "I don't expect anything from you. That’s the problem. I’m so used to people wanting something from me—a favor, a hookup, a piece of my reputation—that having you here, actually trying to help for no reason... it’s making me lose my mind, Maxwell.”
He reached over, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before he tapped his fingers against the center console. "Go inside. Get some sleep. You’re soaked, and you look like you’re about to pass out."
You gripped the door handle, but you didn't open it. You looked at him—really looked at him. The arrogant, untouchable sex machine was gone, replaced by a guy who looked like he was barely holding himself together.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"We’re not done," you said, your voice firmer than you felt. "Tomorrow. We finish this conversation. And don't you dare show up at practice looking like a mess, or I will drag you by your jersey to the training room myself."
A ghost of a smile—a real one, small and tired—touched his lips. "Yes, Coach."
You managed to slip past Beau without a single word. He was in the kitchen, probably nursing another energy drink and staring at the television, but you didn't give him the chance to ask how the "date" went. You ducked into your room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind you with a sharp click.
Your heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You kicked off your wet sneakers, not caring that they left damp stains on the hardwood floor, and collapsed onto your bed.
The silence of your room was a stark contrast to the charged, heavy air in Dean’s car. You buried your face in your pillow, groaning into the fabric. How had it gone from a "lessons in humanity" session to... that? The way his gaze had softened, the way he’d dropped the armor—it felt like you had accidentally stumbled into a territory that was far more dangerous than just fixing his relationship with Allie.
He’s a mess, you reminded yourself, staring up at the ceiling. He’s a walking disaster area, and he’s your best friend’s ex something. He is strictly off-limits. And you hate his guts!
But your skin still tingled where he had brushed against you, and the memory of the intensity in his eyes was vivid enough to make you turn over and bury your face deeper into the pillow. You were supposed to be the rational one. You were supposed to be the bridge, the mediator, the one with the clear head. Instead, you felt just as unmoored as he was.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his face—not the mocking, arrogant smirk he usually wore, but the raw, vulnerable expression he’d had in the car. It was the face of a guy who was hurting, and for some reason, that had been infinitely more lethal than all his lines and charm combined.
You rolled onto your back, pulling your duvet up to your chin. Tomorrow, you had to face practice. Tomorrow, you had to figure out how to talk to Allie without looking like a traitor. And tomorrow, you had to face Dean again without letting him see that he had completely rattled your composure.
It was going to be a long, long night.
The moment you stepped out of the car and into the rain, he had wanted to reach out, grab your jacket, and pull you back. He wanted to kiss you—not with the practiced, predatory grace he used on everyone else, but with a desperate, hungry ache that had been festering since the day he first saw you on the ice at only twelve years old. He had spent years, fucking years watching you from the sidelines, hiding his fixation behind insults and provocations because it was the only way to keep you in his orbit without scaring you away.
His thoughts were dark and relentless. He replayed the way you looked at him—the way you saw through the bullshit—and it turned his blood to lead. He didn't just want your help with Allie; he wanted you to stop looking at him like a project and start looking at him like the man he was dying to be for you.
This was not about Allie. It was for you. Always fucking for you. And that was making him go mad.
When he finally got to his own place, he didn't turn on the lights. He sat in his darkened living room, his heart still thumping in a way that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the phantom sensation of your presence next to him. He was drowning in his own dirty thoughts—imagining your hand on his chest, the way you’d look at him without that shield of judgment, the way he could finally stop being the villain if you were the one holding the script.
He didn’t even knew when his hand moved south.
His hand moved with a frantic, punishing rhythm, driven by a frustration that had been festering for months. Every stroke was fueled by the memory of your voice—those sharp, analytical comments you’d toss at him like daggers, always seeing right through the bravado that served as his fortress. God, how he wanted to silence you. To shut that pretty little mouth of yours with his mouth, his tongue, his cock.
He imagined himself surging into your space, slamming you back against the nearest wall, and burying his mouth against yours—not to kiss you gently, but to devour the words right out of your throat until you were breathless, gasping, and completely incapable of anything but the sensation of him.
He was drowning in the fantasy of your surrender. He envisioned you finally dropping that defensive, clinical gaze, your eyes glazing over with the same frantic, carnal heat that was currently tearing him apart. He wanted to push you to that edge where your logic crumbled, where your "projects" and your "observations" became meaningless against the raw, animalistic need he would force you to face. He imagined dragging his hands down your body, mapping every inch with a possessive, desperate urgency that would leave you trembling and breathless, forced to admit that you wanted him just as badly as he was currently unraveling for you.
Only you, his sweetest little nemesis. You. You.
He was so fucked by you.
Every touch he inflicted on himself was a rehearsal for the moment he finally took you. He wanted to be rough, to be demanding, to strip away every layer of composure you hid behind until there was nothing left but skin, sweat, and the sound of your pulse spiking under his fingers. He imagined lifting you up, feeling your legs wrap around his waist, and driving into you with such relentless, all-consuming intensity that the world outside this room simply ceased to exist.
He wanted to hit you in that sweet, vulnerable spot that made you lose your head, pushing you so hard and so deep that your thoughts would shatter, your identity would blur, and the only thing left—the only thing you could possibly remember—was the feeling of his body claiming yours. He wanted you to forget your name, your purpose, and your resolve, leaving you with nothing but the overwhelming, intoxicating reality of him buried inside you, marking you as his, body and soul, until you were screaming for more just to anchor yourself to the earth. The thought alone sent a shockwave of pleasure through him, a dark, jagged ache that only intensified the closer he got to that inevitable, explosive release.
The memory of his eyes—dark blue eyes, brooding, and unexpectedly raw—clung to you like a second skin. For months—years even—, you had played the role of the observer, analyzing him, dissecting his arrogance, and holding him at arm's length to protect yourself from the gravity of his orbit. But tonight, that analytical shield had shattered. Just a bit. A tiny bit but enough to make him get to you.
And that was not what you wanted.
You didn’t want him. You can’t.
Your hands trembled slightly as you pressed them against your own body, his image burned into your mind. You replayed the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to be teetering on the edge of breaking, and a low, needy hum escaped your throat. You didn't just want him; you wanted to be the reason he finally snapped.
I want to ruin that composure, you thought, your own touch becoming more frantic as the internal tension spiked. I want him to forget he’s the villain, forget he’s the star player, and just be a man coming undone because of me.
You craved the feeling of his hands on you—rough, possessive, and demanding—the kind of touch that would leave you breathless and unable to form a single coherent sentence. You wanted him to pin you down, to silence your sharp remarks with a kiss so punishing and absolute that your brain went blank.
As you touched yourself, you could practically feel his phantom presence—his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, his voice turning into a ragged plea against your skin. You wanted him to take control, to drive into you with such relentless, all-consuming intensity that the clinical, intellectual version of yourself died a quick death.
Every gasp you drew was a whisper of his name. You wanted that total, sensory takeover—where the friction of his body against yours would be so overwhelming that you’d lose track of your own name, your own resolve, and everything you thought you knew about him. You wanted to feel completely claimed, raw and exposed, until the only thing that existed was the collision of his hunger and yours.
You pushed yourself harder, chasing that sharp, jagged peak of pleasure, imagining his face hovering over yours, his eyes dark with the same obsession that was currently setting you on fire. You were tired of the games, tired of the distance; you wanted him to crash into your world and leave nothing standing in his wake.
The sudden, jarring sound of Beau’s voice echoing through the hallway is like a bucket of ice water thrown over a fire. The spell breaks instantly. Your heart, which had been racing with a feverish, internal rhythm, skips a beat—but not from pleasure this time. It’s the shock of being dragged back to reality.
You freeze, your breath hitching, eyes wide and unfocused for a split second as the intensity of your own fantasy clashes with the mundane intrusion. The air in your room, which felt thick with heat and tension just moments ago, suddenly feels too thin, too quiet. You scramble to pull yourself together, your hands shaking slightly as you smooth your clothes, feeling a wave of frustration wash over you.
Not now, you think, your pulse still hammering against your ribs, a cruel reminder of how far gone you were just a heartbeat ago.
You stand up, your legs feeling like lead, the phantom sensation of Dean’s touch fading into the cold reality of your bedroom. You have to force yourself to breathe normally, to strip the flushed, desperate look from your face before you dare to open the door. The contrast is infuriating: you were seconds away from losing yourself completely, and now you have to play the part of a normal, functioning person who isn't currently drowning in a sea of illicit, hungry thoughts about a man you were just trying to ignore.
"I'm coming!" you call out, your voice sounding a little too sharp, a little too breathless.
As you walk to the door, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—disheveled, eyes dark, lips slightly swollen—and you have to look away. You take a final, deep breath, trying to shove that version of yourself into a locked box, knowing that when you see Dean next, the secret of what you were just doing is going to feel like a burning coal in your pocket.
The next day came way too soon.
The air inside the rink was biting, a stark, crystalline cold that usually sharpened your focus, but today, it felt suffocating. The Zamboni had just finished, leaving the ice as a smooth, pristine sheet of glass, but neither of you had stepped onto it yet. You stood at the edge of the boards, your skates already laced, your gloves resting on the fiberglass.
Dean was there, leaning against the glass a few feet away, his back turned to you. He was wrapped in his oversized practice hoodie, his shoulders hunched in a way that made him look like he was bracing for an impact that had nothing to do with hockey.
The silence between you was no longer the comfortable, familiar friction of your usual banter. It was heavy, weighted with the raw, unspoken reality of the previous night. Every time you glanced at him, you saw it—the man you’d been intimately tangled with in your mind just hours ago. You could still feel the phantom ghost of your own hands on your skin, and the terrifying, electric thought that he might have been doing the exact same thing to himself made your stomach flip-flop.
Dean finally turned, and the way he looked at you was different. The mockery that usually coated his words like a second skin was absent. His eyes were tired, dark-rimmed, and searching—a blatant, dangerous curiosity that burned through your defenses.
"You're late," he said. His voice was rough, lacking its usual performative edge. It was a low, jagged sound that vibrated right through you.
"I had to finish up with my team," you replied, your own voice sounding thinner than you intended. You kept your gaze fixed on his chest, terrified that if you looked into his eyes, he’d see the echo of his own fantasy reflected there. "You look like hell, Dean."
"Could say the same to you," he retorted. He pushed off the glass, closing the distance between you until he was hovering in your personal space—that familiar, predatory proximity, yet now it carried a new, terrifying weight.
He didn't move away. He stayed there, his breathing slightly shallow, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes. The tension was so thick it felt like you could slice it with your skate blade. Every time you shifted, the fabric of your leggings against your skin felt like a reminder of your vulnerability, a private, burning secret that felt etched onto your body for him to read.
He shifted his weight, his knee brushing against yours—an accidental contact that felt like a bolt of lightning. He didn't pull back. Instead, he let his gaze linger, his jaw working as he clearly wrestled with the urge to say something reckless. You could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes; he looked at you with a sudden, intense scrutiny, as if he were trying to deduce if you felt the same gravity pulling at you that he did.
"You're quiet," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register that wasn't for the rink. "Usually, you have a smart remark to save me from the silence."
"I'm just tired…," you countered, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it. “Long session with the team.”
"Tired," he repeated softly, almost to himself. He let out a short, cynical laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Ah yes, the Queen of ice.”
He reached out, his gloved hand hovering inches from your shoulder, hesitating in a way that was completely foreign to the Dean you knew.
“Your shoulders are tense.”
His eyes tracked the movement of your shoulders, his gaze heavy and analytical in a way that made your skin prickle with heat. He stepped slightly closer, encroaching on your space until you could smell the faint, sharp scent of cold air and the familiar musk of the locker room clinging to his hoodie.
"You're holding yourself like you're about to be checked into the boards," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that made the rest of the rink fade into a blur of white noise. Before you could pull away, his hand—warm even through the fabric of your athletic top—hovered just inches from your shoulder, his fingers twitching with a restraint that looked painful. "Your shoulders are completely locked, Maxwell. They’re tense as hell."
The irony of him noticing, and the sheer vulnerability of his touch being so close, made your heart hammer a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You knew why you were tense—it was the phantom memory of his hands on you, the residual friction of a night spent obsessing over the exact weight of his touch.
You stepped back abruptly, creating a sudden, cold gap between you that felt necessary for your survival. You forced a stiff, practiced laugh, keeping your eyes locked on the scuffed ice rather than the dark, all-knowing intensity in his face.
"It’s been a long week," you deflected, your voice coming out a little too quick, a little too clipped. "My team’s been pushing hard, and I’ve been on the ice for hours. It’s just muscle fatigue, Laurentis. Nothing more."
You gestured toward the far end of the rink with a jerky motion of your hand.
"Anyway, are we doing those drills or not? I didn't come here to talk about my posture. If we're going to get through the session before the next group kicks us out, we need to focus on the crossovers. You wanted to work on my speed, right? So let's stop standing around and actually do it."
You didn't wait for his response, turning your back on him to skate toward the center of the ice. Your heart was still racing, and you were hyper-aware of the fact that he was standing there, watching you with that heavy, predatory silence, completely unconvinced by your excuse.
Dean followed you with long, fluid strides, his blades carving deep, sharp lines into the ice as he effortlessly closed the distance. He didn't drop the topic of your tension—you could feel his gaze burning into your back, a heavy, insistent weight—but he matched your pivot, his tone shifting into that polished, slightly mocking cadence that usually served as his armor.
"Right. The crossovers," he said, skating up right beside you until your shoulders were almost touching. He kept his distance, but just barely, the air between you still vibrating with the ghost of his earlier comment. "Though, honestly? I’m starting to think you’re just trying to distract me."
He skated a tight circle around you, his eyes locked on yours with a challenging glint that didn't quite reach the dark, hollowed-out look he’d had earlier.
"You know, since we’re here," he continued, his voice dropping into that smooth, practiced rhythm that usually worked on everyone else. "And since you’re clearly so focused on 'improving' my performance, maybe we should pivot to the real lesson. You promised to teach me how to win Allie back, right? Or was that just another one of your little projects to keep me under your thumb?"
He slowed down, skating backward so he could keep his eyes on you, his head tilted slightly to the side. The playfulness was there, but it felt jagged, underlined by a desperation that wasn't there before.
"I’m all ears, Professor," he added, a wry, humorless smirk touching his lips. "Tell me exactly what I need to do to fix my mess. Give me the breakdown. How exactly am I supposed to stop being the villain in her eyes? Or better yet..." He paused, his voice dropping an octave, his gaze scanning your face with a sudden, searing intensity. "...tell me how you'd handle it if it were you.”
He wasn't just asking about Allie anymore, and the way his eyes tracked your reaction made it clear that he was waiting to see if you’d finally break character.
You stop mid-stride, your blades scraping against the ice with a harsh, metallic screech that echoes through the empty rink. You aren’t about to let him trap you in this game of "what-if."
"It’s not the same, Dean," you say, your voice cold and clipped, meant to serve as a wall between his prodding and your internal chaos. "You’re comparing apples to oranges, and honestly, it’s insulting to both of us."
You turn to skate away, determined to keep the distance, but he’s faster. He pivots with a grace that feels like an encroachment, skating in a sharp arc that cuts off your path and forces you to stop or collide with him. He doesn't touch you, but he looms close enough that the heat radiating from his body cuts through the chill of the arena.
"I don't give a damn about the comparison," he snaps, his voice dropping that smooth, performative layer entirely. The mask of the arrogant hockey star slips, leaving only the raw, restless edge beneath. "I know she’s different. I know she isn’t you."
That made you stop.
He leans in, his shadow falling over you, and his eyes are dark, focused, and utterly unrelenting. "But I’m not asking for a lecture on relationship dynamics or a moral compass check. I’m asking for your opinion. I’m asking what you think—what you’d do, how you’d handle it, or even just how you see me in this."
He takes another inch, his presence feeling like a weight on your chest. "You’ve spent months analyzing me, cataloging every move I make, every screw-up, every 'villainous' moment. So, don't give me that objective, clinical bullshit now. If I’m such a lost cause, tell me why. If I’m a mess, tell me how you’d fix it. Or, god forbid, tell me if you actually give a damn at all."
He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours with a terrifyingly naked vulnerability that makes your pulse spike. "You won't look away when you're judging me. Don't look away now. Tell me what you're thinking, Maxwell.”
"Why?" you finally whisper, the word barely audible over the hum of the arena lights. You look up at him, your gaze searching his face for the usual facade, the sharp retort, or the deflection, but you find nothing but a raw, unvarnished intensity that makes your knees feel weak. "Why do you care so much about my opinion, Dean? Out of everyone who watches you, why does it matter what I think of you?"
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull his signature smirk. He just watches you, his eyes dark, heavy, and startlingly honest. He shifts, his blades digging into the ice as he closes the final, agonizing inch of space between you.
"Because everyone else in my life is either waiting for me to perform, or they're just another piece of the scenery," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates against your skin. He stops, his face mere inches from yours, his gaze tethered to yours with a tenacity that makes it impossible to look away. "They love the charm, they love the goals, and they love the version of me that's easy to look at."
He lets out a harsh, jagged breath, his eyes flicking down to your lips before returning to meet yours, burning with a quiet, persistent fire.
"But you?" He shakes his head, a small, pained smile touching the corner of his mouth. "You're the only one who stays when I'm at my worst. When I'm being a prick, when I'm messy, when I'm not being 'charming' or whatever the hell else people call it—you’re the only one who doesn't walk away. You look at the ugliest parts of me, the parts I hide from everyone else, and you don't run."
His hand reaches out, hovering just an inch from your face, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. He’s not touching you, but the heat of his presence is overwhelming, a tangible force pulling you into his orbit.
"That's why I need to know," he whispers, the confession hanging between you like a physical weight. "Everyone else is fake. But you… You’re the fucking realest person in my life.”
You take a shaky breath, your voice steadying despite the frantic rhythm of your heart. "You keep acting like you don't care, like you’re just playing the game, but that's the problem, Dean. You want someone to stand by you? You want that kind of connection? Then you have to actually be someone worth standing by. You can't just expect people to stick around through the wreckage you leave behind if you aren't willing to clean up the mess yourself."
Dean’s jaw tightens, his dark eyes flashing with a spark of defiance. He lets out a sharp, cynical laugh, shifting his weight on his skates as he leans in even closer, his shadow engulfing you. "Maybe I don't want a relationship, Maxwell. Maybe I’m just fine being a fleeting heat in everyone else's story. Ever think of that? I’m not looking for a savior—I’m just looking for someone who doesn't look at me like I’m a piece of meat.”
You don't flinch. You don't retreat. And that’s what makes him so fucking mad about you.
You step forward, closing the final gap until your chests are almost touching, the adrenaline coursing through you like a drug. You look him dead in the eye, seeing the tremor in his hands, the way his pupils dilate as he searches your face for a sign of weakness.
"That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told," you say, your voice dropping to a low, fierce whisper that pierces through the silence of the arena. "Don't feed me that 'I don't care' routine. I see you, Dean. I’ve watched you, I know you. You aren't just looking for a distraction—you’re as hopelessly desperate for something real as I am. You're terrified that if you let someone in, they’ll see you for exactly what you are, and you're even more terrified that they'll stay anyway."
You reach out, your gloved hand finally bridging the gap, pressing firmly against the center of his chest, right over his racing heart.
"You’re not a piece of meat, and you’re not a project," you continue, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth. "You’re just another person who’s spent so long building walls to keep people out that you’ve forgotten how to live without them. And if you think I don't see the hunger in you—the want for something solid and real—, then you're lying to yourself more than anyone."
He freezes under your touch, his breath hitching in his throat. The arrogance, the sarcasm, the practiced grace—it all evaporates, leaving behind a man who looks utterly gutted by your transparency.
"You think I'm hopeless?" he murmurs, his voice barely a rasp.
"I think we're both a disaster," you reply, your hand sliding up to grip the collar of his hoodie, pulling him just a fraction closer. "And I think you’re terrified.”
Dean lets out a low, humorless laugh that sounds more like a jagged exhale. He doesn't move away, but he doesn't bridge that final, dangerous gap yet either. His eyes darken, dropping from yours to your lips, then back up, burning with a stubborn, reckless intensity.
"You think this is fear?" he scoffs, though the tremor in his hands gives him away. He steps even closer, his chest pressing firmly against yours, the heat between you finally eclipsing the cold of the ice. "You're wrong, princess. It’s not terror. It’s restraint."
He lifts a hand, his gloved fingers tracing the line of your jaw, with a lingering, shaky touch that feels agonizingly real. His thumb brushes your lower lip, tracing the shape of it as if he’s trying to memorize the sensation.
"I’m not terrified of you seeing me," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register that scrapes against your senses. "I’m terrified of what I’ll do once you finally decide to let me in. Because once I stop playing the game, once I stop being the 'villain' and start being the man who wants you with everything he’s got... there’s no going back to the way things were."
He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his breath warm and frantic against your skin. The arrogance is gone, replaced by an raw, aching desperation that makes your own resolve crumble.
"I don't need a savior, and I don't need to be fixed," he whispers, his eyes searching yours with a desperate, hungry clarity.
“I'm not trying to fix you." You could barely murmur the words, your lips pressing softly against the coarse fabric of his glove, a stark contrast to the warmth of your breath. Your gaze locked into his—those piercing baby blue eyes, drawing you in like a moth to a flame, unable to look away even if you wanted to. "I think you’re already a lost cause."
"Yeah?" Dean murmured, the word a low rumble against the stillness of the arena. His free hand reached out, fingers hooking firmly into the waistband of your pants. With a sharp, sudden tug, he yanked you toward him, the momentum so unexpected that you both stumbled, skates scraping erratically against the frozen surface, nearly sending you both tumbling onto the ice.
The sharp, metallic echo of your skate blades clashing against his was the only sound in the cavernous rink, a jarring noise that shattered the silence and left the air vibrating with tension.
"Yeah, I am," Dean whispered, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a dangerous sort of honesty. He shifted his hand from your lips, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before coming to rest firmly against your chin. He tilted your head back, forcing you to look up at him, the movement slow and deliberate, a challenge etched into his smirk. "What are you going to do about it, Maxwell?"
Pairing: Harvey Specter x F!Lawyer!Reader - friends to enemies to lovers <3
Part 3 Summary: Y/n joins Mike and Harvey when they go to see a client. The client flirts with Y/n, and she makes the best of it, hopefully landing some clients. Harvey is not happy.
Warnings: Reflecting on past relationship, some yelling
Word Count: 2570
A/N: Thank ya'll so much for the support! The more you comment and like, the faster I write. Love ya'll enjoy!
I’m typing away an email when my intercom goes off. “(Y/n), Harvey needs you in his office.” Donna’s voice rings out and I feel nauseous.
“Ok, thanks, Donna.” Wait. “Donna?”
“What’s up?” She asks in a sing-song voice, and I can hear her fingers click-clacking against her keyboard.
“How long has the intercom been on?” The click-clacking stops. I let out an incredulous laugh, “Have you been listening this whole time?” The intercom beeps and I know it’s been shut off, probably for the first time since I’ve been here.
I smile and stand from my desk, throwing on the black blazer that was previously sitting on the back of my chair. There’s a pastel pink handkerchief tucked in the breast pocket that matches my blouse.. that also matches Harvey’s tie. What a weird coincidence.
I walk the short distance from my office to Donna’s desk. “Good morning!” She hums all too happily at me. I give her a raised brow and cross my arms. “It’s nothing personal, I hear all around here. That’s why I’m so good at what I do. I’m Donna.” She flicks her hands in the air with flair.
“Of course.” I smile at her mischievously. “If you hear all around here, Donna, what have people been saying about me?” I’ve been wondering, but had no way of finding out, until now.
“Well, obviously I’ve heard the she’s smoking comment more times than I can count.” She laughs. “Louis thinks your one joke away from going to dinner with him.”
“Shoot, I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.” I scold myself and bite my lip.
“What, you don’t date anyone in the office?” She questions, but it’s off. Her tone, something about it… I lift my eyes to meet hers and she has a devious smile.
“You know.” I exhale and lean on the desk. “God, does everyone know?!” I whisper yell at her. I do a quick scan of my surroundings, and I don’t see anyone looking. I hesitantly take a quick peek into Harvey’s office.
I pause my frantic behavior when I see him. He’s sitting at his desk on the phone and Mike is on the couch. I can tell he’s charming whoever is on the other side of the phone, because even though they can’t see him, he has his prince-like smile on him. My heart swells for him.
“That’s how I know,” Donna whispers in my ear. I jump, I didn’t even see her get up. She gives me a pointed look. “Yesterday, I saw you look at him when you two were first ‘meeting’” she gives air quotes, “and I could see the way you look at him. You couldn’t keep your eyes off-”
“His puppy dog eyes.” I cut her off, but my eyes are still strained on him. I have to tear my eyes away from him to bashfully look at Donna.
She nods with a smile, “The rest I’ve put together from bits and pieces of everyone’s conversations.” She shrugs cockily. “You know,” She stops herself; I can tell she’s debating whether or not to say what she’s about to say, “This isn’t my first time hearing about you.”
My heart flips. I want to question her further, and I’m about to until I smell expensive cologne and a familiar musk. I turn my head to see Harvey just leaving his office with Mike in tow. He sees me and smiles, trying to charm me. Oh god, he’s trying to play me!
Back in the day, I knew Harvey better than I knew myself. So now I know he’s trying to get back in my good graces, what I don’t know is his end goal.
“G’morning, Donna,” He greets Donna and then his eyes slowly trail to mine. “(Y/n).” He has a close-lipped smirk on his face, one he knew made my knees weak in law school. This may be harder than I thought.
I give him a polite nod but don’t give him any more attention. He may still give me butterflies, but I’m still pissed. I turn my attention to the younger man beside him. “Mike.” I greet him with a smile but there’s some tension exuding from me. I haven’t forgotten what he said to me the other day. “Y’know, our conversation the other day inspired me,” I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it. “I think my next vacation might be in Paris…France.” I say bluntly and drop the smile I was faking as I side-eyed Harvey.
His eyes dart from my face to Mike accusingly. “Yeah, ha-ha,” Mike laughs nervously. “It’s a beautiful place. The architecture, the landscape-“
“The people?” I question in a demeaning way with a smile on my face. I see Harvey tense and he licks his lips. He’s uncomfortable. Good. Harvey’s hand goes to Mike’s back, and I can tell he’s probably giving him a hidden pinch. Ooh, I know that hurts.
There’s an awkward beat of silence. “Well.” Donna clears her throat, “You all should probably get going. Marshall is expecting you.” She urges.
“Ok, thank you, Donna.” I answer chipperly and turn in the direction of the elevators. In the reflection of one of the associate's monitors, I see Donna mouthing something demanding at Harvey. He mouths back something along the lines of ‘I know, I know!’.
I walk briskly to the elevators and press the button; I don’t even check if the boys are behind me. “So, where are we headed?” I ask, but I keep my head straight, facing the closed elevator doors.
They say nothing until I hear what I’m assuming is Mike giving Harvey a little arm shove. “Downtown-” Harvey starts, then clears his throat. I hear Mike stifle a chuckle. “-we’re meeting Donald Marshall. He’s the company lead for Shilton Suites.”
There’s a ding as the elevator doors open. I step onto the lift and stand close to the buttons. Both boys hesitate to enter. “Are you guys… coming?” They are being so awkward, ugh, boys.
Harvey shoves Mike into the elevator before him, he gets pushed into the wall. Harvey stands shoulder to shoulder with me. “How did you like your coffee?”
I think I’ve imagined his voice; he doesn’t move his torso to face me or even glance my way. I don’t answer right away, trying to process that Harvey is actually talking to me-not just a good morning. “It’s the best around.” He hums in a positive tone, and I see a small smile creep onto his face.
I hope he doesn’t think we’re going to be besties after apology coffee, but I might as well throw him a bone. “Louis wanted to go buy me one from Roaster Roos.”
“Roaster Roos?” Harvey finally turns his body to me and has an offended look on his face. My heart flutters and I wish I could beat it down with a hammer. “God, he has no idea what good coffee is.” He turns back to face the elevator doors, and I crave his gaze on me again.
I feel like I’m running out of time to talk to him away from prying eyes. The dinging of the elevator as we steadily drop feels like a doomsday clock. “He wants to take me to dinner.” I don’t know why I said that.
Harvey stops next to me, and I hear Mike’s strained breathing behind me. I forgot he was here. Once again, it’s quiet until he asks, “How would your boyfriend feel about that?” He’s playing the game- he wants to know if I’m seeing anybody. Touche Mr. Douchebag.
How do I tell him I’m single without being pathetic? “Let’s just say, Louis might have a fighting chance.” I shrug. “Why? Did Louis not ask you to dinner when you first came to the firm?” I tease with a smirk.
His demeanor changes and he has a playful smile on his face, just like the good old days. “Oh, please, Louis wishes he could handle all this.” He motions to himself. He still won’t look at me. I need him to look at me.
I smirk and eye him up and down till my gaze catches on his tie. It’s crooked, I notice. A quick fit of confidence comes over me and I reach for it. At first, both hands are on the knot, but then the other lays flat on his chest while the other straightens the tie out.
It’s just like it was in law school when I would get him ready for mock trials. Something so normal, so domestic, about fixing his tie. Finally, finally, he looks down at me. We’re all but inches apart. I look up into his dark eyes and I feel… odd. His warm breath fans my face and I have to force myself away.
Harvey’s eyes stay on me this time. I can sense Mike looking between the two of us and there’s another layer of awkwardness added to the lift again. “Sorry, I-”
“-Hate a crooked tie.” He finishes my sentence. Of course, he does. I can’t stop myself from looking up, and I know it’s a dumb thing to do before I even do it. Harvey is already looking down at me calmly with half-lidded eyes. I take a brisk look over the rest of his face (pause a little too long on his lips) and back up.
I move just a tad further away from him than I was when we first got in. What is wrong with me? I look towards the elevator buttons and keep my eyes strained there. My chest is rising up and down as I think about what I’ve done.
There’s a ding and the elevator doors open. I wait for him to step out so that I can collect myself, but he doesn’t budge. I side-eye him and motion towards the door, “Go ahead.”
I can feel him looking at me, “Ladies first.” He says and his voice makes my heart flutter. I look at him and he’s looking at me like I’m a sick dog on the side of the street that he feels bad for. I bite my cheek and step out.
The whole way to the meeting spot for the client, I’m a pace or two behind Harvey and Mike. Not just because they’re tall and have long legs, either. At one point, I could tell Harvey had slowed his walking pace so I wouldn’t be so far behind, but I resisted being any closer to him by slowing my pace as well.
I need to think. I’ve detested Harvey since we ‘broke up’, but I’m within his vicinity for TWO DAYS, and I can’t keep it in my pants! I watch his back as he walks and can picture the smooth skin beneath. That gets me thinking about his chest… the scratches I left on both… I shake my head, there is something seriously wrong with me.
We arrive at a parking garage and elevator up to the fifth floor. Luckily, this time I keep my mouth shut and my eyes far from his. The client is waiting for us on a fancy, cherry-red car.
“Harvey!” He shouts joyously. The guy is older with white hair, but he seems active and in good spirits. His gaze slides over to me and I feel like an object. My pace slows and I try to fade into the background despite his hungry eyes. “And who is this?” He looks his lips and I pray that it’s an unconscious habit.
“I’m Mike Ross.” Mike steps in the man’s line of sight. “I’m Harvey’s personal associate.” Thank God for Mike Ross.
But this guy’s determined. He nods boredly at Mike before motioning him to step to the side. Mike moves in stuttered motions and his eyes flicker between me and the client. I give him a face that says ‘What the fuck?’, and he gives me one back that says, ‘I don’t know!’
“You.” I look at the man and freeze. He smiles at me and goes back to leaning on his car, “What are you doing with this guy?” He nods his head to Harvey. I see his jaw clench out of the corner of my eye but otherwise doesn’t move a muscle. “With a face like yours, you could be on anyone’s arm.” The implication is clear.
Just as Harvey opens his mouth, I say, “He’s my boss.” I nod with a tight smile.
An idea floods into my brain and my previously uncomfortable posture straightens until it becomes arched. “Yep!” I pop my lips and sway my hips as I get closer to the car. “Until I get a client of my own, I’m gonna be stuck with this guy.” I point with my thumb to Harvey. “You wouldn’t know a guy who’d want to be my client… would you?” I bat my lashes down at him.
He's quiet for a second and I can feel him about to say something, but I want to make sure my answer is a yes. I slide onto the shiny hood of the car and partially lay on my hip. “Cool car by the way.” I bat my lashes once more, but now I’m looking up at him and I can tell he’s hooked.
“Love, I’m sure people would get in legal trouble just to work with you.” He flirts and scoots closer to me on the car. Play it cool.
“Y/n.” I hear Harvey’s stern voice behind me and slide off of the car.
The rest of the meeting goes without a hitch. The client, Donald Marshall, would occasionally throw in the flirty comment or look but Harvey would quickly interject. As soon as we got what we needed we headed out of the lot… Not fast enough to prevent Mr. Marshall from kissing my hand on the way out.
“What the hell was that?” Harvey asks as soon as we’re on the sidewalk. He puts his hands on his hips and appears to be fuming. “You’re gonna flirt with my client- in front of me? I should write you up.”
“Call it what you want, I’m going to have clients begging to have me represent them by the end of the week.” I pull out my cell to look up the nearest Ikea. I try to look unbothered, but my heart is racing.
“You can’t just flaunt yourself to get clients-“
I get in his face and shove my finger into his chest. “I can and I will do whatever I want to get me as far away from you as possible!” My words are laced with venom.
I hate him. Just because he still has those puppy dog eyes and sugary words doesn’t mean he didn’t lead me on and then tell me I was stupid to think there was something between us.
I breathe heavily and he does in return. There is fire in his eyes, and I don’t want him to look at me like that- but I know I’m looking at him the exact same way. “As soon as I get my first client I won’t have to look at your sorry face and I can pretend you’re not even there.” I turn on my heels to the street and raise my hand to signal a cab.
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”
WARNING: SMUT AHEAD CONTENT RELATED TO SEX, RELATIONSHIPS, AND DISORDERS CONTENT CONTAINS FACTS, BUT REMEMBER THIS IS FANFICTION, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, LEAVE!
MASTERLIST
0.2 here
0.1 Dealing
I had the worst practice of my life, and for the first time all semester, it had nothing to do with skating.
I landed every jump.
I stayed perfectly in sync.
It almost felt like I was proving Will and Coach wrong — proving we didn’t need to fake a relationship just to skate well together. Which was ironic, considering the only reason that happened was because I’d accidentally thrown myself into an even worse fake relationship.
When our music carried into the final sequence and we struck our ending pose, Coach Hayes applauded from outside the rink, lowering his tablet with an approving nod.
“ You two were incredible. You don’t even look like the same pair from yesterday. Keep skating like this until competition, and we’re making that podium. ” He said it with his hands planted on his hips while Will turned toward me with a grin, wrapping his arms around me and letting out an exaggerated grunt as he tried to lift me off the ice.
“ That was amazing, but I still think you should lose a few pounds. For the good of the team. ” My brows furrowed as I stared at him blankly, completely speechless.
“ Good work today. ” He gave my shoulder two careless pats before skating away, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the rink.
Son of a bitch.
By the time I skated off the ice, hockey players were already flooding the rink for practice, and murder flashed across my face the second I heard my coach speak.
Coach Hayes — my coach, my fucking coach — rested a hand on the shoulder of a passing player and said:
“ Don’t distract my athlete, Logan. If you’re going to be the kind of boyfriend who ruins her focus, stay away from her. She’s too talented to waste. ”
The murderous look vanished just enough for me to catch the confused crease between Logan’s brows as his gaze flicked from Coach Hayes to me.
Then I moved.
Like thunder.
Laughing far too loudly, I grabbed John Logan by the arm and dragged him down the hallway.
“ Why is he talking about— ”
“ Need to talk to him, Coach! See you tomorrow! Bye! ”
I shouted over my shoulder while practically sprinting across the floor in my blades — something I absolutely should not have been doing — dragging Logan straight into the empty men’s locker room.
The door slammed shut behind us.
I let go of his arm immediately and started pacing back and forth, still balancing dangerously on my skates, too overwhelmed to realize how stupid that was.
“ Okay. Okay, okay, okay— shit. ”
“ Do you always kidnap people after practice, or should I feel special? ”
His calm voice irritated me instantly.
I turned toward him and found John Logan leaning against the locker room door like he hadn’t just been dragged across the arena by a panicking figure skater in blades. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, confusion written all over his face.
And somehow, even worse than confused—
He looked entertained.
“ Listen to me. You need to listen to me, okay? ”
“ Yesterday you called me an idiot and told me to go fuck myself. Today you want me to listen to you? I don’t know if— ”
He grimaced slightly and reached for the doorknob like he intended to leave, but I rushed forward and grabbed his arm before immediately letting go again, suddenly afraid I’d crossed some invisible line.
His eyes dropped briefly to my hand sliding away from his arm before lifting back to my face. For one horrible second, I thought Logan might actually leave. Instead, he let out a tired sigh and dropped his hand from the doorknob.
The slow smile spreading across John Logan’s face looked exactly like the kind of trouble capable of ruining my life.
“ You’re still wearing skates. ”
I looked down as if I were only just realizing that.
“ …yes? ”
“ On the floor of the men’s locker room. ”
“ I noticed that part. ”
He dragged a hand down his face, visibly losing patience.
“ Did you hit your head when you fell today? ”
“ A few times, maybe. ”
“ Christ. ” Logan muttered before pointing at me. “ Take those off before you break your neck. ”
I rolled my eyes instantly.
“ I know how to skate, hockey player. It’s literally my sport. ”
“ And yet I’ve watched you almost die at least four times already. ”
“ Dramatic. ”
“ You crashed into me five minutes ago. ”
“ Because YOU were standing in the way. ”
A disbelieving laugh escaped him as he stepped away from the door.
“ It’s honestly impressive how you turn everything into an argument. ”
“ It’s honestly impressive how you sound like a divorced father. ”
“ It’s honestly impressive how you still haven’t taken your skates off, ” he shot back immediately.
I crossed my arms stubbornly.
“ You’re bossy as hell. ”
“ And you’re a disaster waiting to happen. ”
We stared at each other in irritated silence for several seconds. Then, purely out of spite, I took one step backward on my blades. The skate slipped instantly across the smooth floor.
“ Shit— ”
My body tipped backward so fast I barely had time to react, but Logan moved before I could hit the ground. One arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me sharply against him.
The breath vanished from my lungs. We froze. His chest pressed against mine. One strong hand firm against my waist. The other gripping my arm. And this close, John Logan was unfairly warm.
“ …you were saying? ” he asked softly. Heat rushed instantly to my face.
Hatred.
Pure hatred.
“ Shut up, ” I muttered.
The corner of his mouth curved upward again.
“ Take the skates off, Ice Heart. ”
“ Don’t call me that. ”
His dangerously amused smile widened, and I shoved lightly against his chest before moving toward the bench to take my skates off.
“ Finished flirting with me, or— ”
I glared up at him immediately.
“ I did something I really didn’t want to do, but I panicked and it was the only thing I could think of. ”
Logan studied me silently for several seconds.
Still too close. Still too warm. Still wearing that infuriating expression like he was enjoying this way too much.
“ Does this usually end with a crime or you asking me for money? ”
“ Could you shut up for one second, Logan? ”
“ Aggressive. ”
I inhaled slowly, trying to organize my thoughts without spontaneously combusting.
“ My coach thinks we’re dating, ” I blurted out.
He blinked once.
“ Right. ”
“ And technically that’s my fault because— ”
“ Because…? ” he prompted.
I looked down, fingers tightening around my skate laces.
“ Will and Hayes thought it would be a good idea for me and Will to fake-date for publicity and chemistry with the audience, and I panicked and told them I couldn’t because I was already dating someone… ”
The silence afterward was lethal.
Slowly, painfully slowly, I looked back up at him. Logan was still staring at me. Only now, the amusement had disappeared completely.
“ You told them you were dating… me? ”
My cheeks burned instantly.
“ You were the first person I thought of because I was standing on the ice and— I don’t know. Anyway. Sorry. About that. ”
Logan kept staring at me without saying a word.
The silence stretched so long I briefly considered ripping my skates off with my bare hands and escaping through the nearest window.
When I finally looked back up, the corner of his mouth twitched.
Of course.
Of course he thought this was funny.
“ So let me get this straight, ” Logan said slowly, crossing his arms again. “ Your coach wanted you to fake-date your skating partner to improve your chemistry on the ice… ”
“ Yes, ” I muttered miserably.
“ And to get out of it, you invented a random boyfriend. ”
“ Yes. ”
“ And that random boyfriend was me. ”
“ It sounds worse when you say it like that. ”
“ Because it is worse. ”
I huffed in irritation and went back to yanking at the laces of my skate far harder than necessary.
“ I already said I was sorry. ”
“ No, no. ” he replied much too quickly. “ I’m just trying to understand why exactly I was the first option during your mental breakdown. ”
“ You weren’t an option! ”
“ So this happened naturally? Which is honestly even more concerning. ”
I threw the skate guard at him, and Logan caught it effortlessly.
Annoying asshole.
“ Could you stop being unbearable for five minutes? ”
“ Haven’t decided yet, ” he answered calmly.
I finished taking off one skate and dropped it beside me before finally lifting my gaze back to him.
“ Listen. I just needed to get out of that conversation fast. Hayes won’t let go of this ridiculous ice-couple marketing idea, and I panicked. ”
The amusement on his face faded slightly this time.
“ Wait. They seriously wanted you and that guy to pretend to date? ”
“ Yes. ”
“ That’s weird as hell. ”
“ Welcome to figure skating, ” I muttered dryly.
Logan watched me for a moment that lasted a little too long.
“ And you didn’t want to? ”
A short, humorless laugh escaped me.
“ Have you completely lost your mind? ”
“ Fair enough. ”
Then he laughed.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
A real laugh.
I stared at him in outrage while he bent slightly, trying to catch his breath.
After a few seconds, Logan finally fell quiet again.
Long seconds.
Then he slowly uncrossed his arms and stepped closer.
“ This is a really bad idea. ”
My heart sank a little.
“ I know, ” I murmured before continuing carefully. “ But it could help you too… ”
His head tilted slightly.
“ How? ”
“ Your friends think you’re in love with Hannah. ”
The smile disappeared from his face little by little.
“ Oh. ”
I crossed my arms automatically, still sitting on the bench.
“ Yeah. Oh. ”
Logan looked away for a second, running his tongue against the inside of his cheek. For the first time since I dragged him into that locker room, he looked genuinely uncomfortable.
Interesting.
“ Garrett told you that? ” he asked eventually.
“ Hannah did. ”
“ I’m not into Hannah. ”
He said it firmly, and I nodded once.
“ Are you into Garrett instead? ”
The laugh that escaped me shattered the heavy silence between us and made Logan throw the skate guard back at me. It bounced off my shoulder before falling onto the bench beside me.
“ Go fuck yourself, ” Logan shot back immediately.
But there was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth now. Small. Reluctant.
Victory.
“ Oh, so you didn’t deny it that quickly. Interesting. ”
“ You’re impossible. ”
“ And you turned red. ”
“ I did NOT turn red. ”
“ You absolutely did. ”
“ It’s literally freezing in here. ”
“ That excuse stopped working five minutes ago. ”
Logan let out a quiet laugh through his nose and shook his head before finally looking directly at me again.
“ For your information, I’m not in love with Hannah or Garrett. ”
“ Then why do your friends think that? ”
He took one second too long to answer.
“ Because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to hide things. But I don’t like them like that, ” he admitted quietly.
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard enough to make my brows pull together slightly.
Logan looked away again, leaning one shoulder against the lockers behind him.
“ Fine. ”
“ Fine? ”
“ Fine. I’m in. ”
For a second, I just stared at him.
“ …what? ”
Logan shrugged like he hadn’t just completely altered the course of my life.
“ You heard me. I’m in. ”
“ Wait. ” I stood up so fast from the bench I nearly lost my balance again. “ You’re agreeing to this? Just like that? ”
“ Doesn’t really seem like you’re in a position to demand an interview process. ”
“ Logan. ”
He sighed dramatically before pushing himself away from the lockers and stopping directly in front of me again.
“ Look, Ice Heart, honestly? ” he began. “ If this gets your coach to stop trying to turn you and that guy into some Disney-on-Ice romance, then I’m in. ”
My nose wrinkled instantly.
“ Don’t say it like that. ”
“ Like what? ”
“ Disney-on-Ice romance. That was disturbing. ”
“ You literally compete wearing glitter while romantic music plays. ”
“ And you wear skates with knives attached to your feet so you can slam men into walls. Neither of us has any moral high ground here. ”
His smile returned.
Infuriatingly beautiful.
“ Okay. Fair. ”
I crossed my arms, trying to ignore the embarrassingly fast rhythm of my heartbeat.
“ So… you really don’t care? ” I asked more quietly this time.
Logan tilted his head slightly.
“ About fake dating you? ”
Heat rushed instantly into my face.
I shuddered. "That's so weird to hear."
He laughed softly again.
Damn it.
I hated that his laugh sounded good.
“ Relax, ” Logan murmured. “ It’s not like I’m actually going to fall in love with you. ”
My ego took the hit immediately.
“ You wish, Logan. ”
His brows lifted slowly.
“ Uh, okay, the ice girl has a little fire in her. ”
“ Shut up. ”
“ You tell me to shut up a lot for someone who keeps talking to me. ”
I opened my mouth to answer, but the locker room door slammed open before I could.
Dean walked in first.
Garrett right behind him.
And both of them froze the second they saw us practically glued together in the middle of the men’s locker room.
Silence.
Dean’s eyes widened dramatically.
“ I knew it. ”
“ Oh my God, ” Garrett muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
My heart dropped straight into my stomach.
Logan — the asshole — didn’t look worried in the slightest. If anything, he looked like he was trying not to laugh. Dean pointed at us like he’d just uncovered a criminal conspiracy.
“ I told you guys! I told you they were hooking up! ”
"Right, the difference is that we know how to be discreet," Logan said, ruffling his own hair.
“ We need you, man, ” Garrett called from the doorway.
Then, in one smooth movement, Logan’s hands slid to my waist and pulled me even closer against him. My breath caught instantly. His lips brushed lightly against my cheek before he leaned down close enough for his mouth to graze my ear.
“ You need to come over tonight so they’ll believe we weren’t fighting, ” he whispered.
I looked up at him slowly and nodded once.
“ Is eight okay? ”
Logan stared at me for one second too long.
Too close.
Too warm.
His hands still firm against my waist.
The heat of his body destroying every inch of space between us. And then that slow, dangerous smile appeared again.
“ Eight sounds perfect, gorgeous. ”
Ugh.
I felt pure hatred.
My first language isn't English, go easy on me.
I’m truly grateful to everyone who showed so much support in the comments on the Ice Heart prologue. I’ll be publishing up to chapter 4 soon, and I really hope you enjoy the story we’re building together with Logan. Your support means a lot to me. I love you all.
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part two here
The locker room smells like victory — 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 they’ve won the Stanley Cup instead of just another regular season game.
“Did you see Beck’s face when you scored that hat trick?” Dean practically shouts, still riding the high. “Dude looked like he wanted to murder you.”
“Beck always looks like that,” Logan says, toweling off his hair. “Guy’s got permanent asshole face.”
Garrett doesn’t 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 — while he does feel satisfied — something about the win feels hollow. Maybe it’s because Cameron Beck spent most of the third period playing dirty, throwing elbows when the refs weren’t looking, talking shit that had nothing to do with hockey.
“You don’t look good. You look like you’re planning someone’s funeral.”
Garrett manages a half-smile. “Just tired, man. It’s been a long week.”
It has been. Two midterms, practice every day, a game against Northeastern that went into overtime, and now this. He loves hockey — lives for it, really — 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.
“Alright!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts through the celebration. “Bus leaves in ten. If you’re not on it, you’re walking back to Briar.”
The team starts moving with renewed urgency, shoving gear into bags, pulling on sweatpants and hoodies. Garrett’s methodical about it, the way he is with everything. Skates in the bag, pads folded properly, stick secured. His mom taught him that — take care of your equipment and it’ll take care of you.
He pushes the thought away before it can dig in too deep.
“You riding shotgun?” Logan asks as they head toward the bus.
“Nah, you take it. I’m gonna crash in the back.”
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 doesn’t 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.
That’s when Garrett sees them.
At first, it’s just movement in his peripheral vision — two figures near the back entrance of the arena, half-hidden in shadows. He almost doesn’t look. Almost keeps walking toward the bus because it’s cold and he’s tired and it’s none of his business.
But then he hears it. A voice, male, low and vicious.
“I told you not to embarrass me.”
Garrett stops walking. Tucker nearly crashes into him.
“Dude, what-”
“Hold on.”
He moves closer, his body reacting before his brain catches up. The angle shifts and he sees her clearly now — a girl, small, pressed back against the brick wall with her hands up in a gesture that Garrett recognizes instantly. It’s 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 it’s him. And Beck has his hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing hard enough that Garrett can see you wince.
“Cameron, please-” Your voice is barely audible, thin and desperate. “I didn’t do anything-”
“You were talking to that guy. I saw you.”
“He asked me for directions to the bathroom-”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
Beck yanks you forward and you stumble, catching yourself against his chest. He grabs your other wrist and Garrett sees them clearly now — the bruises. Dark purple and yellow, finger-shaped marks that circle both your wrists like ugly bracelets.
Something white-hot ignites in Garrett’s chest.
“Hey!” His voice comes out harder than he intends, sharp enough to make Beck’s head snap up. “Get your hands off her.”
Beck doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens. “Mind your own business, Graham.”
“I said, get your fucking hands off her.”
Garrett’s already moving, closing the distance. He’s vaguely aware of his teammates behind him — Tucker’s saying something, maybe Logan too — but all he can focus on is your face. You’re looking at him now, and your eyes are the most heartbreaking thing he’s ever seen. Wide and dark and absolutely terrified, but not of Beck. Of him. Of the situation. Of what’s going to happen next.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Beck says, but there’s an edge to his voice now. He drops your wrists and steps slightly in front of you, like he’s shielding you from view. Like he’s protecting you instead of hurting you.
You don’t move. Don’t run. Just stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, and Garrett can see you shaking even from here.
“You always put your hands on people smaller than you?” Garrett asks, his voice deadly calm now. “Or just women who can’t fight back?”
“Watch your mouth-”
“Graham!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts across the parking lot. “What the hell are you doing? Get on the bus!”
Garrett doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes locked on Beck, watching for any sign that he’s going to grab you again. Behind Beck, you’re barely breathing. You’re wearing a BU sweatshirt that’s too big for you and jeans that look painted on, and even though it’s freezing, you’re not wearing a coat. Your hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and there’s a bruise on your cheekbone that makeup can’t quite hide.
“Is he hurting you?” Garrett directs the question to you, but you don’t answer. Just stare at him with those haunted eyes.
“She’s fine,” Beck snaps. “She’s my girlfriend and this is between us, so why don’t you take your hero complex and shove it-”
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“Graham! Now!” Coach Jensen sounds pissed.
Tucker’s hand lands on Garrett’s shoulder. “Come on, man. We gotta go.”
“Not until-”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Tucker says quietly, meant only for Garrett’s ears. “Not here. Not now.”
Garrett knows he’s right. Knows that if he throws a punch at Beck right now, he’s the one who’ll get suspended. Knows that confronting Beck isn’t going to help you, might even make things worse once you’re 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. I see you. I know what’s happening. This isn’t okay.
“I’m watching you, Beck,” he says finally. “You fuck up, and I’ll know about it.”
“Yeah, I’m real scared,” Beck sneers, but he doesn’t 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 they’re not sure what just happened.
“What the hell was that?” Coach demands as Garrett climbs the steps.
“Beck was hurting his girlfriend.”
“And you thought starting a fight in their parking lot was the solution?”
“I didn’t start anything. I told him to back off.”
“Sit down. We’re talking about this later.”
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 — 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 you’re holding herself. Sees the careful distance you’re 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 can’t 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.
“Whoa!” Dean twists around. “Dude, what the hell?”
“Leave him alone,” 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 — the terror in your eyes, the bruises on your wrists, the way you didn’t say a word in your own defense.
He doesn’t even know your name.
***
You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter.
“Get in the car,” Cameron says. His voice is controlled now, almost gentle. It’s worse than the yelling. So much worse.
“Cameron-”
“Get. In. The car.”
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. They’ve barely healed from last time, and now they’re going to be even worse tomorrow. You’ll have to wear long sleeves again. Find excuses not to go to the gym, where someone might see you change.
Cameron gets in the driver’s side and sits there for a moment, both hands on the steering wheel. You don’t look at him. You learned months ago that making eye contact during these moments is dangerous.
“That guy asked you for directions,” Cameron says finally.
“Yes.”
“To the bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think it was weird that some random dude was asking you instead of literally anyone else?”
Your throat feels like it’s closing. “I was just trying to be helpful.”
“Helpful.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to be helpful? Stop making me look like an idiot. We were in public, Y/N. People could see you flirting-”
“I wasn’t flirting-”
The slap comes so fast you don’t see it. One second you’re trying to defend yourself, the next your cheek is on fire and your eyes are watering. It wasn’t hard — Cameron knows better than to leave marks where people can see them easily — but it’s enough to shut you up.
“Don’t interrupt me.” His voice is still calm. Still controlled. “I’ve 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 she’s single.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Louder this time.
“That’s better.” He starts the car. “We’re going back to my place. You’re staying the night.”
It’s not a question. It’s 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 don’t reach for it. Cameron has rules about phones when you’re with him. You learned that lesson too.
“Who is it?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Check.”
You pull out your phone with shaking hands. It’s your roommate, Julie. Where are you? You ok?
“Julie,” you say. “Asking where I am.”
“Tell her you’re with me. Tell her you’ll be back tomorrow.”
You type out the message exactly as instructed. Julie responds immediately. Call me when you can. Please.
She knows. Of course she knows. She’s seen the bruises, heard the excuses, watched you disappear into yourself over the past year. She’s tried to talk to you about it, tried to convince you to leave, but you’ve gotten good at deflecting. Good at lying. Good at pretending everything’s fine.
“Done?” Cameron asks.
“Done.”
“Good girl.”
The words make your stomach turn. He used to say them differently — warm, affectionate, after you’d aced an exam or nailed an interview. Now they’re 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 that’s stuck in your head. Like he actually saw you. Like he recognized something in your terror that other people miss or choose to ignore.
I’m watching you, Beck.
Cameron’s hands tighten on the steering wheel like he’s remembering it too.
“That Graham kid is going to be a problem,” he mutters.
You don’t respond. You’ve learned that sometimes the safest thing to do is stay silent, make yourself small, wait for the storm to pass. You’ve gotten so good at it that sometimes you forget how to be anything else.
Sometimes you can’t remember what your real voice even sounds like anymore.
Cameron’s apartment is in one of the nicer buildings near campus — his parents pay for it, along with his car and his credit cards and pretty much everything else. He’s 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 it’s become.
“I’m going to shower,” Cameron says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “You should be in bed when I get out.”
It’s not a suggestion.
You nod and he disappears into the bathroom. The second the door closes, you let out a breath you didn’t 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 you’ve 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. I’m worried about you. Please talk to me.
You want to. God, you want to. But what would you even say? That you’re too scared to leave? That you’ve tried twice and both times Cameron found you, convinced you to come back, promised he’d change? That you’re terrified of what he’ll 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 everything’s okay, before you have to be the version of yourself that keeps him happy.
You change into the clothes you keep here — sleep shorts and one of Cameron’s old t-shirts — 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 that’s 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 there’s 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 — that particular tone of voice that means his mom did something wrong. Or didn’t do something right. Or just existed in a way that pissed him off.
“I told you I needed my dress shirt ironed,” his dad says. Phil Graham, star defenseman for the New York Rangers, six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of controlled violence. “I have a fucking press conference in an hour, Lauren.”
“I know, I’m sorry-” His mom’s voice is small, apologetic. “I forgot, I was picking up Garrett from school and then I had to-”
“I don’t care what you had to do. When I tell you something needs to get done, it needs to get done.”
Seven-year-old Garrett peers around the corner. His mom is standing by the ironing board, one hand pressed to her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. His dad is looming over her, still in his Rangers sweatpants, hair wet from the shower.
“Don’t fucking cry,” his dad snaps when his mom’s eyes start to water. “Jesus Christ, you’re so dramatic. All I asked was for you to iron a goddamn shirt-”
“I’ll do it now, it’ll only take a minute-”
His dad grabs the iron. For a second, Garrett thinks he’s just going to do it himself, but then his mom flinches and Garrett knows — knows with the certainty that children who grow up in war zones develop — that something bad is about to happen.
“You think this is hot?” His dad asks, holding the iron close to his mom’s face. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that Garrett can see her leaning back, trying to create distance. “You think this is as hot as I’m going to be standing in front of those cameras looking like an idiot because my wife can’t do the one fucking thing I asked her to do?”
“Phil, please-”
The iron moves closer. His mom’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps.
“Stop!” Garrett shouts, but his voice is tiny, insignificant. He runs into the room, grabs his dad’s arm with both hands, tries to pull him away. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”
His dad shoves him backwards. Not hard — never hard enough to leave marks where people can see — but enough to send seven-year-old Garrett stumbling into the coffee table. Pain explodes in his hip.
“Go to your room, Garrett.”
“No! Stop hurting Mom!”
“I said go to your fucking room!”
But Garrett can’t move. Can’t 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 isn’t seven anymore. He’s twenty-one, standing in a parking lot in Boston, and it’s not his mom against the wall. It’s you. The girl from the parking lot. You’re looking at him with those terrified eyes and Cameron Beck has his hands around your wrists and Garrett can see the bruises blooming under Beck’s fingers like ugly flowers.
“Help me,” you whisper.
Garrett tries to move but his feet are cement. He’s frozen, useless, watching it happen all over again.
“I’m watching you, Beck,” he hears himself say, but it sounds hollow. Meaningless.
Beck laughs. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”
You’re crying now. “Please. Please help me.”
“I can’t,” Garrett says, and the words feel like they’re being ripped from his chest. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t-”
Beck’s 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 he’s been drowning.
His dorm room is dark except for the numbers on his alarm clock: 4:19 AM. Garrett’s 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.
It’s been years since he had the dreams this bad. Years since he woke up feeling like this — 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 he’d 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 girl’s 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.
He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. Closure, maybe. Confirmation that what he saw was real and not some manifestation of his own trauma. Proof that you exist, that you’re okay, that he didn’t just imagine the terror in your eyes.
But he doesn’t know your name. Doesn’t know anything about you except that you’re dating Cameron Beck and you’re in trouble.
Garrett’s never been one for social media stalking — he barely posts on his own accounts — but he navigates to Beck’s profile with the grim determination of someone going to war. The guy’s 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 “living my best life” or “grind never stops” or other meaningless bullshit.
Garrett scrolls back through months of posts, his jaw getting tighter with each one, until finally … there.
A photo from last summer. Beck at some beach, tanned and shirtless, arm slung around a girl in a yellow bikini. You’re smiling at the camera but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The caption reads Summer vibes with my girl.
You’re tagged. @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: BU | Journalism | Boston Born & Raised. Your profile picture is you in a Bruins jersey, grinning at whoever’s 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. You’re wearing sunglasses but Garrett can see the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re 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 reading INTERNSHIP AT WEEI SPORTS RADIO! Dreams coming true! 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. You’re 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. 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. You’re wearing a sweater and you’re 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 reads Let’s do this, Boston! 📚🎓
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 hasn’t 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?
***
You’re 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.
“Y/N! Get back here!”
You’re trying to scream but nothing comes out. Your legs feel like they’re moving through water. There are doors on either side of the hallway but when you try the handles, they’re all locked. Every single one.
“You can’t run from me,” Cameron says, and suddenly he’s right behind you, his hand closing around your arm, spinning you to face him. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
He’s not angry. That’s the worst part. He’s smiling, calm, like this is all perfectly reasonable.
“Please,” you manage to whisper. “Please let me go.”
“I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.” His grip tightens until you can feel your bones grinding together. “Who else is going to love you? Who else is going to put up with you?”
“Someone,” you sob. “Anyone.”
“No one wants damaged goods, baby.”
The scene shifts. Now you’re in his apartment, in his bed, and he’s on top of you and you’re trying to say no, trying to push him away, but your arms won’t work. Your voice won’t work. Nothing works except the part of your brain that’s screaming this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong-
And then you’re in the parking lot again, pressed against the cold brick wall, and Cameron’s hands are around your throat and you can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t-
The hockey player appears. The one from last night. He’s reaching for you, mouth moving, saying something you can’t hear over the roaring in your ears.
Help me, you try to say, but Cameron’s grip gets tighter.
The hockey player turns away.
Everyone always turns away.
You wake up to pain.
At first, you can’t process what’s happening. Your body registers it before your brain does — the invasion, the wrongness, the way your body is being used without your consent. Again.
Cameron is inside you.
You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, and he’s behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, moving with steady, selfish rhythm. You’re not ready. He didn’t prepare you, didn’t wake you, didn’t ask. Just took what he wanted because in his mind, you’re 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.
Cameron’s breath is hot on your neck. His grip tightens.
“So good for me,” he murmurs, like this is romantic. Like this is consensual. “My perfect girl.”
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 you’re a tissue he’s done with. You feel the wetness between your legs, feel the ache that’s going to linger all day.
“Morning, babe,” Cameron says, already reaching for his phone. “I’m thinking pancakes for breakfast. You want pancakes?”
You don’t answer. Can’t answer. Your voice is buried somewhere so deep you’re not sure you’ll ever find it again.
“Y/N? Pancakes?”
“Sure,” you whisper.
“Cool. There’s that place on Comm Ave we like. Get dressed.” He’s already out of bed, completely unbothered, heading for the bathroom. “Wear that blue dress I got you. The one that shows off your legs.”
The bathroom door closes. The shower turns on.
You lie there for another minute, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. Then you get up because that’s 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 won’t 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.
She’s not there.
You get dressed like Cameron asked — the blue dress that you used to like before it became a costume, before it became something you wear to keep him happy. It’s February and freezing but you add tights and a cardigan and hope that’s enough to satisfy him.
When Cameron comes out of the bathroom, he’s in a good mood. That’s almost worse than when he’s angry. When he’s angry, at least you know where you stand. When he’s happy, you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You look beautiful,” he says, kissing your forehead like he didn’t just violate you twenty minutes ago. “Ready?”
You nod.
Breakfast is performative. Cameron orders the biggest thing on the menu — some ridiculous stack of pancakes with whipped cream and berries — and expects you to do the same. You order oatmeal because your stomach is churning and you know you won’t be able to eat much anyway.
“That’s all you’re getting?” Cameron frowns. “Come on, babe. Live a little.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“You’re never hungry anymore.” He reaches across the table, takes your hand. To anyone watching, it looks sweet. Loving. They can’t see the way his thumb digs into your bruised wrist. “You’re getting too thin. It’s not attractive.”
“Sorry,” you say automatically.
“It’s fine. We’ll work on it.” He releases your hand and pulls out his phone. “Shit, I have a meeting with my advisor at ten. Can you be ready to leave in twenty?”
“Yeah.”
You pick at your oatmeal while Cameron scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing you memes that aren’t funny, highlights from last night’s game that you don’t care about. He’s 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.
“Cocky bastard,” Cameron mutters. “Someone needs to put him in his place.”
You think about the way Garrett Graham looked at Cameron last night. The absolute fury in his eyes. The way he stepped between you like he actually gave a shit about a stranger.
“Did you hear me?” Cameron asks.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said you can’t come to the next game. After the way you embarrassed me last night, I think you need a break from being around the team.”
Relief floods through you so fast you feel dizzy. “Okay.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not—I didn’t mean-”
“Relax. I’m kidding.” He’s smiling but his eyes are cold. “Jesus, you’re so tense all the time. Maybe you should see someone about that.”
By someone, he means a therapist. He’s suggested it before, usually right after he’s the reason you need one. The implication is always clear: you’re the problem. You’re too sensitive, too anxious, too broken. Never mind that he’s the one who broke you.
You make it through breakfast. Through the ride back to campus. Through Cameron walking you to your dorm like he’s some kind of gentleman.
“I’ll text you later,” he says, kissing you goodbye on the steps. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” you say, because that’s the script.
***
Garrett can’t focus on anything Professor Harris is saying about Kant’s categorical imperative. He’s sitting in the back row of his Philosophy 301 lecture, laptop open to a notes document that’s completely blank except for the date, phone hidden behind his screen.
He’s still on your Instagram.
He’s gone through every post now, read every caption, studied every photo. He’s 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 — you look hollow. Like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that made you you.
The last post, from four months ago. You haven’t shared anything since.
Garrett wonders if Beck made you stop. If he isolated you so completely that you don’t even have the autonomy to post on social media anymore.
His hand tightens around his phone.
“Mr. Graham.”
Garrett’s head snaps up. Professor Harris is looking at him expectantly, along with the rest of the class.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you could explain the practical imperative.”
Garrett has no idea. He was a good student once — still is, technically, maintaining the 3.5 GPA his scholarship requires — but right now his brain is full of you and Beck and the sound of his mom’s voice saying please in his nightmares.
“I … uh …”
“Act 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,” 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 a what the hell is wrong with you expression.
Garrett goes back to his phone. He knows he should stop. Knows this is bordering on obsessive. But he can’t 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 couldn’t do for his mom.
He opens Beck’s 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.
“Dude.” Logan falls into step beside him as they file out of the lecture hall. “You good? You’ve been weird since last night.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
They walk across campus in silence. It’s 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.
“That girl last night,” Garrett says finally. “Beck’s girlfriend. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Yeah, that was fucked up.”
“I should’ve done more.”
“G, you did what you could. What were you supposed to do, kidnap her?”
“Maybe.”
Logan stops walking. “Are you serious right now?”
“No. I don’t know.” Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “I just … I’ve seen this before. I know how it ends.”
Logan’s expression softens. He knows about Garrett’s mom. They’ve been friends since freshman year, and you can’t live with someone for that long without learning their ghosts.
“You can’t save everyone,” Logan says gently.
“I couldn’t save her either.”
“You were a kid.”
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
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 won’t be able to concentrate. Won’t be able to think about anything except you and those bruises and the terrified look in your eyes.
“What are you going to do?” Logan asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
But he’s lying. He knows exactly what he’s going to do.
***
Practice is brutal. Coach Jensen runs them into the ground — suicides, bag skating, drills until Garrett’s legs are shaking and his lungs are burning. It’s punishment for last night, for the altercation in the parking lot, for drawing attention to the team in a way that doesn’t involve winning games.
Garrett welcomes the pain. Uses it to clear his head.
By the time they’re done, it’s 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 — some issue with playing time, Garrett never got the full story. He’s 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 it’s just him and Monroe and a couple other guys. He approaches casually, like the thought just occurred to him.
“Hey, Monroe.”
Colin looks up from tying his shoes. “Yeah?”
“You were at BU before you transferred, right?”
“For a year and a half, yeah. Why?”
Garrett tries to sound casual. “Just curious where you guys hung out. Like, where do BU students go? Coffee shops, bars, whatever.”
Monroe gives him a weird look. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just thinking about checking out some new spots. You know, off-campus stuff.”
“You’re asking me for Boston recommendations? Dude, you’ve been here longer than I have.”
Fair point. Garrett pivots.
“Okay, fine. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“A girl from BU. I need to talk to her.”
Monroe’s expression shifts from confused to amused. “Oh shit, did you hook up with someone from the rival team? That’s bold.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
Garrett debates how much to say. Monroe is a good guy, not a gossip, but this feels too personal to share. Too raw.
“I just need to find her,” Garrett says finally. “It’s important.”
Monroe studies him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Alright, man. BU kids are all over Comm Ave and Kenmore. There’s this coffee shop called Pavement that’s always packed with journalism and comm students — it’s right on Commonwealth, you can’t miss it. There’s also The Castle, this pub on Brighton Ave that does trivia on Wednesday nights. And if she’s into the athletic crowd, they’re usually at The Dugout on game days.”
“Yeah, it’s like, the spot. Everyone’s always in there working on articles or whatever.”
Something clicks in Garrett’s brain. Your Instagram bio. Journalism.
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. Good luck with your mysterious BU girl.” Monroe grins. “Let me know if you need a wingman.”
“I will.”
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 driver’s seat for a minute, engine running, heat blasting.
He pulls up Pavement Coffee on Google Maps. It’s 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? Hey, I saw your boyfriend abusing you last night and I’ve 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 it’s insane. You’re a stranger. You probably don’t want his help. You probably think he’s some white knight psycho who needs to mind his own business.
But he can’t stop seeing your face. Can’t 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: Be back for dinner? I promised to make wings.
Garrett texts back: Can’t tonight. Have something to do.
Tucker: Everything ok?
Garrett: Yeah. Just need to take care of something.
He puts the car in drive and heads toward Boston, toward Pavement Coffee, toward you.
He doesn’t let himself think about what he’s going to do when he finds you.
He just knows he has to try.
***
Pavement Coffee is exactly what Monroe described — 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 doesn’t see you.
You’re 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 that’s probably gone cold. Your hair is down today, falling like a curtain around your face, and you’re 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.
But Garrett knows better now.
He weaves through the crowded café, dodging backpacks and chairs, his palms suddenly sweating. He hasn’t thought this through. Hasn’t planned what to say. All the speeches he rehearsed in his car on the drive over evaporate the moment he’s standing in front of your table.
You don’t notice him at first. You’re too focused on whatever you’re 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, there’s confusion in your eyes — like you’re 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.
“Please don’t-” Your voice comes out in a whisper, barely audible over the ambient noise of the café. “Please, you can’t—he’ll-”
“Hey, hey.” Garrett raises both hands, palms out, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. “It’s okay. I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk.”
“You need to leave.” Your eyes dart toward the door, then back to him, then to the other customers like you’re checking to see if anyone’s watching. “If Cameron finds out-”
“He’s not here.”
“That doesn’t matter.” You’re gathering your stuff now, shoving papers into your bag with shaking hands. “He has friends everywhere. Someone could see us. Someone could tell him-”
“Then let them.” Garrett leans forward, keeping his voice low and calm. “What’s the worst he can do?”
The look you give him is so devastated it makes his chest ache.
“You don’t understand,” you say quietly.
“Then help me understand.”
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.
“I need to go.”
“Wait. Please.” Garrett reaches across the table like he’s going to touch your hand, then thinks better of it. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Why?” You look up at him, and there are tears gathering in your eyes now. “Why do you even care? You don’t know me.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” Garrett runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “But I know what I saw in that parking lot. And I know that if I just let you walk away right now, if I don’t at least try to help, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”
You’re staring at him like he’s speaking a foreign language.
“I’ve seen this before,” Garrett continues, his voice rough. “I’ve watched someone I love get hurt over and over by someone who was supposed to protect them. And I couldn’t stop it. I was too young, too small, too powerless. But I’m not powerless anymore, and neither are you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But you’ve stopped packing. Your hands are still on the table, fingers twisted together.
“Don’t I?” Garrett nods toward your neck, where he can see the edge of something dark peeking out from under your sweatshirt collar. “What’s that?”
Instinctively, your hand flies to your neck, pulling the collar up. But it’s too late. Garrett’s already seen it — hand-shaped bruises, finger marks pressed into your skin, covered with what looks like concealer that’s 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 he’s inflicted on you, wants to-
“Breathe,” you whisper, and Garrett realizes he’s 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.
“I’m okay,” you say, which is such an obvious lie it would be funny if it weren’t heartbreaking.
“You’re not okay.” Garrett’s voice comes out harder than he intends. “And we both know it.”
You flinch, and immediately he wants to take it back. Wants to rewind and try again with more gentleness, more care.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—fuck. I’m really bad at this.”
“At what?”
“At …” He gestures vaguely between you. “This. Helping. I don’t know how to do this without being an asshole about it.”
You almost smile. It’s barely there, just a tiny quirk of your lips, but it’s something.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say quietly.
“Beck would probably disagree.”
“Cameron thinks anyone who doesn’t worship him is an asshole.”
It’s the first time you’ve said anything even remotely critical of Beck, and Garrett latches onto it like a lifeline.
“He hurt you.” It’s not a question.
You don’t answer. Just look down at your hands, at the bruises on your wrists that match the ones on your neck.
“How long?” Garrett asks.
“That’s not—I can’t-”
“How long has he been hurting you?”
Your jaw tightens. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not.”
“You don’t understand-”
“Then explain it to me.” Garrett leans forward, desperate now. “Because from where I’m sitting, this looks pretty simple. He’s hurting you. You’re letting him. And if you don’t stop this, if you don’t get out, it’s going to kill you.”
“I can’t just leave.” Your voice breaks on the last word.
“Why not?”
“Because-” You stop, swallow hard. “Because he loves me.”
Garrett feels like he’s been punched. “That’s not love.”
“You don’t know him like I do.”
“I know that love doesn’t leave bruises.” Garrett points to your neck, your wrists. “I know that love doesn’t make you look over your shoulder every five seconds. I know that love doesn’t turn someone as bright and alive as you clearly used to be into-” He stops himself, but it’s too late.
“Into what?” Your voice is cold now. “Into what, Garrett?”
He’s surprised you know his name. Surprised and oddly touched.
“Into someone who’s afraid to exist,” he finishes quietly.
You look away, but not before he sees the tears spill over. You wipe them away quickly, angrily, like you’re mad at yourself for showing weakness.
“You looked at my Instagram,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“That’s creepy.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I 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.” Garrett’s voice softens. “I know that girl in those photos wouldn’t recognize the person sitting in front of me right now.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. The café noise fills the silence — the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of conversations, the click of laptop keys.
“She’s gone,” you finally whisper.
“She’s not. She’s just hiding.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like.” You look up at him, and the devastation in your eyes is unbearable. “He didn’t 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 didn’t 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.”
Garrett’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“And I believed him,” you continue, your voice getting smaller. “I 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 didn’t know how to get out.”
“You get out by leaving.”
“I tried.” The words come out in a rush. “Twice. 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 he’d change and I believed him because I wanted to believe him.”
“And did he change?”
You laugh, but it’s a broken sound. “What do you think?”
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 won’t help. Knows from watching his mom that you can’t force someone to leave. They have to choose it themselves.
“If you go back to him,” Garrett says carefully, “you’re going to die. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. Either he’ll kill you, or he’ll kill everything that makes you you until you’re just this empty shell going through the motions. Is that what you want?”
“Of course that’s not what I want.” Your voice cracks.
“Then leave.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t understand-”
“My mom said the same thing.” The words are out before Garrett can stop them.
You go still.
“She said she couldn’t leave my dad,” Garrett continues, staring at a spot on the table between them. “Said it was complicated. Said he didn’t mean it. Said things would get better. She said that right up until the day she died.”
“Garrett-”
“Cancer,” he says. “Lung 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.”
He looks up, meets your eyes.
“I was eleven when she died,” he says. “And 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 couldn’t have saved her. She had to save herself. And she never did.”
You’re crying openly now, tears streaming down your face.
“Don’t be her,” Garrett says, his voice urgent. “Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it. Don’t let him win.”
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“He’ll come after me.”
“Let him.” Garrett’s voice hardens. “And when he does, you call the cops. You get a restraining order. You press charges for assault. You do whatever it takes.”
“It’s not that simple-”
“It is that simple. You just don’t want it to be.”
The words hang between you like an accusation. Garrett knows he’s pushed too hard, knows he’s being too aggressive, knows he should back off and try a gentler approach.
But he’s so fucking tired of watching people destroy themselves for love that isn’t love at all.
You shake your head. It’s the tiniest movement, barely perceptible, but Garrett sees it. Sees the resignation in your eyes, the defeat.
You’re not going to leave.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
The realization settles over him like a weight.
“Okay,” he says finally, sitting back in his chair. He wipes a hand down his face, exhausted suddenly. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one you’re hurting.”
You flinch like he’s 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.
“That’s my number,” he says. “When — not if, when — things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me. Day or night, I don’t 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 you’ve had enough.”
You stare at the napkin like it’s a bomb.
“Take it,” 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.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Garrett stands, shouldering his backpack. “Thank me when you use it.”
He starts to walk away, then stops. Turns back.
“You said he didn’t start out this way,” Garrett says. “That he was sweet and charming and made you feel special.”
You nod.
“That’s what they all do,” Garrett says. “That’s 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.”
He can see from your expression that the words land. That some part of you knows he’s right.
“I hope you figure that out before it’s too late,” 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.
“See that girl in the corner?” Garrett nods toward you. “Blue sweatshirt, by the window?”
The barista glances over. “Yeah?”
“I want to buy her a drink. Whatever your best latte is. And …” Garrett scans the pastry case. “That cranberry scone.”
“You want me to bring it to her?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell her who it’s from.”
The barista looks skeptical. “Dude, if this is some creepy stalker thing-”
“It’s not. I promise. She’s …” Garrett struggles for the right words. “She’s having a hard time. I just want to do something nice for her.”
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.
You’re still sitting at the table, the napkin with his number clutched in your hand. You’re staring at it like it’s the answer to a question you haven’t figured out how to ask yet.
Your coffee has gone cold. Your laptop is closed. Your papers are still scattered across the table, but you’re not working anymore. You’re just … 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 won’t help. Knows he’s 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.
Don’t be her. Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Your hands are shaking. The napkin with his number is crumpled from how hard you’re gripping it. Your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the room, and you can’t stop crying even though you’re in public, even though people are starting to stare.
You know he’s right. God, you know he’s right.
But knowing something and being able to do something about it are two different things.
“Excuse me?”
You look up. The barista is standing there with a latte and a scone on a small plate.
“I didn’t order this,” you say, your voice hoarse.
“Someone bought it for you.” He sets it down on your table.
“Who?”
The barista just shrugs and walks away.
But you know. Of course you know.
You look toward the door, but Garrett’s already gone. Just the ghost of him, the weight of his words, the impossible choice he’s asked you to make.
The latte is still hot. The scone looks fresh. It’s 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 won’t recognize if he looks. Boston Pizza.
Then you put your phone away, pick up the latte, and take a sip.
It’s perfect.
And that almost makes it worse.
Because now you know there’s 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 you’re not ready to save yourself.
You sit there until the latte goes cold again, turning Garrett’s words over and over in your mind.
When things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me.
Not if. When.
Like he has faith in you that you don’t have in yourself.
You pick up the scone and take a bite.
It tastes like possibility.
And that’s 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.
He’s 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 money’s on the latter.
“Hey, babe.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Where’ve you been?”
Your heart starts hammering. “Library. Studying.”
“Really? Because I texted you like three hours ago and you didn’t respond.”
You pull out your phone, check your messages. Sure enough, there’s a text from Cameron from 5:32 PM. Where are you? You were at Pavement then, talking to Garrett, too distracted to check your phone.
“I had my phone on silent,” you say, which is true. “I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” Cameron stands up, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. “You’re sorry that you ignored me for three hours?”
“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was studying-”
“Bullshit.” He’s across the room in three strides, grabbing your tote bag before you can stop him. “Let me see your phone.”
“Cameron, come on-”
“Let. Me. See. Your. Phone.”
You hand it over with shaking hands because refusing will only make this worse. He scrolls through your messages, your calls, your social media.
“Library, huh?” Cameron looks up from your phone. “Then why do you have a text from Julie asking if you’re still at that coffee shop?”
Fuck. You forgot about that text.
“I stopped for coffee on my way to the library,” you say quickly. “I was only there for like twenty minutes-”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
He throws your phone onto the bed and starts rifling through your tote bag. Books, pens, highlighters, notebooks — everything gets dumped onto the floor. You watch in horror as his hand closes around the side pocket.
“Cameron, please-”
He pulls out the napkin.
For a moment, he just stares at it. At the ten digits written in Garrett’s messy handwriting. Then he looks at you, and the rage in his eyes makes your blood run cold.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s nothing-”
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
You flinch, stumbling backward until you hit the wall. “I can explain-”
“You’re cheating on me.” His voice is eerily calm now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. “You’re fucking cheating on me.”
“I’m not, I swear-”
“Then whose number is this?”
“Nobody’s-”
“WHOSE FUCKING NUMBER IS IT?”
“A guy from the coffee shop!” The lie spills out in a rush. “He was hitting on me and I took his number to be nice but I was going to throw it away, I swear-”
“You expect me to believe that?” Cameron crumples the napkin in his fist. “You 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?”
“I didn’t keep it, I forgot about it-”
“Stop lying!”
He’s 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.
“Cameron—can’t—breathe-”
“You made me do this,” he hisses, his face inches from yours. “You made me into the bad guy. All I’ve ever done is love you, and this is how you repay me? By whoring around behind my back?”
“Not—cheating-” 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.
“Don’t lie to me!” Another slap. “Don’t you fucking lie to me!”
You’re crying now, trying to twist away, but he’s 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.
Cameron’s face swims in and out of focus above you. He’s saying something but you can’t 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 don’t wait. Don’t think. Just grab your phone from the bed and run.
“You bitch-” Cameron’s voice follows you into the hallway. “Get back here!”
But you’re 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. It’s freezing — you’re not wearing a coat, just your sweatshirt and jeans — but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. If he catches you, he’ll 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 won’t work right.
Finally, the screen unlocks.
You pull up your contacts, scroll frantically until you find it. Boston Pizza.
You hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Pick up, you think desperately. Please pick up please pick up please-
“Hello?”
Garrett’s voice, rough with sleep, is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.
You try to speak but all that comes out is a sob.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Garrett-” Your voice cracks. “It’s—it’s me-”
There’s a pause. “Y/N?”
“Please-” You’re running down a side street now, looking for somewhere to hide. “Please, I need-”
“What’s wrong?” His voice changes completely, all traces of sleep gone. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know—I’m running—he found the napkin and he-” Another sob cuts you off.
“Slow down. Take a breath. Are you hurt?”
“I think—I think he was going to kill me-”
“Fuck. Okay. Okay, listen to me.” Garrett’s voice is steady, authoritative. “I need you to find somewhere safe. A store, a dorm building, anywhere with people. Can you do that?”
“I’m trying-” You’re on Brighton Ave now, you think. Everything looks unfamiliar in the dark. “All the buildings are locked-”
“Keep trying. Share your location with me. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yes—hold on-”
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.
“Got it,” Garrett says. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Don’t hang up.”
“Okay.” You’re in front of an apartment building now. You try the door. Locked. “Fuck!”
“What?”
“The building’s locked. They all need codes-”
“Try another one. Just keep moving.”
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. “He’s coming—I can hear him-”
“Stay calm. Keep trying the doors.”
The fourth building — a newer apartment complex with a fancy glass entrance — you try the handle and nearly cry with relief when it opens.
“I’m in—I found one-”
“Good. Where are you exactly?”
“The lobby. There’s nobody here-”
“Hide. Find a corner or a hallway or something. Stay out of sight.”
You look around frantically. The lobby is all glass and exposed, but there’s a hallway to the left that leads to what looks like a mail room. You duck around the corner, pressing yourself against the wall.
“I’m hidden,” you whisper.
“Good. Good girl. I’m in my car. I’m coming as fast as I can.”
You can hear the engine revving through the phone. The sound is oddly comforting.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice small. “I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I should have listened to you. I should have left-”
“We’ll talk about that later. Right now I just need you to stay safe, okay? Stay on the phone with me. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”
You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your whole body is shaking — from cold, from fear, from adrenaline crash. Your throat hurts where Cameron choked you. Your face throbs where he hit you.
“Talk to me,” Garrett says. “I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m here. I’m-” Your voice breaks. “I’m so scared.”
“I know. I know you are. But you’re safe right now. He doesn’t know where you are.”
“What if he finds me?”
“He won’t. And even if he does, you’re in a building with other people. You can scream. You can call 911.”
“He’ll talk his way out of it. He always does-”
“Not this time.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “Not fucking this time.”
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.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For answering. For coming.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
“I’m glad you called me.” There’s something in his voice — relief, maybe. Or vindication. “I meant what I said. Day or night. You call me.”
You close your eyes, let his voice wash over you. Somewhere above you, you can hear footsteps. Someone’s TV playing too loud. Normal apartment sounds. It helps ground you.
“I’m about twenty minutes away,” Garrett says. “Maybe less. Traffic’s not bad.”
“Are you speeding?”
“Definitely.”
Despite everything, you almost smile. “You’re going to get a ticket.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
The minutes stretch out. You keep listening to Garrett’s breathing on the other end of the line, the sound of his car. It’s the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart.
“Okay, I’m about two minutes out,” Garrett says. “What’s the address of the building you’re in?”
You peek out from behind the corner, looking for a sign or a number. “Um … 6209 Brighton Avenue, I think?”
“Got it. I see it. Stay where you are, I’m pulling up now.”
Thirty seconds later, you hear a car screech to a stop outside. A door slams.
“I’m coming in,” Garrett says.
The front door opens and then he’s there — 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 — the handprints on your throat, the swelling on your face, the way you’re shaking so hard you can barely stand.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
He starts toward you, hand outstretched, then stops himself. Lets his hand fall.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly. “I promise. I just want to help.”
You nod, but you can’t seem to make yourself move.
“Can I come closer?” Garrett asks.
Another nod.
He approaches slowly, carefully, like you’re a wild animal that might bolt. When he’s close enough to touch, he holds out his hand.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
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.
“What if he’s out there?” Your voice is barely a whisper.
“Then I’ll handle it.” Garrett’s jaw is set, his eyes hard. “He’s not going to touch you again. I promise you that.”
You let him guide you outside, into his car. It’s still running, heat blasting. He opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re made of glass.
But before he closes the door, you grab his arm.
“What?” Garrett asks.
You can’t put it into words — 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.
“Thank you,” you manage.
His expression softens. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just get you somewhere safe.”
He closes your door and runs around to the driver’s side. As soon as he’s in, he locks the doors and checks his mirrors. You can’t help doing the same thing — looking back down the street, expecting to see Cameron appear at any moment.
“He’s not coming,” Garrett says, but his hands are tight on the steering wheel. “And even if he does, I’ll kill him.”
He says it so matter-of-factly that you believe him.
Garrett pulls away from the curb and starts driving. You don’t ask where you’re going. Don’t care. Anywhere is better than where you were.
“I’m taking you to my place,” Garrett says after a few minutes. “I live with my teammates. Three other guys. They’re good people, I promise. You’ll be safe there.”
“Okay.”
“In the morning, we can figure out next steps. Police report, restraining order, whatever you want to do. But tonight, you just need to rest.”
You nod, but the word makes your stomach churn. Cameron’s parents are lawyers. Rich, connected lawyers. The last time you tried to leave, he threatened to have them destroy you. Said they’d make you look crazy, make sure no one believed you.
And you believed him. Just like you believed everything else.
“Hey.” Garrett glances over at you. “You with me?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
The drive to Garrett’s 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.
“Okay, so fair warning: the place is kind of a mess. We’re college guys. But it’s safe, I promise.”
“I don’t care about the mess.”
“Good.” 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. It’s quiet — everyone’s probably asleep.
“Let me give you the quick tour,” Garrett says softly. “Living room, kitchen, bathroom’s down that hall. Upstairs are the bedrooms. Mine’s the second door on the left.”
“I can sleep on the couch-”
“No.” His voice is firm. “You’re taking my room.”
“Garrett, I can’t-”
“Yes, you can. It’s got a lock on the inside if you want to feel safer. Clean sheets, bathroom right next door. I’ll bunk with Logan.”
You’re 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. Garrett’s room is at the end, exactly as he described.
It’s 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.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Garrett says, pointing to a door. “There should be towels and stuff. I can get you some clothes to sleep in-”
“This is fine.” You’re still in your sweatshirt and jeans, but the thought of changing feels impossible right now.
“Okay. Well, if you need anything, I’ll be with Logan. His room is the first door on the right. Just knock.”
You nod.
Garrett lingers in the doorway, looking like he wants to say something else. “You did the right thing. Calling me. Running. You saved your own life tonight.”
The words hit you harder than they should. You feel tears pricking at your eyes again.
“Get some sleep,” Garrett says gently. “We’ll figure everything else out in the morning.”
He closes the door behind him, and you’re 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 can’t seem to make yourself move. Instead, you sink onto Garrett’s bed, still fully clothed, and pull the blanket around yourself.
It smells like him — clean, masculine, safe.
You close your eyes and let yourself cry.
***
Garrett makes it to Logan’s room and closes the door before he loses it.
“Dude, what the fuck-” Logan sits up in bed, squinting at him. “It’s like 1 AM-”
“I need to bunk with you tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s someone in my room.”
That wakes Logan up. “What?”
Garrett runs both hands through his hair, pacing. “That girl. From the parking lot. Beck’s girlfriend. She called me. He hurt her, Logan. Really fucking hurt her.”
“Shit. Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. She’s-” Garrett’s voice cracks. “You should see her throat. He strangled her. She’s got bruises all over her face, her neck. If she hadn’t gotten away-”
“Fuck.”
“I want to kill him.” Garrett’s hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage coursing through him. “I want to find him and beat him so badly he never gets up again.”
“Garrett-”
“I should have done more. At the parking lot. I should have made her leave then-”
“You did what you could.”
“It wasn’t enough!” 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. “Look at me. Look at me, G.”
Garrett forces himself to meet Logan’s eyes.
“She called you,” Logan says. “When 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. That’s huge.”
Garrett wants to believe that. Wants to believe he did enough. But all he can see is your face — the terror, the pain, the way you flinched when he reached for you.
“She looks like she’s halfway to dead,” Garrett says quietly.
“But she’s not dead. She’s here. She’s safe.”
“For now.”
“For now is all we’ve got.” Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. You can take the beanbag.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“Fine. Then you can not-sleep on the beanbag.”
Garrett collapses into the oversized beanbag chair in the corner of Logan’s room. It’s not comfortable, but he barely notices. His mind is racing, playing the phone call over and over. The sound of your voice — 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 hadn’t fought back, if you hadn’t gotten away, Beck would have killed you.
“What are you going to do?” Logan asks from his bed.
“I don’t know. Call the cops. Get her a restraining order. Press charges.”
“You think she’ll do it?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s the truth. You’re terrified of Beck, terrified of his family’s power, terrified of what he’ll do if you fight back. Garrett’s seen it before — 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.
“He’s going to come looking for her,” Garrett says.
“Then we’ll deal with it.”
“We?”
“You think I’m going to let some abusive piece of shit show up at our house?” Logan’s voice is hard. “Fuck that. He tries anything, he’s going through me, Dean, and Tucker. And you know Tucker will lose his shit.”
Despite everything, Garrett almost smiles.
“We should tell them,” Garrett says. “In the morning. They need to know.”
“Agreed.”
Garrett leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. But every time he does, he sees you — trembling in that apartment lobby, handprints on your throat, looking at him like he’s the only thing standing between you and death.
“I should have done more,” he says again.
“You did enough.”
But it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like he’s still that seven-year-old kid watching his mom get hurt and being powerless to stop it.
Except this time, he’s not powerless.
This time, he can fight back.
And if Cameron Beck shows his face anywhere near you again, Garrett’s going to make sure he regrets it.
⤿ JOHN LOGAN was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.
!! wc: 4.5k. fluff. fem!reader. yearner!logan. hockey player!reader. dean and tucker cameos of course. should i make a mini series about logan x hockey reader. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.
Your legs already ached.
The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.
You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.
Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.
The collision happened almost immediately after that.
Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.
You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.
A defender cut toward you from the left.
You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.
Instead, she drove straight into your side.
The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.
The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.
But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.
You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.
Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”
The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.
You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.
“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.
You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.
The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.
You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.
It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.
Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.
He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.
Dean noticed first, because of course he did.
“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.
Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”
Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.
“The defenseman?”
“The one that just got launched into the glass.”
Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”
Logan ignored him completely.
You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.
He wasn't irritated with you.
At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.
“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”
“That wasn’t a casual hit.”
Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”
“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.
Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.
“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”
Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.
“I’m not obsessed.”
“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”
“She hit the glass hard.”
“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.
Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.
The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.
You didn’t hesitate.
Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.
You didn’t.
You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.
Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”
Logan said nothing.
Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.
Twelve.
Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.
Logan leaned forward immediately.
“Twelve,” he repeated.
Dean stared at him. “What?”
“Her number.”
Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”
Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.
“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”
Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.
“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.
The roster loaded slowly.
Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”
Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”
Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”
Logan finally looked back toward the ice.
You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.
Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.
Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.
Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.
“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”
Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.
Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.
Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.
For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.
Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.
“You’re done for, bro.”
Logan barely heard him.
Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.
By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.
Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.
Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.
The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.
Boston looked furious about it.
You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.
A defender moved toward you.
You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.
Your teammate buried it immediately.
The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.
By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.
You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.
Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.
His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.
Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.
Logan had not looked away from the ice.
Not once.
His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.
Dean noticed it first.
Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.
“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”
Logan barely reacted.
“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.
“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.
It came out quieter than either of them expected.
Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.
Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.
“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”
Logan didn’t answer immediately.
The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.
The final buzzer sounded not long after.
Briar won 7–1.
The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.
You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.
Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.
“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.
Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.
You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.
After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.
Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.
Toward him.
Logan went still.
Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.
It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.
Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.
The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.
Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.
He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.
Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.
Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.
Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.
He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.
Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.
Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.
Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.
Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.
His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.
#12.
For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.
You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.
Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.
Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.
He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.
You still had not noticed him.
Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.
Which was new.
Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.
Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.
He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.
By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.
“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”
“I didn’t fucking panic.”
“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”
Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”
Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.
You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.
Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.
Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.
Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.
Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.
“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.
“Please be quiet.”
“Are you in love?”
Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.
Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.
His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.
At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.
Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.
Your ribs.
The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.
When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.
Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.
One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.
Of course he did.
Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.
Logan felt irritation spark instantly.
The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”
You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”
“You were really good.”
Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.
You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”
The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.
Then Logan stood.
Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.
“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.
Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.
The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.
Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.
Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.
The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.
#12.
Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.
“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”
You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”
The conversation should have ended there.
You clearly wanted to end it there.
But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.
Normally he wouldn’t have cared.
Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.
Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.
“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.
Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.
You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.
“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.
Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.
Something about it settled heavily in his chest.
“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.
For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.
“You know each other?” he asked.
“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.
That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.
Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.
The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”
You smiled politely again. “See you.”
The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.
Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.
You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.
“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”
“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.
Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.
“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”
Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”
“It was bad.”
“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”
Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.
“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.
And Logan was taking that as a win.
Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.
“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.
The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.
Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”
“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.
Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.
For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.
“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”
“I know your name.”
The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.
“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.
You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.
It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.
“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.
“Yeah, no, for sure.”
The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.
Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.
