Garrett Graham

The locker room smelled like sweat, cheap body spray, and the particular brand of testosterone-fueled chaos that only existed when Briar's hockey team had just won by three goals. Garrett leaned back against his stall, legs stretched out, stick resting across his thighs, and watched the mayhem unfold with the lazy satisfaction of a man who'd just put up two assists and a goal in the third period.

Tucker was dancing. Actually dancing — shirtless, barefoot on the wet concrete floor, swinging his jersey over his head like a helicopter blade while Dean filmed it on his phone with the focused intensity of a National Geographic documentarian.

"Tuck, you're gonna slip and crack your skull open," Logan said from across the room, not looking up from unlacing his skates, his voice carrying the flat resignation of a man who'd said this exact sentence four hundred times before.

"Then I die happy, baby!" Tucker hollered back.

Garrett grinned, shaking his head. He pulled his jersey off, balled it up, tossed it into the laundry bin without looking — swish, nothing but net — and grabbed his towel. His body ached in that deep, satisfying way that only came after a hard-fought game. His left shoulder was a little stiff from a check he'd taken in the second period, some defenseman from Yale who'd been targeting him all night, but the pain felt good. Earned.

"Captain," Dean called out, lowering his phone. "Beau's throwing a thing tonight. His place. You in?"

"When have I ever said no to a thing?"

"Never. That's the problem."

"That's the brand, Deano."

Forty-five minutes later, showered and dressed in jeans and a dark henley with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, Garrett walked into Beau's off-campus house and was immediately handed a red cup by someone he vaguely recognized from his Econ lecture. The bass was loud enough to rattle the pictures on the walls. The living room was packed — hockey guys, their girlfriends, sorority girls, a handful of randoms who'd heard through the grapevine and showed up hoping to ride the post-victory energy.

Garrett moved through the crowd the way he moved through everything — easily. A hand on someone's shoulder here, a quick laugh there, a fist bump with a freshman who looked starstruck just being in the same room. He found his usual spot near the kitchen counter, leaned against it, and surveyed the room like a king overlooking his very drunk, very loud kingdom.

Kendall found him around midnight.

She appeared at his elbow with that particular smile — the one that was half invitation, half challenge. Blonde hair pulled over one shoulder, tank top that left very little to the imagination, and eyes that said she knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't interested in pretending otherwise.

"Nice game tonight, Captain."

"Thanks. You watch?"

"Watched enough." She tilted her head, traced a finger along the rim of her cup. "You look tense."

"I just won. I'm the opposite of tense."

"Mmm." She stepped closer, and he could smell her perfume — something warm and vanilla-heavy. "I've got something more fun than whatever's in that cup."

Garrett looked down at her. He knew what this was. Kendall wasn't a stranger — they'd hooked up twice before, both times after wins, both times uncomplicated and mutually satisfying and forgotten by morning. She wasn't looking for a boyfriend and he wasn't looking for a girlfriend, and that arithmetic worked just fine.

He drained his cup, set it on the counter, and let her take his hand.

His bedroom door barely closed before Kendall's mouth was on his, and Garrett responded on instinct — one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her hip, pulling her flush against him. She tasted like vodka and cherry lip gloss, and she kissed the way she did everything: aggressively, impatiently, like she was trying to win something.

He walked her backward toward the bed, his mouth never leaving hers, and when her knees hit the mattress she dropped onto it and pulled him down with her by the front of his henley. He braced himself over her on one arm, breaking the kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere behind him.

"God, you're unfair," she murmured, running her hands down his chest, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his abs.

"Genetics and a solid training regimen," he said against her neck, and she laughed — a breathless, genuine sound that he liked. He pulled her tank top up and over her head, revealing a black lace bra that was clearly chosen with intention. He pressed the girl's back to his chest and gently squeezed her earlobe with his lips, squeezing her breasts in his palms. His strong palms fell on her waist, quickly turning her towards him. He pressed his lips to the curve of her breast, then lower, tongue tracing along the lace edge while his hand worked the clasp open with practiced ease.

Her bra fell away. He cupped one breast, thumb circling her nipple slowly, watching it harden under his touch, watching her arch into him. His mouth replaced his hand — tongue flat, then flicking, then sucking gently while she gasped and threaded her fingers through his hair.

"Garrett—"

"Patience."

"Fuck patience."

He grinned against her skin. His free hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her jeans, fingers popping the button open with one hand. He tugged the zipper down, slipped his hand inside, and found her already wet through the thin fabric of her underwear. He pressed two fingers against her, rubbing slow circles through the cotton, and she moaned — low, desperate, hips rocking into his hand.

"More," she breathed.

He pulled her jeans down her legs, then her underwear, and settled between her thighs. For a moment he just looked at her — flushed, breathing hard, completely bare and watching him with those dark, impatient eyes. Then he lowered his mouth to her.

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes — flat and wide at first, tasting her, then focused, the tip circling her clit with a precision that made her thighs clamp around his head. He hooked one arm under her leg, opening her wider, and slid two fingers inside her while his tongue kept working. She was tight and slick around his fingers, and the sounds she was making — broken little gasps, his name said like a curse — sent heat straight to his dick.

He worked her steadily, reading every twitch and shudder, adjusting pressure and speed until her back arched off the bed and she came with a sharp cry, her whole body trembling, walls clenching around his fingers in rhythmic pulses.

He didn't give her time to fully recover. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reached into his nightstand drawer for a condom. He tore off the condom blister with his teeth and put the condom on his dick, spreading the latex over the shaft with his palm, while she watched through half-lidded eyes. He lined himself up, pushed inside her slowly — inch by inch — and the groan that left his throat was involuntary, raw, because she felt fucking incredible.

He set a rhythm — deep, steady thrusts that made the headboard tap against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back, pulling him deeper. He braced one hand beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough that he knew there'd be marks tomorrow, and she didn't seem to mind — if anything, her nails raking down his back told him she wanted more.

"Harder," she panted, and he obliged — snapping his hips with more force, changing the angle slightly until he found the spot that made her voice break. Her nails dug in deep enough to sting and he hissed through his teeth, the sharp pain mixing with pleasure in a way that made everything feel more vivid.

He leaned down, mouth against her ear. "You feel so good," he murmured, voice rough, and felt her clench around him in response. He reached between them, thumb finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles while he maintained that relentless pace, and within minutes she was coming again — louder this time, back bowed, his name torn out of her like a prayer.

He followed her over the edge seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning against her neck as the orgasm rolled through him in heavy, pulsing waves.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just lay there tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing, skin cooling in the aftermath.

Then Kendall's hand came up to stroke through his hair, gentle now instead of desperate, and something in Garrett's chest went tight.

"I missed you," she said softly. "Did you miss me?"

The question hung in the air like a held breath. Garrett stared at the ceiling, suddenly very aware of every point where their bodies were still touching.

"Kendall..."

"You didn't." Her voice had gone flat. She pulled back, sitting up, and Garrett watched her expression shift from open to shuttered in the space of a heartbeat. "You didn't miss me at all."

"It's not—" He sat up too, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I've been busy. Training, games, school—"

"That's not what I'm asking." She grabbed her dress from the floor, yanking it on without looking at him. "I'm asking if you think about me when I'm not here. If you want more than just... this."

Garrett's jaw tightened. He should lie. It would be easier to lie, to give her some vague reassurance that would buy him time. But he was too tired, and Kendall deserved better than bullshit.

"I can't give you more," he said honestly. "I've got scouts watching every game, my grades are barely holding together, and I'm trying to figure out what the hell my life looks like after graduation. I don't have room for—"

"For me."

"For anyone." He met her eyes, willing her to understand. "Everything I've got goes to hockey right now. That's all I have to offer. It's fleeting, Kendall. I told you that from the start."

She stared at him for a long moment, and he watched the hurt transform into something harder. Colder.

"Yeah," she said finally, slipping on her shoes. "I guess you did."

The door closed behind her with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than a slam. Garrett fell back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling until the sounds of the party faded and the house went quiet.Garrett showered again, fell into bed, and slept like the dead.

Monday morning hit like a freight train.

Professor Tolbert's English Lit class was the kind of course Garrett had taken because it fulfilled a requirement, not because he had any burning passion for nineteenth-century prose. He sat in his usual seat — third row, aisle — with a large coffee and the resigned expression of a man who knew he was about to be humiliated by the written word.

Tolbert handed back the essays with the grim efficiency of a man delivering bad news. Garrett accepted his with two fingers, like it might bite, and flipped to the last page.

C-minus.

He exhaled through his nose. Not failing. Not good. Not good enough to keep his GPA where it needed to be for eligibility. The familiar knot of anxiety tightened in his chest — the one he never talked about, the one that whispered what if hockey isn't enough and your grades kill your season?

He glanced around the room, doing that thing he always did — scanning other people's papers with the subtlety of a man who had no subtlety. Most of the pages he glimpsed showed B-range marks. A few C's. One poor bastard in the back row had a D circled in aggressive red ink.

Then his gaze landed on a paper two rows ahead and one seat to the left.

A-plus.

He blinked. Looked again. A-fucking-plus, with a comment from Tolbert that appeared to be — was that praise? Tolbert didn't praise people. Tolbert barely acknowledged that his students were sentient beings. And yet there it was, neat handwriting in the margin, multiple lines of what could only be described as academic approval.

Garrett leaned back in his chair and studied the back of the girl's head. He didn't know her name. He'd seen her in class before — she always sat near the front, always had her notes organized in a way that made his own chaotic notebook look like a crime scene. She was one of those students who actually did the readings. All of them. On time. Probably highlighted in color-coded systems.

He filed the information away.

After class, he spotted her again — outside the arts building, standing near the steps with a posture that was trying very hard to look casual and failing spectacularly. She was talking to Justin Cole.

Garrett knew Justin. Everyone knew Justin. The guy played guitar at every open mic night, had that whole brooding-artist thing going on, and collected female attention like it was a hobby. He was leaning against the railing with practiced nonchalance, and the girl was —

Oh, Jesus. She was flirting. Or attempting to. It was like watching a baby deer try to walk on ice — earnest, effortful, and borderline painful. She was gesturing too much. Laughing a beat too late. Standing at an angle that suggested she'd read a WikiHow article on body language and was implementing the steps out of order.

Justin, to his credit or discredit, seemed politely oblivious. He nodded along, checked his phone twice, and eventually excused himself with a wave that was friendly in the most devastatingly non-romantic way possible.

Garrett watched her shoulders drop about two inches as Justin walked away.

He might have left it there — filed it under "not my problem" and gone on with his day — if the universe hadn't intervened with the comedic timing of a bad sitcom.

Some guy — tall, drunk-looking despite it being 1 PM on a Monday, carrying an iced coffee with the coordination of a newborn — stumbled past her on the steps and collided directly with her shoulder. The coffee went everywhere. Specifically, all over the front of her white t-shirt, creating a massive brown stain that spread across the fabric and made her freeze like she'd been hit with a stun gun.

The guy muttered something that might have been an apology, might have been gibberish, and kept walking.

She stood there. Soaked. Arms slightly out to her sides. Looking down at her ruined shirt with an expression that was somewhere between mortification and the quiet acceptance of someone who was considering whether spontaneous combustion was a real option.

Garrett was already moving before he fully processed the decision. He shrugged off his varsity jacket — the heavy one with GRAHAM stitched across the back and the captain's C on the front — and crossed the distance in a few easy strides.

"Here," he said, draping it over her shoulders from behind, careful not to crowd her. The jacket was massive on her — it would be massive on most people — and it immediately swallowed her frame. He stepped around to face her, hands in his pockets, wearing that half-smirk that lived permanently on his face.

"Garrett Graham," he said, as if she might not know, as if every person on this campus didn't know. But he said it anyway because introductions mattered and his mother had raised him with at least some manners before she'd passed. "You're in Tolbert's class. English Lit."

He let that sit for a second.

"I saw your essay grade." He held up a hand before she could react. "Not in a creepy way. In an 'I got a C-minus and I'm quietly spiraling about my academic eligibility' way. You got an A-plus. From Tolbert. I didn't think that was physically possible."

He glanced in the direction Justin had disappeared, then back at her.

"I also saw you talking to Justin Cole just now." A beat. His smirk softened into something almost conspiratorial. "And — look, no offense — but that was rough. That was really rough. I say this with compassion."

He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his hair — that tic, the one he'd deny — and tilted his head slightly, gray eyes sharpening with the look of a man who'd just had an idea that was either brilliant or catastrophically stupid.

"So here's what I'm thinking. I need help with Tolbert's class. Like, real help. Tutoring, editing, whatever it takes to get my grade up before my coach sees my GPA and benches me for the season. And you — correct me if I'm wrong — could maybe use a little help in the Justin Cole department."

He paused, letting the implication hang.

"What if we helped each other? You save my academic ass, and I help you get his attention. I know the guy. I know what works. And nothing — nothing — gets a guy's attention faster than thinking someone else already has yours." He tugged lightly at the collar of the varsity jacket now draped over her shoulders, the gesture pointed and deliberate. "We fake it. Just enough to make him look twice. And in the meantime, you teach me how to write an essay that doesn't make Tolbert want to retire early."

He extended his hand.

"So. Deal?"