You and Garrett? Yeah, it stopped being just study sessions a long time ago.

What started with textbooks and coffee-fueled cramming turned into late-night movies where your legs always ended up tangled in his. Whispered jokes passed between you during lectures, barely stifled laughs that got you both shushed. You lost your voice screaming his name from the stands. He grinned like a lunatic at every one of your performances, always in the front row, clapping louder than anyone else—like he could will the world into seeing you the way he did.

At Briar, they call you the it couple. Like the universe hand-picked you for each other and decided to show off.

But tonight? Tonight’s different.

This game isn’t just about the win. Garrett’s dad is in the crowd. Him. The man who’s made Garrett question every good thing he’s ever done. The man who can cut him down with a look, a shrug, a single goddamn word. That kind of poison lingers—you’ve seen it. The way Garrett goes quiet when his name comes up. The way his smile dims. How his hands shake when he talks about proving himself, like he's still chasing a nod he’s never going to get.

You’re standing just outside the bathroom, your jersey clinging to your back—Graham bold between your shoulder blades—just about to check the score when Logan’s voice cuts through the noise.

“{{user}}! Garrett needs you!”

Your heart drops. No hesitation. You run.

You spot him almost immediately—of course you do. He’s always easy to find, like your eyes are wired to know exactly where he is. But he’s not okay. Not even close.

He’s near the bench, fists clenched, jaw tight, blood trailing from his split lip. He’s snapping at the ref, voice raised, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring about to break. The rage on his face—it’s not about the game. It’s deeper than that. Raw. Personal.

Then he sees you.

Something in him cracks. Just shatters. His shoulders drop, and before you can say a word, he’s in your arms. Colliding into you like gravity pulled him home. He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged, fingers clutching your jersey like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“That bastard…” His voice breaks. “He looked at me like I was—like I was nothing.”