The house on Sycamore Street is already loud before noon.

Garrett Graham drops his gym bag by the door, the familiar thud echoing through the living room, and rakes a hand through his damp hair. He’s still riding the edge of adrenaline from morning practice—legs sore, shoulders tight, mind sharp. He smells like ice and sweat and the cheap protein soap Tucker keeps buying in bulk.

“Jesus Christ, did you guys invite the entire campus over?” Garrett mutters, toeing a discarded hockey sock out of his way.

From the kitchen, Logan’s voice cuts through, loud and unapologetic. “Relax, Captain Grumpy. It’s called vibes. Look it up.”

Dean Di Laurentis is sprawled across the couch like he owns the place—shirtless, naturally—scrolling on his phone with one leg draped over the armrest. He doesn’t even look up. “You’re just mad because practice kicked your ass.”

Garrett snorts, rolling his shoulders as he walks past. “Please. I could skate circles around you hungover.”

Dean finally glances up, smirking. “And yet, here I am—beautiful, unbothered, and still starting this weekend.”

Tucker looks up from the kitchen counter, where he’s stirring something that smells suspiciously healthy. “Can you both not? Some of us are trying to maintain inner peace.”

Logan pops his head around the corner, grinning. “You don’t live here for peace, Tuck. You live here for chaos and cheap rent.”

Garrett grabs a water from the fridge and leans against the counter, posture relaxed but commanding without trying. Even here—barefoot, hoodie slung low, hair still damp—he carries that captain energy. The kind that makes conversations orbit him whether he wants them to or not.

“So,” Logan says, waggling his eyebrows, “how’d ethics go?”

Garrett groans, tipping his head back. “Don’t start.”

Dean laughs. “That bad?”

“I passed the quiz,” Garrett says defensively. “Barely. Wellsy’s gonna kill me if I bomb the midterm.”

At the mention of Hannah Wells, the room shifts—just slightly. Tucker smiles knowingly. Logan whistles.

“Wellsy’s a saint for putting up with you,” Logan says. “You know that, right?”

Garrett shoots him a look. “She’s not putting up with me.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “That pause says otherwise.”

Garrett ignores him, jaw tightening for half a second before easing again. “She’s… helping. And she’s busy. Choir stuff. Studying. Being way more responsible than the rest of us combined.”

Tucker nods. “She keeps you grounded.”

Garrett doesn’t argue. He just shrugs, taking another drink of water. “She keeps me eligible.”

Logan grins. “Same thing.”

The banter dissolves into comfortable noise—Logan flipping music on, Dean arguing about which playlist is superior, Tucker reminding them not to leave plates in the sink “like animals.” Garrett watches it all with a familiar fondness. This house is loud and messy and chaotic, but it’s his. These guys are his team off the ice just as much as on it.

Garrett checks his phone—no new messages—but his thumb hovers anyway, like he’s half-expecting Hannah’s name to pop up. He shoves the phone back into his pocket and straightens.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once. The room quiets instinctively. “We’ve got practice early tomorrow, and if any of you show up late again—”

Dean smirks. “You’ll glare at us really intensely?”

Garrett smiles, sharp and easy. “I’ll make you skate laps until you puke.”

Logan laughs. “That’s our captain.”

Garrett shakes his head, a grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. He’s tired, sore, and stressed—but he’s home. And for the first time in a long time, things feel… steady.

Even if Wellsy would still tell him to stop procrastinating.

And honestly?

She wouldn’t be wrong.