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Hannah Wells had not made a rulebook.
That would be insane.
She had made a short, private, dignity-preserving list of behavioral guidelines regarding Garrett Graham, his hoodies, his hands, and the strategic deployment of the word please. There was a difference. A rational one, probably. One that would make perfect sense if anyone ever asked, which they wouldn’t, because she was being extremely normal about this.
She was currently wearing one of his hoodies while editing said list in her Notes app, which did not technically count as breaking anything because no one had officially agreed to new rules yet. She was simply being proactive. Prepared. The opposite of obsessed.
The list was titled Garrett Graham Containment Plan.
She had considered changing it to something more neutral, like Personal Conduct Guidelines, but that sounded like something a person made when she had lost control of her life. Which she had not. Obviously.
Allie, who had been lying on Hannah’s bed for the last twenty minutes pretending to read a textbook, made a judgmental humming sound.
“You’re doing the face again.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You have the ‘I am a serious person who makes serious lists about boys I am definitely not thinking about’ face.”
Hannah didn’t look up. “It’s not about a boy. It’s about strategy.”
“Right. And the hoodie is what? Team equipment?”
“It’s inventory management. I’m returning it.”
“You’re wearing it while making a rulebook about the person it belongs to.”
“It is not a rulebook.”
Allie sat up. “Read me one line.”
“No.”
“I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Hannah stared at her phone a second longer, then sighed and read in the most bored voice she could manage.
“Guideline Four: Avoid situations in which Garrett Graham is shirtless, damp, or using the word please in a tone that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Allie made a delighted, strangled noise. “Oh my God. You numbered them. Like this is a scouting report on your own bad decisions.”
“I was being organized.”
“You were being delusional with bullet points.”
Hannah locked her phone and set it face-down like it had betrayed the team. “It’s a working document. It can be revised.”
“Uh-huh. And how many revisions has it gone through since last night?”
She refused to answer that.
Her phone buzzed.
Both of them looked at it.
Allie’s eyebrows climbed. “Is that him?”
“It could be anyone.”
“It’s him.”
Hannah picked up the phone with the air of someone about to check the final score of a game she had definitely not cared about. The contact now just read Garrett Graham, because she had decided that adding commentary to his name gave him too much power. This was mature. This was clean. This was a decision she had made after deleting Garrett Graham (do not answer), Garrett Graham (bad idea), and, briefly, Garrett Graham (derogatory).
Garrett Graham: league records are getting dusty
She stared at the message for three full seconds.
Hannah Wells: there is no league
The three dots appeared immediately.
Garrett Graham: that’s quitter talk
Garrett Graham: also logan says the whiteboard feels neglected
Hannah rolled her eyes so hard it was audible.
Hannah Wells: tell logan the whiteboard can get therapy
Garrett Graham: he says it misses you
Hannah Wells: it has never met me
Garrett Graham: it has your fangs on it. that’s basically a relationship
She made a quiet, involuntary sound that was not quite a laugh.
Allie heard it anyway.
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m grimacing.”
“Your ears are doing that thing again.”
“My ears are fine.”
Allie flopped back onto the pillows. “Just answer the man before he starts sending you pictures of the whiteboard like it’s his child.”
Hannah typed before she could talk herself out of it.
Hannah Wells: if this is your way of asking for another rematch, the answer is no
Garrett Graham: what if it’s my way of asking to review the rules
She paused.
Hannah Wells: what rules
Garrett Graham: the ones you were apparently drafting last night while wearing my hoodie
Hannah froze.
Across the room, Allie sat up again, eyes bright with unholy interest. “What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“You made a noise like someone stepped on your soul.”
Hannah ignored her and typed faster.
Hannah Wells: how do you know about that
Garrett Graham: allie told logan
Hannah slowly looked up.
Allie winced.
“In my defense,” Allie said, “I told Logan you were making a list. I did not say it was about Garrett.”
Hannah stared at her.
Allie lifted one shoulder. “He connected the dots with alarming confidence.”
Hannah closed her eyes for one long, restorative second. It did not restore her.
She looked back down at her phone.
Hannah Wells: allie is dead to me
Garrett Graham: she said you had a list
Garrett Graham: with numbers
Hannah typed with more force than necessary.
Hannah Wells: it was not a list
Garrett Graham: was it a playbook
Hannah stared. Somehow, that was worse.
Hannah Wells: it was guidelines
Garrett Graham: for what
She hesitated. Then, because she was apparently determined to make terrible decisions today, she answered.
Hannah Wells: containment
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Garrett Graham: for me?
Hannah’s thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Hannah Wells: for my peace
Garrett Graham: sounds serious
Garrett Graham: should we review them in person
Hannah stared at the screen like it had challenged her in public.
Allie leaned over to peek. “Oh no. You’re considering it.”
“I am not.”
“You’re typing like you’re down by one with thirty seconds left.”
Hannah deleted three different versions of no before settling on something that felt safer and somehow worse.
Hannah Wells: this is a bad idea
Garrett Graham: most of our ideas are
Garrett Graham: come over. we’ll make it official. rulebook review.
She could feel Allie watching her with the intensity of a nature documentary narrator.
Hannah Wells: if I come over, it is strictly for rule clarification
Garrett Graham: noted
Garrett Graham: bring the list
Hannah Wells: it is not a list
Garrett Graham: bring the playbook then
She dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned her.
Allie was grinning like Christmas had come early. “So. When are you leaving?”
“I’m not going.”
“You’re already putting on shoes.”
Hannah looked down. She was, in fact, putting on shoes.
“This is a team meeting,” she said, mostly to herself. “About boundaries. And strategy. And the responsible management of whatever this is.”
“Sure,” Allie said. “And I’m a neutral referee.”
Hannah grabbed her jacket, checked that her phone was in her pocket, and pointed at Allie on her way out the door.
“Do not tell Logan anything else.”
“I would never.”
“You already did.”
Allie’s grin widened. “Text me when the rulebook survives review.”
Hannah flipped her off without turning around.
She made it halfway down the hall before her phone buzzed again.
Garrett Graham: door’s unlocked
Garrett Graham: try not to look too excited when you get here
She stopped walking.
Hannah Wells: I hate you
Garrett Graham: you keep saying that
Garrett Graham: see you soon, wells
Hannah stared at the message for a long moment, then shoved her phone back into her pocket and kept walking.
She was simply going to review the rules.
She was not, under any circumstances, going to let Garrett Graham turn her own playbook against her.
That would be ridiculous.
She was excellent at ridiculous.
Hannah arrived at the hockey house with her phone in one hand and the Notes app open like she was walking into a team meeting she had absolutely no intention of attending voluntarily.
The list was still titled Garrett Graham Containment Plan, mostly because changing it on the walk over would have felt too much like blinking first.
The front door was unlocked, as promised. She let herself in and was immediately hit with the familiar smell of hockey gear, leftover pizza, and whatever cologne Logan had decided was a personality trait this week.
She had barely taken two steps inside when Logan appeared from the living room like he’d been waiting behind the door with a net.
“WELLSY,” he announced, loud enough that someone in the kitchen dropped a glass. “The architect of the playbook has arrived!”
Hannah stopped dead. “It is not a playbook.”
Logan’s grin was unholy. “That’s what people with secret playbooks say.”
Before she could respond, Dean rounded the corner holding a protein shake like it was a martini. He took one look at her phone and lit up with the joy of a man who had been waiting all afternoon for a reason to become everyone’s problem.
“I am once again available as an unbiased commentator,” he said solemnly.
Tucker appeared behind him, already looking exhausted. “You have never been unbiased about anything in your life.”
Dean nodded. “Correct. I said available. Not qualified.”
Garrett was leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed, watching the entire thing unfold with the lazy satisfaction of someone who had orchestrated nothing and was still somehow winning. He was in joggers and a faded Briar T-shirt, hair still damp from a shower. He looked unfairly good and far too pleased with himself.
Hannah pointed at Logan. “How do you even know about the list?”
“Allie has no loyalty,” Logan said cheerfully. “Also, I have excellent sources.”
Garrett pushed off the couch and walked toward her, slow and deliberate. “You brought the playbook.”
“It is not a playbook.”
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes. His mouth curved.
“Bring the list, then.”
She held up her phone like a shield. “This is a team meeting.”
“About rules,” he said, nodding like he was taking it very seriously. “I’m ready to be coached.”
“You’re being contained.”
“Try harder.”
From the whiteboard behind him, someone had written in Logan’s aggressive block letters:
RULEBOOK REVIEW: PENDING
Hannah stared at it.
Garrett followed her gaze, then had the audacity to look almost innocent. “I told him not to write that.”
“Did you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I thought about it.”
Dean leaned around Garrett to inspect the board. “Pending feels official. I respect it.”
“It feels invasive,” Hannah said.
Tucker nodded. “That is also accurate.”
Logan picked up a marker from the coffee table. “I was going to add Rule Four: Suspiciously Redacted, but Tucker censored me.”
“I prevented a group-chat emergency,” Tucker said.
“History will judge you.”
“History can text me later.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes at the marker. “Do not write anything else about Rule Four.”
Every single person in the room looked interested.
Garrett’s gaze slid back to her. “Rule Four?”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to listen respectfully.”
“That has never been true in your life.”
Logan slowly uncapped the marker.
Tucker took it out of his hand without looking at him.
“Survival instinct,” Tucker said.
Dean sipped his protein shake. “Strong save.”
“There is nothing to save,” Hannah said.
Dean looked at the whiteboard. “The scoreboard disagrees.”
“It is not a scoreboard.”
Logan gasped. “Don’t say that in front of her.”
“The board has no feelings.”
“The board has history.”
“It has dry-erase marker and a troubling lack of supervision.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched.
Hannah pointed at him. “Do not encourage him.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were smiling in support.”
“I support many things silently.”
“Unfortunate.”
Logan clapped his hands once, loud and final. “Alright, children. Dean and I have a very important errand that involves leaving this house immediately.”
Dean looked offended. “We do?”
“Yes,” Logan said, already herding him toward the door. “Tucker’s coming too. For moral support.”
Tucker sighed like a man who had accepted his fate years ago. “I’m not coming for moral support. I’m coming because if I stay here, I’ll have to hear whatever this is.”
“Even better,” Logan said.
He paused at the door and pointed two fingers at Hannah and Garrett. “Behave. Or don’t. I don’t actually care. Just don’t break the whiteboard. It has sentimental value.”
“It has been here for two days,” Hannah said.
“And yet it has seen more than most men.”
Dean lifted his shake in salute. “Commentary team advises discretion.”
“Commentary team can leave,” Garrett said.
Dean’s grin widened. “That sounded guilty.”
Tucker grabbed Logan by the back of his hoodie before he could say anything else and dragged him through the door. Dean followed, still looking far too pleased with himself.
The door shut behind them.
The house went quiet.
Hannah stood in the middle of the living room with her phone still raised like a weapon and Garrett watching her with open amusement. The whiteboard loomed behind him like it had joined the opposing team.
She cleared her throat. “So.”
“So,” he echoed, and the single word somehow managed to sound both innocent and filthy.
“This is just a review,” she said, mostly to herself. “Of the current… arrangement.”
“Arrangement,” he repeated, like he was testing how the word tasted. “Got it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Agreeing with me like you’re being good.”
“I am being good,” he said, and the low, pleased way he said it made something in her stomach flip. “You haven’t even read me the rules yet and I’m already following them.”
Hannah stared at him for a long second, then dropped her phone into her jacket pocket with more force than necessary.
“Bedroom,” she said. “Now. Before I change my mind about this entire thing.”
Garrett’s smile widened, slow and dangerous. “Whatever you want, Wells.”
He turned and started down the hall without looking back, like he already knew she would follow.
Hannah stood there for one more second, staring at the whiteboard like it had switched sides at the worst possible moment, then exhaled through her nose and went after him.
The hallway to Garrett’s room felt shorter than it had any right to. Three doors, a creak in the floorboards, the faint hum of the refrigerator fading behind them — and then she was standing in a room where the entire concept of “rule clarification” immediately seemed less stable.
Garrett’s bedroom was exactly what Hannah expected and somehow worse for it.
Clean enough to be suspicious. One hockey bag shoved into the corner. A couple of hoodies thrown over the back of a chair like they were trying to look casual and failing. A desk with a laptop, an abandoned water bottle, and a roll of athletic tape sitting beside a stack of textbooks he had probably opened at least once for atmosphere. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in just enough late-afternoon light to make the room feel smaller than it was.
And the bed.
The bed looked like it knew too much and had chosen silence.
Hannah stopped in the middle of the room with her arms crossed and her phone still in her pocket like a weapon she wasn’t ready to draw yet.
Behind her, Garrett closed the door with a soft click. It wasn’t a slam or anything dramatic, just quiet enough to make the room feel smaller and more dangerous.
Worse, he made it look natural, like he already knew exactly how this was going to go.
“Sit,” she said.
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.
“On the bed,” she clarified.
His mouth twitched. “Starting strong.”
“I am starting structured.”
“Right. Very different.”
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress, hands braced on either side of his thighs, knees spread slightly. He looked up at her from beneath damp hair, the corner of his mouth still tilted like he had already found this meeting’s weak point.
Hannah refused to be the weak point.
She took one steadying breath, pulled out her phone, and opened the Notes app.
Garrett leaned forward like he was settling in for film review. “Do I need a pen?”
“No.”
“Should I stretch?”
“Also no.”
“Hydrate?”
“Garrett.”
“Sorry. I take team meetings seriously.”
“You have never taken anything seriously in your life.”
“I’m taking this seriously.”
She looked up.
He looked back, and the worst part was that he might actually have meant it.
No. Absolutely not.
Hannah looked down at the phone before his face could become a problem.
“First,” she said, “this is not a rulebook.”
Garrett nodded gravely. “Important opening note.”
“It is a short, private list of behavioral guidelines.”
“How short?”
“That is not relevant.”
“How private?”
“Less private than it was before Allie committed treason.”
“That’s fair.”
“And it is designed for containment.”
“Of me.”
“For my peace.”
“That feels less flattering.”
“It was not meant to flatter you.”
“And yet.”
She looked at him.
He smiled.
She scrolled to the top of the note.
“Guideline One,” she read. “Do not answer texts containing the words league, rematch, hoodie, review, or please.”
Garrett’s brows lifted. “You answered all of those.”
“That is not the point.”
“It feels relevant to the stats.”
“There are no stats.”
“Logan would disagree.”
“Logan also thinks the whiteboard has emotional needs.”
Garrett nodded. “True.”
“Guideline Two,” she said, louder. “Do not reward smugness.”
Garrett immediately looked smug.
Hannah pointed at him. “That. That is exactly the face.”
“This is my review face.”
“Your review face is why the guideline exists.”
“I’m honored.”
“You’re regulated.”
“I thought I was contained.”
“You are both.”
“Multidimensional.”
“Do not sound proud of that.”
“I’m proud of a lot of things.”
“Guideline Two is going terribly.”
Garrett pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile. It did not help.
Hannah looked back at her phone. “Guideline Three. Avoid situations in which Garrett Graham is damp, shirtless, wearing joggers, leaning against doorframes, or using the word please.”
Garrett glanced down at himself. Joggers. Damp hair. Doorframe recently abused.
His smile spread slowly. “So I’m already in violation.”
“You are a walking violation.”
“Feels personal.”
“It is.”
He sat back on his hands. The movement pulled his T-shirt tighter across his chest, which was extremely unnecessary and probably intentional.
Hannah narrowed her eyes. “Are you flexing?”
“No.”
“That was very fast.”
“I know my truth.”
“Your truth is suspiciously fitted cotton.”
Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound moved through the quiet room in a way she did not appreciate.
“Guideline Four,” she said.
Garrett’s expression sharpened. Of course it did.
“Ah,” he said. “The redacted one.”
“It is not redacted.”
“You got very tense.”
“I did not.”
“You’re holding the phone tighter.”
“Maybe the phone deserves it.”
“What did the phone do?”
“Enabled communication.”
“Fair.”
She looked down at the screen. Then immediately regretted having written the guideline in the first place.
“Guideline Four,” she read, forcing her voice flat, “avoid situations in which Garrett Graham is shirtless, damp, or using the word please in a tone that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Silence. Awful, loaded silence.
Garrett looked at her.
Hannah looked at the phone.
The room became roughly eight hundred degrees.
Finally, Garrett said, “That’s a very specific tone.”
“It is a known tone.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Could you demonstrate?”
Her eyes snapped up. “No.”
“For clarity.”
“I will throw this phone at you.”
He smiled. “So the tone works.”
“It does not.”
“Then why is it in Guideline Four?”
“Because you abuse it.”
“I haven’t said it once since you got here.”
“You are saving it.”
“For when?”
“For a critical moment.”
Garrett leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes bright with the kind of focus that made Hannah suspect she had just drawn a target on her own forehead.
“Well,” he said softly. “Now I’m curious.”
“Curiosity is not part of the review.”
“It should be.”
“I’m not taking suggestions.”
“Feels closed-minded.”
“It’s containment. It’s supposed to be closed.”
His gaze dipped, just briefly, to her mouth. Then back up.
Hannah’s pulse did something stupid.
She scrolled too fast and nearly dropped the phone.
Garrett’s mouth curved.
“Do not comment.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask about Guideline Five.”
“Liar.”
“Interested liar.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Guideline Five. Do not create new guidelines while actively violating existing guidelines.”
Garrett looked around the room, then back at her. “How’s that going?”
“Poorly.”
“Appreciate the honesty.”
“Do not.”
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
They both looked at it.
Garrett did not move.
It buzzed again.
Hannah narrowed her eyes. “Is that Logan?”
“Probably.”
“Why is your phone allowed in this meeting?”
“I live here.”
“Not a good enough reason.”
The phone buzzed a third time.
Garrett reached for it, but Hannah stepped forward and snatched it off the nightstand before he could.
His eyebrows lifted. “Confiscation?”
“Game management.”
“Is game management in the playbook?”
“It is now.”
She looked down.
Logan had sent a photo. Of course he had.
The whiteboard had been updated.
RULEBOOK REVIEW: IN PROGRESS
GARRETT COMPLIANCE RATING: TBD
HANNAH THREAT LEVEL: ELEVATED
HOODIE STATUS: STILL STOLEN
RULE FOUR: EMOTIONALLY SUSPICIOUS
COMMENTARY TEAM: TEMPORARILY REMOVED FROM PREMISES
Beneath that, in smaller handwriting, Dean had added:
DO NOT ANSWER. WE ARE TRYING TO GIVE YOU PRIVACY. BADLY.
Under that, Tucker had written:
I HATE THIS HOUSE.
Hannah stared at the screen.
Garrett leaned just enough to see.
“You know,” he said, “for people who left to avoid hearing this, they’re doing a lot of active monitoring.”
“Your friends are a surveillance state with pizza.”
“Mostly Logan.”
“Dean is complicit.”
“Dean likes a bit.”
“Tucker should unionize.”
Garrett nodded. “He’s mentioned it.”
Hannah locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed behind him. “No more outside communication.”
“Coach Wells.”
“Do not make that sound like a fantasy.”
He paused.
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled slowly.
“Oh,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it very loudly.”
“I support many things silently.”
“You used that downstairs.”
“It still applies.”
Hannah tucked her own phone into her jacket pocket, then shrugged the jacket off and dropped it over the back of his desk chair. She needed both hands free. For authority. Not because Garrett was sitting on the edge of his bed looking at her like the review had finally reached the practical portion. Definitely not that.
“Okay,” she said. “Ground rules.”
“Guidelines,” he corrected.
Her eyes narrowed. “Do not start.”
“I’m participating.”
“You’re interrupting.”
“I’m clarifying.”
“You’re annoying me on purpose.”
“That too.”
She stood between his knees and looked down at him.
He looked up.
The air between them tightened.
She had written the guidelines assuming Garrett would push. Break. Rush. Give her something to correct. Instead, he was sitting exactly where she’d put him, hands still braced on the mattress, breathing slow, eyes steady, making obedience feel like a dare she was already losing.
That was not how rules were supposed to work.
“First,” she said, “this is a one-time review.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. “Review.”
“Yes.”
“Of the rules.”
“Guidelines.”
His smile spread slowly. “So they are guidelines.”
Hannah looked up. “I will leave.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“Okay.”
She stared at him.
He looked back, maddeningly calm. He hadn’t said it like a challenge. He’d said it like he actually believed her. Like if she walked out right now, he would just let her.
Which was annoying. And inconvenient. And not the point.
“We review,” she said. “We clarify. We’re done.”
“Done,” he echoed, and somehow made the word sound filthy.
Hannah pointed one finger at him. “Do not make vocabulary weird.”
“I’m sitting quietly.”
“You are sitting quietly with intent.”
“That feels hard to prove.”
“I don’t need proof. I have instincts.”
“Your instincts brought you here.”
She looked at him.
Garrett’s mouth curved.
Hannah hated him. Professionally.
“Second,” she said, moving on because it felt safer, “I’m in charge of the pace. You don’t get to rush or escalate without asking.”
“Asking nicely,” he added.
She shot him a look.
He held both hands up, innocent and useless. “Just making sure I understand the system.”
“Yes. Asking nicely.”
“Got it.”
“Third…” She hesitated for half a second, then forced herself through it. “No kissing on the mouth.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then came back up. The silence after felt unnecessarily personal.
Hannah lifted her chin. “Problem?”
“No.”
“You have a face.”
“I’ve been told.”
“It’s a problem face.”
“It’s my thinking face.”
“Try not to strain anything.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t argue. He just nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“No kissing on the mouth,” he repeated.
The way he said it made her stomach tighten. Which was rude, because it had been her rule.
She powered on. “And if at any point one of us wants to stop, we stop. No arguing. No pushing.”
“Obviously.”
“Good.”
His expression shifted for half a second — clear, immediate. “Always.”
Hannah looked away because looking at him while he was being reasonable was bad for morale.
“Good,” she repeated. “Then we’re clear.”
“We’re clear.”
She waited for him to do something. Move. Smirk. Break the tension.
He did none of that.
He just sat there, watching her. Waiting. Like he really was going to let her run this.
It was infuriating.
Hannah stepped closer until there was barely a foot between them. “Stay there.”
Garrett’s gaze lifted. “On the bed?”
“Yes.”
“Hands?”
“Where they are.”
His fingers flexed against the mattress, then stilled.
No joke. No argument. He simply obeyed.
The restraint should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like he had found a secret level in a game she had invented.
For a second, she just looked at him — damp hair, stupidly good jawline, faded Briar T-shirt pulling across his chest when he breathed. He looked unfairly comfortable. She wanted to ruin that.
Instead, she reached for the hem of the hoodie she was wearing and pulled it over her head in one motion.
Garrett’s gaze dropped to her tank top. Then back up. He didn’t say anything. He just waited.
Somehow, silence had become his most offensive quality.
Hannah dropped the hoodie on the floor. “No comments about the hoodie.”
Garrett pressed his lips together.
She pointed at him. “That includes silent comments.”
His eyes flicked to the hoodie on the floor, then back to her. He nodded once. Still silent. Still obeying. Horrible.
The house felt different without the guys in it. Not empty exactly — the hockey house was too cluttered, too lived-in, too permanently half-loud for that — but muted. The kind of quiet that made every small sound feel intimate: the rustle of her jacket hitting the chair, Garrett’s breath when she stepped closer, the soft buzz of a phone that neither of them was supposed to be thinking about.
Downstairs, Logan’s whiteboard was still turning this into a spectator sport. Up here, Garrett was sitting on the edge of his bed with his hands exactly where she’d told him to keep them.
Somehow the privacy was worse.
Hannah climbed into his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips, and lowered herself onto his thighs. Garrett’s hands stayed on the bed beside him. Not touching. Not moving.
She leaned in until her mouth was close to his ear. “You can touch my waist. Over the shirt. That’s it.”
His hands came up immediately. Warm. Steady. Careful. They settled just above her hips like she had given him a gift instead of an order. His thumbs brushed lightly against her ribs through the thin fabric.
“Good,” she said. Her voice came out lower than she meant it to.
The room was too quiet. She could hear every shift of fabric, every change in his breathing. It made the whole thing feel more deliberate than it had any right to.
Garrett’s fingers flexed once. Barely. She noticed anyway.
She kissed the side of his neck, slow and deliberate, and felt him exhale against her shoulder. His hands stayed exactly where she’d put them. No wandering. No pushing. No smug little attempt to test the line.
It should have been satisfying. Instead, it was starting to feel like a trap.
She kissed lower, along the edge of his collarbone. Garrett’s head tipped back slightly, giving her more room. His hands stayed at her waist, careful and still, making compliance look athletic.
Hannah pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker now, but his expression was calm. Patient. Almost too patient.
“You’re being very good,” she said. It came out more like an accusation than praise.
“I’m following instructions,” he said simply.
“That’s the problem.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “You want me to be bad?”
“I want you to stop making this easy.”
“I can be difficult if you want.” His voice dropped, low and easy. “Just say the word.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes.
Then she slid one hand into his hair and tugged, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make his head tip back another fraction.
“No talking unless I ask you a question,” she said.
Garrett’s mouth opened.
Hannah lifted a finger.
He closed it again, visibly pleased with himself for obeying. Somehow that was worse.
“See?” she muttered. “This is what I mean.”
She kissed his neck again, then lower, taking her time because she could. Because he was letting her. Because she had made a rule and he was following it, and apparently that was going to be her villain origin story.
His breathing changed when she scraped her teeth lightly beneath his jaw. Not much. Enough.
Hannah smiled against his skin, then immediately resented him for making her smile.
She shifted in his lap, testing the contact. His thighs were warm and firm beneath her. The movement dragged her against him just enough to make Garrett’s breath catch. His hands did not move.
She did it again, slower this time. His fingers flexed against her sides like they were trying to talk him into something stupid. He did not listen.
Hannah pulled back, breathing harder than she should have been. “Still good?”
Garrett looked at her and stayed silent, clearly waiting for instructions.
Right. No talking unless asked a question. Annoying.
“That was a question,” she snapped.
His mouth curved. “Still following instructions.”
She put her mouth back on his throat, harder this time, partly to shut him up and partly because the low rumble that moved through him when she did it felt like points on a scoreboard.
His hand slid up her back. Still over her shirt. Still allowed. Still careful. The other stayed at her waist, steady and warm and completely obedient.
Hannah stopped.
Garrett stopped too. Of course he did.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“Being perfect.”
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “You told me to be good.”
“I didn’t tell you to be this good.”
“You didn’t tell me not to be.”
She stared at him.
There it was. The problem. Not Garrett breaking the rules. Garrett following them so precisely that she wanted to throw the rulebook at his head. If she had brought a rulebook. Which she had not. Because again: insane.
She drew in a breath and tried to recover whatever authority she had left. It wasn’t much. It was mostly tank top, stubbornness, and the Notes app.
“New clarification,” she said.
Garrett’s eyes sharpened. “Yeah?”
“You’re not allowed to kiss me on the mouth,” she repeated, like saying it again would make it feel less stupid. “But everywhere else is fine.”
Garrett went very still.
For one perfect second, she had the satisfaction of watching the words land. His gaze dropped to her throat. Then lower. Then back to her face.
“Everywhere else,” he said.
Hannah swallowed.
“That was not a question,” she said.
“No,” he agreed, voice rougher now. “Just confirming the play.”
Of course. Of course he would make the loophole sound like strategy.
She lifted her chin. “Confirmed.”
He nodded once.
Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, slow and deliberate. Not her mouth. Not breaking the rule. Just ruining it from the inside.
Hannah’s eyes closed before she could stop them.
Terrible. Absolutely terrible.
She had created a loophole with cheekbones.
Garrett’s mouth was still on her neck when Hannah realized she had made a catastrophic error in rule design.
She had banned kissing on the mouth.
She had not banned Garrett Graham from being annoying with geography.
And Garrett, being Garrett, had immediately located the loophole and driven a truck through it.
He kissed down the side of her throat with slow, deliberate pressure, then lower, along the slope of her shoulder where her tank top had slipped. His hands stayed exactly where she had allowed them — one on her waist, one on her back — but his mouth was doing things that felt deeply unsportsmanlike under the current guidelines.
Hannah’s head tipped back before she could stop it.
“New clarification,” she said, voice tighter than she wanted. “Mouth is fine. But no teeth unless I say.”
Garrett lifted his head just enough to look at her. His mouth was slightly red. His eyes were darker than they had any right to be.
“No teeth unless you say,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He leaned back in and pressed his mouth to the same spot, all warmth and restraint and absolutely no teeth. Somehow, that was worse.
Hannah made a frustrated sound.
She felt him smile against her skin.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“Obeying the rule and cheating anyway.”
His hands flexed on her waist. “You didn’t say anything about shortcuts.”
“I’m saying it now.”
“Too late,” he murmured, kissing the spot again, slower this time. “I already found one.”
Hannah closed her eyes and tried to remember why she had thought this was a good idea. Right. Strategy. Control. Dignity. All concepts currently struggling for ice time.
She rocked her hips forward again, chasing friction, and Garrett’s breath hitched against her collarbone. His hands stayed exactly where they were, which should have been reassuring and instead made her want to rewrite the entire plan out of spite.
“You’re very committed to following directions,” she said.
His mouth moved over her shoulder. “You sound upset about it.”
“I’m evaluating.”
“You do that a lot.”
“Someone has to.”
He kissed the curve where her neck met her shoulder again, still careful, still controlled, and Hannah’s fingers tightened in his hair.
Garrett went still. Just for half a second. Enough.
She tugged again, just lightly, and watched his throat move. There. There was the crack in the composure. Tiny. Satisfying. Not enough.
“New rule,” she said.
Garrett made a low sound that might have been a laugh. “Another one?”
“You don’t get to come until I say so.”
His eyes flicked up to hers. Darker now. Less amused.
“Already established.”
“And you have to ask nicely if you want me to keep touching you.”
He was quiet for one second.
Then he said, very calmly, “Please keep touching me.”
The politeness in his voice did something deeply unfair to her pulse.
Hannah stared at him.
Garrett stared back. No smirk this time, no obvious tease tucked into the corner of his mouth — just Garrett sitting beneath her, careful and visibly affected, pretending obedience was not costing him anything.
Awful. Terrible. Entirely effective.
She reached down between them and wrapped her hand around him through his joggers. Garrett’s jaw tightened, but he did not move. Did not push up into her palm. Did not take more than she gave. He simply sat there and let her touch him exactly how she wanted.
Which, again, should have felt like winning. Instead, it felt like he had somehow turned her own victory lap into a conditioning drill.
She stroked him slowly, watching his face. His hands flexed on her waist. His breathing changed. His eyes stayed on hers.
Hannah’s stomach tightened.
“Still good?” she asked.
His mouth curved faintly. “Still following instructions.”
“Stop sounding proud of yourself.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Her rhythm faltered.
Garrett noticed immediately. Of course he did.
Hannah narrowed her eyes. “That was not part of the play.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re the one making me ask nicely while sitting in my lap wearing my hoodie five minutes after claiming this was a review.”
“That was a lot of words for someone under regulation.”
His grin flashed, quick and devastating. “I thought I was being contained.”
“You are.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
She tightened her grip.
Garrett’s answer disappeared into a rough inhale. Better. Much better.
Hannah stroked him again, slower this time, and felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction when his head tipped back a fraction. The line of his throat stretched in front of her. His chest rose and fell faster now, not much, but enough for her to know the restraint was costing him. Good. She wanted it to.
“You’re allowed to make noise,” she said.
His laugh came out low and strained. “That might be a mistake.”
“Do it anyway.”
He did.
Quiet, rough sounds every time her hand moved just right, and every single one went straight to her head. It should have felt like power. Instead, it felt like she was the one being edged. Deeply unfair.
Garrett’s phone buzzed behind him.
They both froze.
The phone buzzed again.
Hannah looked over his shoulder toward where it lay on the bed.
Garrett’s breathing was uneven, his hands still on her waist, his pupils blown wide.
“Ignore it,” he said.
“It might be important.”
“It’s Logan.”
“That might be important in a very stupid way.”
“Hannah.”
Oh, that was not fair. Her name in that voice, rough and strained and far too close to pleading, made her fingers tighten around him again by accident.
Garrett’s hips shifted. Barely. Still enough.
Hannah smiled. Then she let go and reached for the phone.
Garrett made a pained sound. “That was cruel.”
“That was game management.”
“That was sabotage.”
“That was consequences.”
She grabbed his phone from the mattress and looked at the screen. Another photo. Another whiteboard update. Because Logan had apparently decided that privacy was a myth and friendship meant documentary access.
The board now read:
RULEBOOK REVIEW: STILL IN PROGRESS
GARRETT COMPLIANCE RATING: SUSPICIOUSLY HIGH
HANNAH THREAT LEVEL: HAIR? UNKNOWN
HOODIE STATUS: PROBABLY STILL STOLEN
RULE FOUR: PLEASE????
COMMENTARY TEAM: IN EXILE
Underneath, in Dean’s handwriting:
I HAVE BEEN INFORMED WE ARE “NOT HELPING.” I DISAGREE.
Then Tucker:
WE ARE ABSOLUTELY NOT HELPING.
Hannah stared.
Garrett leaned forward and rested his forehead against her shoulder, shaking with silent laughter. His hands stayed exactly where she had told them to stay. Even now. Even laughing. Even hard under her.
The man was a nightmare.
“Your friends,” she said, voice faint, “are a group project that no one has taken leadership on.”
Garrett laughed harder against her shoulder.
She shoved his phone back onto the bed. “No more updates.”
“Agreed.”
“If that board gets one more category, I’m burning it.”
“Logan would mourn.”
“He’d recover.”
Garrett lifted his head. His face was still flushed, eyes still dark, laughter still caught at the edges of his mouth.
“You know,” he said, “for someone who keeps saying this is a review, you’re really bad at staying on agenda.”
Hannah stared at him. Then she smiled. Not nicely.
Garrett’s laughter stopped. Good.
“Shirt off,” she said.
He obeyed immediately, pulling his T-shirt over his head and dropping it somewhere behind him.
Hannah’s brain short-circuited for one extremely inconvenient second. Because of course he looked like that. Of course he had shoulders like a structural problem. Of course the late-afternoon light caught on the hard lines of his chest and made him look like he had been designed specifically to ruin meetings.
She forced herself to focus.
“Hands stay on my waist or back,” she said. “Nowhere else unless I move them.”
“Understood.”
“You’re enjoying that word.”
“I’m enjoying a lot of things.”
“Garrett.”
His mouth pressed shut. Silent again. Obedient again.
Hannah hated that she liked it.
She pulled her own tank top off and dropped it on top of his shirt. Garrett’s eyes dropped to her bra, then came back up to her face. He didn’t say anything. He just waited.
His hands twitched once at her waist like instinct had gotten ahead of him, but he didn’t move them.
Hannah reached behind herself and unhooked her bra. The fabric slid loose.
Garrett’s gaze went sharp. His fingers flexed hard against her sides. Still, he didn’t touch more than she had allowed.
She should have been triumphant. She was mostly annoyed.
“You’re allowed to react,” she said.
He looked up at her. “I am reacting.”
“You’re being too quiet about it.”
His mouth curved. “You told me not to talk unless asked a question.”
She stared at him.
He stared back, eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like victory.
Hannah made a decision. A bad one, probably. A very on-brand one.
She took one of his hands from her waist and moved it higher, placing it over her breast herself.
Garrett’s breath caught. His palm was warm. Careful. Infuriatingly still.
Hannah’s voice came out thinner than she wanted. “There. Approved.”
His thumb moved once, slow and deliberate.
Her whole body tightened.
Garrett noticed. Naturally. He said nothing. Which was so much worse than if he had gloated.
Hannah leaned in and put her mouth against his throat again, then lower, across his collarbone. His skin was warm beneath her lips, and he smelled like soap and clean sweat and Garrett, which was not a scent category she intended to acknowledge in any official capacity.
She kissed lower.
Garrett’s hand stayed where she had put it, thumb brushing again, then circling with maddening patience.
She scraped her teeth lightly over his nipple and felt his entire body tense beneath her. His hand tightened on her breast. Finally. The sound he made was low and rough and entirely too satisfying.
“There,” she murmured against his skin. “That sounded honest.”
Garrett huffed something that might have been a laugh if his breathing had been more reliable.
She did it again, slower.
This time his hips shifted beneath her. Barely. A reflex more than a choice. Still enough.
Hannah lifted her head.
Garrett froze. His hand stilled immediately. The other stayed on her back. He was breathing harder now, mouth slightly parted, eyes dark and fixed on her face.
He was waiting for her to call the penalty. He was actually waiting. Ridiculous. Obnoxious. Hotter than it had any right to be.
“You moved,” she said.
His jaw worked. “I did.”
“That wasn’t in the guidelines.”
“No.”
“Anything to say for yourself?”
He swallowed.
Then, because he was apparently determined to murder her with manners, he said, “Please don’t make me stop.”
The word landed exactly where he meant it to.
Hannah’s pulse went stupid. Absolutely stupid.
She stared at him for half a second too long.
Garrett’s mouth twitched. Not a smirk. Worse. A tiny, controlled hint of victory.
She gripped his hair again and tugged. “You are abusing Rule Four.”
“You haven’t told me Rule Four.”
“You know enough.”
“I know please works.”
“It does not.”
“Okay.”
“You are not allowed to agree with me when we both know you’re lying.”
His laugh broke loose then, quiet and rough, and the warmth of it moved through her before she could stop it.
This was supposed to be control. This was supposed to be containment. This was starting to feel less like containment and more like she had handed him a map with all the weak spots circled.
She needed to reassert herself. Immediately.
Hannah shifted in his lap, pressing down just enough to make both of them inhale sharply. Garrett’s hands stayed on her. Allowed. Careful. Dangerous.
She did it again.
His eyes fluttered for half a second before he forced them open. Good. Better.
“New clarification,” she said.
His voice was rough. “Yeah?”
“You can move your hands.”
His gaze sharpened.
“But only if you ask first.”
He swallowed. “Can I move my hands?”
“Where?”
His eyes moved over her face, then down her body, then back up.
“Anywhere you’ll let me.”
The answer was so unfairly effective that she almost forgot to be smug. Almost.
Hannah nodded once, quick and reckless. “Fine. But don’t you dare think this means you’re winning.”
Garrett’s hands slid up her back, slow and devastating.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.
Which was how Hannah knew, with absolute certainty, that Garrett Graham was about to ruin every rule she had left.
Garrett’s hands were moving now.
Not rushing. Not taking over. Just sliding up her back, then down again, slow and deliberate, like he was learning the shape of her under his palms. One hand stayed at her waist while the other traced the line of her spine, and Hannah could feel the shift in the air between them.
The rules were no longer protecting her dignity. Which was rude, because that had been their primary function.
She braced her hands on his shoulders and started to move again, slower this time, testing. He dragged inside her with every roll of her hips, thick and hot and exactly where she wanted him. Garrett’s hands followed the motion of her body — up her spine, down to the dip of her waist, then lower, gripping her ass with just enough pressure to steady her without directing the pace.
She could feel how carefully he was holding himself back.
It was driving her insane.
She leaned in and kissed the side of his neck, open-mouthed and messy, then scraped her teeth over the same spot. Garrett made a low sound in his throat, but his hips stayed still beneath her. His hands flexed, fingers digging in just a fraction harder.
“New rule,” she breathed against his skin.
“Yeah?”
“You can touch me,” she said. “But you still don’t get to fuck me until I say so.”
His hands tightened.
“Okay,” he said.
The answer came too easily. Too obediently. Like he knew obedience was worse.
Hannah pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, mouth slightly parted, composure fraying around the edges. He looked wrecked already, and she’d barely let him do anything.
Good.
Victory, Hannah was discovering, had a disturbing number of side effects.
She rolled her hips again, slower, deeper, and watched his jaw clench. One of his hands slid up her side and cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple in a slow, deliberate circle. The other stayed on her ass, squeezing in time with her movements.
Hannah’s breath hitched.
“Still good?” she asked, voice tighter than she wanted.
Garrett’s thumb kept moving. “Still following instructions.”
She hated how much she liked that answer.
She braced one hand on his chest and reached between them with the other, rubbing herself in tight circles as she rode him. The angle was perfect. Every time she sank down, he hit that spot inside her that made her thighs shake. Garrett’s hand on her breast tightened, and his other hand slid lower, fingers brushing where they were joined like he wanted to feel her touching herself.
“Don’t,” she warned, even as her hips stuttered.
“I’m not,” he said, voice rough. “Just watching.”
Of course he was. Of course Garrett Graham could turn watching into a participation sport.
She should have told him to stop looking at her like that. Instead, she kept touching herself, kept riding him, kept chasing the orgasm building fast and sharp at the base of her spine.
Garrett’s hand flexed on her ass. “You look good like this.”
“Shut up.”
“You do.” His thumb brushed her nipple again. “Using me. Taking what you want.”
Her rhythm faltered.
She glared at him, but it was weak and they both knew it.
He smiled, small and devastating. “Still in charge?”
“Shut up,” she said again, but it came out breathless.
Garrett’s mouth brushed her collarbone. “You’re sweating through the playbook.”
“That is not a real sports phrase.”
“No,” he said, mouth moving lower, “but you knew what I meant.”
She did. Unfortunately.
She was close. So fucking close. Her thighs were burning, her hand between her legs moving faster, and Garrett was just letting her use him, hands roaming but never taking over, mouth occasionally brushing her collarbone or the curve of her breast when she leaned forward.
It was too much. It was exactly enough.
She came with a sharp, broken sound, clenching hard around him. Her whole body shook with it. Garrett’s hands tightened on her — one on her hip, one on her back — holding her steady as she rode it out, but he didn’t thrust up into her. He just let her grind down on him through the aftershocks, breathing hard against her shoulder.
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was their breathing.
When the tremors finally eased, Hannah slumped forward, forehead pressed to his. She was panting, still shaking slightly.
He stayed hard inside her, still waiting, still obeying.
Garrett was flushed and breathing hard, eyes dark and fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room. His hands were still on her — one on her hip, one at her back, careful now. His jaw was tight. His restraint was visible in every line of him.
The man was obscene. Politely.
She swallowed.
“New rule,” she managed, voice hoarse.
His mouth twitched. “Another one?”
“You can come.” She swallowed again. “But only if you ask nicely.”
Garrett let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh.
“Please,” he said, low and rough. “Can I come?”
The word please in that voice should have been a league violation.
Hannah nodded once. “Yes.”
His hands tightened on her hips like the whistle had finally blown. He thrust up into her once, deep and desperate, then again, and again — three hard, perfect strokes — and came with a low, broken groan against her neck. She felt every pulse of it inside her, felt the way his whole body went tense and then loose beneath her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Hannah stayed slumped against his chest, breathing hard, his hands still on her hips, his heartbeat hammering against her ribs. His thumbs moved absently over her skin, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
She should move. She should get off him. Get dressed. Reassert control.
Instead, she stayed exactly where she was, forehead pressed to his shoulder, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.
Garrett’s hand slid slowly up her back. Not demanding. Just there.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She made a vague noise against his skin that could have meant anything.
He huffed a soft laugh. “I’m taking that as a positive review.”
“Shut up.”
His hand kept moving, slow and soothing, up and down her spine. She hated how nice it felt. Hated that she wasn’t telling him to stop.
The quiet stretched around them. Late-afternoon light had shifted lower through the blinds, striping the wall and the pile of hoodies over his chair. Somewhere downstairs, the old house creaked, then settled. The whiteboard was waiting in the living room with Logan’s stupid categories. Her phone was probably still in her jacket pocket. The playbook was technically still open for revision.
None of that explained why Garrett’s thumb moving against her back felt like a bigger problem than anything that had just happened.
After another few seconds, she finally pushed herself upright. Her thighs protested. Her whole body felt loose and shaky and thoroughly used.
Garrett looked up at her, flushed and wrecked and far too pleased with himself.
“Don’t look so smug,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being reviewed.”
“You’re enjoying being reviewed.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain problems.”
His smile deepened. “Still on the roster, though.”
“Temporarily.”
“Sounds like hope.”
“Sounds like probation.”
“Still sounds temporary.”
Hannah climbed off him before she could think too hard about it. Her legs were unsteady when she stood. She reached for her clothes on autopilot, pulling her underwear and leggings back on with shaky hands.
Garrett stayed on the bed, watching her. He hadn’t moved to get dressed yet. Just sat there, bare-chested and satisfied, like he had all the time in the world.
Which was presumptuous — and, unfortunately, probably accurate.
She yanked her tank top on and grabbed the hoodie from the floor without thinking. His hoodie. Again.
Garrett’s mouth twitched when she pulled it over her head.
“Don’t say anything,” she warned.
“I didn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think a lot of things.”
She pointed at him. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Okay.”
“I’m still in charge of the playbook.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay like that.”
He smiled, small and real. “Okay.”
Hannah stared at him for another second, then turned and walked out of the room before she could do something stupid like crawl back into his lap and start all over again.
She made it four steps down the hall before Garrett’s voice followed her.
“Final review notes?”
Hannah stopped.
She should have kept walking.
She did not.
Mistake.
She turned around slowly. Garrett had pulled his joggers back on but not his shirt. His hair was a disaster. His mouth was swollen. He was leaning in the bedroom doorway like a man who had absolutely no respect for review procedures or shirt ownership.
“Needs improvement,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted. “Improvement.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” His mouth curved. “Because I remember you saying—”
“Do not quote me during post-game analysis.”
“So there is post-game analysis.”
“There is a complaint box.”
“Where?”
“In hell.”
Garrett laughed, warm and low, and Hannah hated how much she liked making him do that when no one else was there to hear it.
He stepped into the hallway, still keeping distance between them. “What’s my compliance rating?”
“Unclear.”
“Unclear?”
“You followed the rules in a way that felt hostile.”
“So high marks?”
“Probation.”
“That sounds temporary.”
“It is if you behave.”
“Isn’t behaving what got me in trouble?”
Hannah opened her mouth. Closed it. Pointed at him instead. “That is exactly the kind of loophole behavior currently under review.”
Garrett’s smile widened. “So follow-up session?”
“No.”
“Quality control?”
“No.”
“Appeal?”
“No.”
“Best of seven?”
“Absolutely not.”
He looked at her for a long second, eyes bright, mouth still tilted in that way that made the whole hallway feel too narrow.
Then he said, very softly, “Please?”
Hannah’s entire body betrayed her. Not visibly. Probably.
Garrett’s smile turned lethal.
She pointed down the hall. “You are not allowed to weaponize Rule Four after review has concluded.”
“Then when am I allowed to weaponize it?”
“Never.”
“That seems unrealistic.”
“You are bad for team morale.”
“I thought I was the team.”
“You are the problem.”
“Still on the roster, though.”
“Under disciplinary watch.”
He looked far too pleased by that.
Hannah turned before she could smile.
“You’re leaving with my hoodie again,” Garrett called.
She looked down. She was. Of course she was.
The sleeves covered half her hands. The hem fell low over her leggings. It smelled like soap and him and the collapse of every good decision she had tried to make this afternoon.
She looked back over her shoulder. “Inventory management.”
“That defense is getting worse.”
“Then stop providing inventory.”
He leaned against the doorframe, shirtless and smug and unfairly pretty in the hallway light. “I didn’t provide that one. You picked it up off the floor.”
“Equipment transfer.”
“Not a real sports phrase.”
“No,” she said, echoing him, “but you knew what I meant.”
Garrett’s eyes warmed.
Hannah immediately decided she had won that exchange and needed to leave before the scoreboard changed.
She made it all the way to the living room.
The whiteboard waited. Of course it did.
Hannah stopped in front of it.
The words RULEBOOK REVIEW: STILL IN PROGRESS stared back at her in Logan’s aggressive handwriting. Beneath it, someone had added a new line.
OUTCOME: UNKNOWN
Hannah looked around the empty living room.
Then she picked up the marker.
She crossed out UNKNOWN and wrote:
HANNAH: WINNING
There. Accurate. Necessary. Historic.
Behind her, Garrett said, “Tampering with the board?”
Hannah did not jump. Much.
She turned. He was at the edge of the hallway now, shirt finally back on but hair still wrecked, which honestly did not help his case.
“I’m correcting the record.”
“What record?”
“The one where I’m winning.”
His gaze dropped to the hoodie she was still wearing. Then to the marker in her hand. Then back to her face.
“Strong case.”
“Thank you.”
“Counterpoint.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I can feel it being annoying.”
He stepped closer, stopping just far enough away that she could pretend he was not doing it on purpose.
“You left wearing my hoodie,” he said.
“I won it.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“What was the event?”
“Endurance.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Did I lose that one too?”
“Astonishingly.”
He gave her a slow, considering look that made her pulse make several poor choices in a row.
“Good to know.”
Hannah pointed the marker at him. “Do not make that sound like a rematch category.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say you look good in it.”
The words landed softer than she wanted. Worse, they landed well.
Hannah looked down at the marker because looking at him was clearly unsafe.
“Unnecessary commentary.”
“Accurate commentary.”
“Still unnecessary.”
“Noted.”
She put the marker down and headed for the door with as much dignity as possible, which was difficult because her legs still felt like they were operating on borrowed funding.
Garrett followed at a distance. Not crowding. Not touching. Just close enough that she knew he was there.
At the front door, she turned back. “No more texts tonight.”
Garrett’s brows lifted.
“I mean it.”
“Okay.”
“Not okay like that.”
“I only have one okay.”
“You absolutely do not.”
His smile flickered. “Okay.”
Hannah stared at him.
He stared back.
There was no audience now. No Logan. No Dean. No whiteboard commentary except the evidence of her own handwriting declaring victory across the room. That should have helped. It did not.
“Goodnight, Graham,” she said.
“Goodnight, Wells.”
She stepped outside before he could say anything else. Before he could say please. Before she could ask him to.
The door shut behind her.
She made it down the porch steps before her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She closed her eyes. No. Absolutely not.
She pulled it out.
Garrett Graham: final review note
Hannah stared at the screen.
Then typed back with her thumb while still standing under the porch light in his hoodie.
Hannah Wells: review is closed
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Garrett Graham: rule four needs more field testing
Hannah’s pulse did something stupid.
Hannah Wells: rule four is retired
A pause.
Then:
Garrett Graham: please?
One word. Six letters. No tone attached. Somehow, she heard it anyway.
Hannah stood very still.
Behind her, the hockey house glowed warm and loud and terrible through the windows. Somewhere inside, Garrett Graham was probably standing in the doorway looking smug enough to deserve consequences. The hoodie sleeves covered half her hands. Her hair was a disaster. Her legs were unreliable. Her playbook, apparently, had a fatal design flaw.
It had identified the threat. It had tracked the weakness. It had confirmed the pattern.
Unfortunately, the threat was Garrett Graham saying please.
And the weakness was her.
Hannah looked down at the message.
Then, because she had learned absolutely nothing, she typed:
Hannah Wells: pending review
She tucked the phone into the hoodie pocket and walked into the cold before she could see what he said back.