But she wasn’t laughing. >> [music] >> She was looking at her phone, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Allie Hayes was standing next to her, gesturing wildly with her hands. “I’m telling you, Wells, just be direct.” Allie was saying, her voice carrying over the low hum of conversation. “He’s a guy.
His brain works in straight lines. If you try to ease into it, he’s going to misunderstand.” “It’s not that [music] simple, Allie.” Hannah said, her voice laced with an unusual amount of anxiety. “If he sees the studio shots before I explain the context, he’s going to lose his mind. You know how competitive he gets.” Garrett stepped out onto the wooden deck, [music] the screen door slamming shut behind him.
Both girls snapped their heads toward [music] the sound. Allie immediately gave Hannah a look that screamed good luck, patted her [music] arm, and slipped past Garrett into the house without a word. Hannah didn’t run. She stood her ground, her chin lifting slightly in that stubborn way Garrett knew all too well.
But her knuckles were white around her cup. “Hey.” She said, trying for a casual tone. “Hey.” Garrett replied, [music] walking over until he was standing just a foot away. The proximity was intoxicating. [music] The scent of her vanilla perfume cutting through the crisp air. He leaned against the railing next to her, >> [music] >> crossing his arms.
“You look like you’re plotting a murder.” “Just calculating how much trouble I’d get into if I pushed Dean off this deck.” She countered, a small sarcastic smirk playing on her lips. “He’s been telling everyone I’m moving to Boston.” “Are you?” Garrett asked. He kept his tone light, conversational, but his eyes never left hers.
Hannah blinked, a flicker of genuine vulnerability crossing her face before she masked it with a dry chuckle. “And leave my favorite hockey captain behind? Who would keep your massive ego in check?” “Hannah.” Just her name. It was low, firm, and stripped of the usual banter. She sighed, looking down at her cup.
I’m not moving to Boston, Garrett. It’s just a project, a collaboration. A collaboration that requires panic deleting messages from the arts gala chat? Hannah stiffened. She looked back up at him, her eyes wide. You saw that? I saw the preview, Garrett said, stepping closer. The distance between them shrank to inches.
He could see the slight flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. He wanted to reach out, to wrap his hands around her waist, and pull her against him until the doubt stopped spinning in his head, but he held back. He needed answers first. Who is him, Hannah? And what photos are you talking about? It’s nothing bad, Garrett.
I swear, she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. It’s just complicated. [music] I wanted to tell you tonight, but I needed to make sure everything was finalized first. Finalized with who? Before she could answer, the porch door banged open again. Dean stumbled out holding a laptop in his hands, looking utterly triumphant.
“Hey, Wellsly, the digital arts department just unlocked the preview gallery for the gala on the university portal.” Dean announced loudly, completely blind to the thick tension vibrating between the two. “Look, I know I’m not an art guy, but this is wild. Garrett, you got to see this.” “Dean, shut the laptop.
” Hannah said sharply, stepping forward to block him. “Why? It’s public now.” Dean said, scrolling with his thumb. “Wait, is that Garrett didn’t wait. He moved past Hannah, his long strides clearing the distance instantly. He grabbed the edge of the laptop screen and tilted it toward his face.
The screen displayed a high-resolution photography portfolio titled [music] Rhythm and Shadow, a collaborative exhibition. The featured image was a black-and-white shot taken in a dimly lit music studio. Hannah was sitting at a grand piano, her head tilted back laughing. Her hands were on the keys, but she wasn’t alone. Sitting next to her on the piano bench, his hand resting casually on the wood just inches from her thigh, was a guy Garrett recognized instantly, Justin Blake.
The captain of the Harvard hockey team, a rival school, and a guy who had spent the last two tournaments trying to take Garrett out at the knees. The caption underneath read, “A study in crossover disciplines. Hannah Wells and Justin Blake exploring [music] the synthesis of rhythm.
” Garrett felt the blood rush to his ears, a hot possessive anger flaring in his chest. It wasn’t just a professional photo. The lighting was intimate. The atmosphere [music] was heavy. It looked like a moment stolen from a movie. Garrett. Hannah’s voice was right beside him, urgent and soft. Garrett pushed the laptop back toward Dean without looking at him.
Get inside, Dean. Dean looked at Garrett’s face, realized he had crossed a dangerous line, and didn’t utter a single sarcastic comeback. [music] He took the laptop and vanished back into the house, closing the door firmly behind him. The porch was [music] silent now, save for the distant bass from the house.
Garrett turned to face Hannah. His expression was a mask of cold, [music] controlled focus. The same face he wore before a high-stakes third period. Harvard? He asked, his voice deceptively quiet. You’re doing a project with Blake? It’s for the Intercollegiate Arts Grant, Garrett. Hannah explained quickly, stepping into his space, her hands rising as if to touch his chest before she stopped herself, her fingers curling into the air between them.
The athletic department and the music department teamed up for a joint cultural thesis. I didn’t choose him. The committee assigned the pairings based on our schedules. And you didn’t think to mention it? Garrett challenged, his jaw clenching. The guy’s a certified [music] prick, Hannah.
He spent the entire post season last year trying to bait me into a suspension. Because I knew you’d react exactly like this, she snapped back. Her own defensive walls going up. Her wit returned, sharp and protective. Look at you. You’re ready to lace up your skates and check him through a wall and he hasn’t even done anything. He’s sitting on your piano bench, Garrett said, stepping even closer, effectively trapping her between his large frame and the porch railing.
The proximity was suffocating, electric. He could smell her, feel the warmth radiating from her body. His hand is right there. Don’t tell me he was just analyzing the key signatures, Wells. He was being a model for a mandatory photography segment, Garrett, Hannah argued, her chest heaving as she glared up at him. She didn’t back down an inch.
Do you honestly think I care about Justin Blake? Do you think I look at anyone else the way I look at you? The words hung in the crisp night air, heavy and sudden. Garrett froze. His protective anger didn’t vanish, but it shifted, morphing into a profound, intense ache to just claim her completely.
He looked down at her lips, then back up to her fierce, beautiful eyes. You should have told me, he murmured, his voice losing its harsh edge, replaced by a rough, raw vulnerability he rarely showed anyone. I don’t care about the project, Hannah. I care about you. Seeing some rival acting like he has a right to be in your space. >> [music] >> He doesn’t have a right.
Hannah said softly. The anger drained out of her, replaced by a quiet sincerity. She reached out, her small hand finally making contact with his chest. Her palm flat against his heartbeat. It was steady, strong, but fast. Nobody does. It’s [music] just a grade, Garrett. A stupid mandatory cross-campus exhibition. Garrett closed his eyes for a brief second, leaning his forehead down until it touched hers.
The accidental touch of their skin sent a jolt straight down [music] his spine. He wrapped his hand over hers, his fingers locking with hers against his chest. What happened next made everything worse, a voice internally warned him, but in this moment, looking at her, Garrett didn’t care about the complications.
“If he comes near you at the gala,” Garrett whispered against her skin, his thumb caressing the back of her hand, “I’m not promising I’ll keep my hands to myself.” “Is that the hockey captain threatening a penalty before the game even starts?” she teased, her voice shaking slightly from the sheer intensity of how close he was.
“It’s a promise,” he corrected, his lips brushing her cheek as he spoke, making her shiver. For a long moment, they just stood there, holding on to each other in the shadows of the porch, the misunderstanding melting away into the familiar comfort of their rhythm. Garrett pulled her a little tighter, his arm wrapping around her waist, [music] anchoring her against him.
The jealousy was still a low simmer in his gut, but her touch silenced the worst of it. But nobody at Brier knew the full story. The porch door opened slightly, just a crack. Allie stuck her head out, her face pale, completely stripped of her usual energetic cheer. She caught Logan’s eye inside the house, who was standing by the door, looking equally tense.
“Garrett, Hannah,” Allie called [music] out, her voice tightly controlled. “You need to come inside, right now.” Hannah pulled back from Garrett’s chest, her brow furrowing again. “Allie, we fixed it. The photo is just for the gala.” “It’s not about the photo,” Allie said, holding up her own phone.
“The digital arts department just posted the full event schedule and the guest list for the opening night next week. Garrett stepped back, his hand dropping from Hannah’s waist, an immediate sense of unease washing over him. And? The gala isn’t being held at Briar, Logan said, stepping out onto the porch behind Ali, his face grim.
The funding got switched. The entire exhibition, the performances, the gallery, it’s all happening at the Harvard campus center. Hannah looked at Garrett, the sudden color draining from her cheeks. But that wasn’t the real problem. Logan held up his screen, scrolling down to the official press release from the Harvard athletic board.
And because it’s a joint exhibition, the Harvard hockey team is hosting the official after-party at their house. Attendance for all featured student artists is mandatory for the grant renewal. The next text notification chimed on Hannah’s phone, loud and clear in the sudden silence of the porch. She slowly looked down at the screen.
It was an unknown number with a Boston area code. The message read, “See you on our turf next week, Wells. Hope your captain doesn’t mind sharing the front row.” Hannah immediately knew something was wrong, but before she could even delete the text, Garrett’s eyes caught the preview.
His jaw went completely rigid, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the screen. The game hadn’t even started, and the rules had just completely changed.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
