A date. She brought a date.
The game barely registered after that. Every time he passed the bench, his eyes would flicker up against his will, catching her in his periphery. Laughing. Cheering. At one point she leaned over to say something to the guy, and Garrett had nearly launched himself across the ice.
It was pathetic.
The game ended; they won in overtime, which pleased him, but fuck if he remembered how they got there.
Back in the locker room his phone had buzzed with a text.
Thanks for the tickets.
Brought my brother. Don’t hold it against him, he’s a Marlies fan.
He’d stared at the screen for a solid minute before the corner of his mouth kicked up.
Her brother. Of course.
He hadn’t replied—couldn’t. The relief was immediate and infuriating, unwinding the knot lodged beneath his sternum that he had not wanted to acknowledge.
He’s kept his head down since then. Stuck to his routines. Rotated between his two lucky sticks on game days. Same hoodie on travel days, same playlist before warmups, same left-then-right skate order. He’s dialed in—laser-focused. And it’s been working. The Whalers are riding a heater, winning four out of five on the road trip, climbing the standings with every stop. He’s been locked in, sharp in the crease, earning quiet nods from coaches and chest bumps from Tilly and Jesse.
But now Carter’s planning to roll into that gala like a damn peacock. With Naomi there. Not that he cares. He just doesn’t want to see her subjected to Carter’s eyebrow wiggles. Someone has to protect the public.
Fuck. I don’t want to get a tux.
He runs a hand through his hair, ignoring the knowing smirk on Jesse’s face.
“Tilly,” he says, quiet and to the point, “you know where to get a tux around here?”
Tilly blinks once, then nods slowly. “Yeah. I got a spot.”
Garrett exhales through his nose and stands, reaching for his hoodie. “Text me the address?”
Tilly gives a rare half-smile. “Yup. Gonna go velvet too?”
“Absolutely not,” he mutters and walks out.
Garrett scowls at his reflection.
He looks like a tattooed, curmudgeonly giraffe wrapped in very expensive fabric.
The tux fits. But it took a rush job and a tailor who called in a favor with a specialty supplier in Boston. Because, surprise, they don’t make off-the-rack formalwear for guys built like telephone poles. The jacket’s custom-stitched to accommodate his frame without pulling across the shoulders, the pants hemmed to an absurd length. The tailor looked like he wanted to weep when Garrett walked in.
He definitely needs another NHL paycheck to foot the bill. Or a second career robbing banks. Whichever happens first.
He fixes his collar again, as if strangling himself with it will help. The shirt’s starched to hell and back, the collar already itching at his neck. Everything about this feels like too much. Too sharp, too clean, too...visible.
Yeah. He looks ridiculous.
Garrett makes a mental note to call his parents tomorrow. Snap a picture of the tux for his dad, who’ll probably razz him for looking like a valet. His mom will worry aloud that he’s not eating enough, still convinced “plant-based” means he’s starving. She’ll offer to ship protein bars again, like he’s marooned on a desert island and not surrounded by grocery stores and team nutritionists.
The thought makes him huff a quiet breath and shake his head. At least it’ll give them a laugh to see their only son stuffed into a tux at a fancy masquerade party.
He reaches for the mask sitting on the bathroom counter.
It’s a simple masquerade mask. Black with a matte finish. He bought it because he figured it’d be expected, but now that he’s holding it, he hesitates.
He could wear it to blend in. Or disappear.
