Misery lodges in my throat. I wish I never opened my mouth and asked him. I should have just snuck out of his room while he slept and pretended that I never threw myself at him last night.
But then Garrett reaches up and strokes my cheek with infinite tenderness, and something inside me cracks open.
I let out a shaky breath. "I'm broken, and I wanted you to fix me."
Alarm widens his eyes. "I … still don't understand."
Not many people know about what happened to me. I mean, it's not like I go around advertising that I was raped to everyone I meet. I have to trust someone implicitly in order to confess something so monumental.
If you told me a few weeks ago that I would be confiding in Garrett Graham about the most traumatic experience of my life, I would've peed my pants laughing.
And now here I am, doing just that.
"I lied to you at Beau's party," I admit.
His hand drops from my face, but his gaze stays locked on mine. "Okay … "
"I don't know anyone who was drugged in high school." My throat closes up. "I was the one who got drugged in high school."
Garrett's body goes rigid. "What?"
"When I was fifteen years old, a guy I went to school with drugged me." I gulp down the acid coating my windpipe. "And then he raped me."
A shocked breath hisses out of his mouth. Although he doesn't say a word, I can clearly see the tense set of his jaw, the hot fury in his eyes.
"It was … it … well, shit, I'm sure you can imagine how awful it was." I swallow again. "But … Please don't feel sorry for me, okay? It was awful and terrifying and it destroyed me at the time, but I worked through it. I'm not scared of all men, or angry at the world, or any of that stuff."
Garrett says nothing, but his expression is fiercer than I've ever seen it.
"I've put it behind me. I really have. But it broke something inside me, okay? I can't … I can't … you know." My cheeks are so hot it feels like I've come down with sunstroke.
He finally speaks, his voice coming out low and tortured. "No, I don't know."
I'm already in this deep, so I force myself to clarify. "I can't have an orgasm with a guy."
Garrett gulps. "Oh."
I press my lips together, trying hard to tamp down the embarrassment climbing up my throat. "I thought that maybe if you and me … if we … you know, fooled around a bit, I might be able to … I don't know … reprogram my body to … um, respond."
Oh God. The words are stuttering out before my brain can edit them, and my face goes up in flames as I realize how pitiful I sound. The realization that I've officially reached the rock bottom equivalent of sheer humiliation unleashes my tears.
As a strangled sob tears out of my mouth, I attempt a frantic scramble off Garrett's lap, but his arms tighten around me, one hand tangling in my hair to bring my head closer. I bury my face in his neck, trembling wildly as tears slide down my cheeks in salty waves.
"Hey, come on, don't cry," he begs. "It breaks my fucking heart to hear you cry."
But I can't stop. I gulp for air and shudder in his arms, and he strokes my hair and makes rough, soothing noises that only make me cry harder.
"I'm broken."
My voice is muffled against his neck, but I hear his voice loud and clear as he says, "You're not broken, baby. I promise."
"Then help me prove it," I whisper. "Please."
He gently pulls my head up. I meet his gaze and find nothing but raw emotion and shining sincerity.
"Okay," he whispers back. Then he lets out a long, unsteady breath. "Okay. I will."
23
Garrett
HALF THE GUYS in the weight room are hung-over as hell. I, surprisingly, am not one of them. Nope, this morning's revelations pretty much zapped away any headache or queasiness I might have felt.
Hannah was raped.
Those three words have been running through my head since I dropped her off at her dorm, and every time they pop up, red-hot fury blasts through me like a freight train. I wish she'd told me his name, his phone number, his fucking address.
But it's better that she hadn't, otherwise I'd probably be in my car right now on my way to commit murder.
Whoever he was, I hope to God he paid for what he did to Hannah. I hope to God he's rotting in jail at the moment. Or better yet, I hope he's fucking dead.
"Two more." Logan looms over me as I lie on the bench press. "Come on, man, you're slacking."
I blow out a breath and curl my fingers around the barbell. I channel all my rage into heaving the weights over my head, as Logan spots me from above. Once I finish the last set of reps, he drops the bar in the rack and sticks out his hand. I allow him to haul me to my feet and we switch places.
Christ, I need to get my head on right. Thank fuck we're not on the ice today because I'm not sure I even remember how to skate at the moment.
Hannah was raped.
And now she wants to have sex with me.
No, she wants me to fix her.
Holy mother of God. What was I thinking, agreeing to do this? I've wanted her naked ever since that first kiss, but not like this. Not as some kind of sexuality experiment. Not when I'm feeling this much pressure to … to what? Make it good for her? Not let her down?
"Any time now," comes Logan's mocking voice.
I snap out of my distressed thoughts and realize that he's waiting for me to drop the barbell into his outstretched hands.
Taking a breath, I force myself to focus on making sure Logan doesn't die on my watch rather than obsessing over Hannah.
"So I'm pissed at you," he tells me as he bends his arms and brings the bar low to his chest. Then he grunts out a breath and lifts.
"What did I do now?" I ask with a sigh.
"You told me you weren't interested in Wellsy."
My chest tenses, but I pretend to be unfazed as I count out his set. "I wasn't, at least not when you and I talked about it before."
Logan grunts with each upward extension of his arms. We're both lifting twenty pounds less than usual because last night's drink fest means neither one of us is operating at a hundred percent today.
"So, what, now you are interested?"
I swallow. "Yeah. I guess I am."
Logan doesn't say anything else. My fingers hover beneath the barbell as he finishes his reps.
I keep a close eye on the clock above the weight room door. It's almost five. Hannah finishes work at ten, and then she's coming straight over to my place.
So we can have sex.
The pressure in my gut gathers in strength, tightening into a massive knot. I have no idea if I can do this. I'm terrified of doing something wrong. Hurting her.
"I'm not surprised you saw the error of your ways," Logan finally says as we trade places again. "She's pretty damn cool. I knew that from the moment I met her."
Yeah, Hannah is cool. She's also beautiful and smart and funny.
And she's not broken.
The tightness in my stomach eases as I cling to that last thought. That's why I agreed to sleep with her, because no matter what happened to her in the past, no matter how many scars she still bears from that ordeal, I know without a shred of doubt that Hannah Wells is not broken. She's too strong to allow anyone-especially a piece of shit high school rapist-to break her.
No, what she's lacking is the ability to trust, and to some extent, confidence. She just needs someone to … guide her, for lack of a better word.
But shit, can that someone really be me? I don't know the first thing about the etiquette required for sleeping with a rape victim.
"So anyway, maybe I'm not pissed that you beat me to it," Logan tells me.
I shoot him a faint smile. "Gee, thanks."
He grins back. "With that said, I request an exemption from the part of the bro code that states I can't date someone after you've broken up with her."
My fingers stiffen on the bar. Fuck that. The thought of Logan hooking up with Hannah makes me want to go He-Man on the barbell and hurl it across the gym. But at the same time, I'm pretty sure there isn't a chance in hell of Hannah dating Logan, especially now that I know about her hang-ups.
So I shrug casually and say, "Exemption granted."
"Good. Now I'm adding ten pounds to this motherfucker, because, really, G, we're better than this."
The next thirty minutes fly by. The room empties out as the other guys head for the showers, but when I see that Birdie is still rocking chin-ups across the room, I make my way over to him.
"Hey, man, got a sec?" I call out, wiping my sweaty forehead with a towel.
He lets go of the bar, and his sneakers land on the blue gym mat. Then he grabs his own towel. "Sure. What's up?"
I hesitate. Hockey players aren't known for having girly heart-to-hearts. Most of the time, we indulge in locker room talk or shoot insults back and forth, with the rare serious convo thrown into the mix.
Jake "Birdie" Berderon is the exception to that rule. The tall, intense senior is the one you seek out for advice, the one you call when you're in a jam, the one who'd drop whatever he was doing just to help you out. Last season, after half our seniors graduated and nominations for team captain were being tossed around, I told Birdie that if he wanted the job, I'd back him one hundred percent. He shot me down, insisting that he sucks at pep talks and would rather skate than lead, but honestly, deep down I know that Birdie is our real leader. You won't ever find a better man than him. No joke.