Chapter Text
The first time Hannah Wells realizes Garrett Graham has absolutely no idea how to care for his curls, she nearly breaks up with him over a bottle of shampoo.
Not a metaphorical bottle, either. An actual bottle. A monstrous black plastic thing sitting innocently in the shower at Briar Hockey House labeled — with the confidence only deeply terrible products possess — 3-in-1 Shampoo, Conditioner & Body Wash.
Hannah stares at it for a long moment in genuine disbelief, one hand braced against the bathroom counter while steam curls lazily through the cramped space around them.
Then she looks at Garrett.
Then back at the bottle.
Then at Garrett again.
“Absolutely not.”
Garrett, who is standing shirtless beside the sink with a towel slung low around his hips and damp curls dripping onto his shoulders, blinks at her slowly through the steam. “…what?”
Hannah lifts the bottle between two fingers like she has discovered toxic waste at a crime scene. “This,” she says with grave horror, “is not shampoo. This is an act of violence.”
Garrett snorts softly, utterly unbothered. “Baby, it cleans my hair.”
“It probably also strips paint off walls.”
“It says moisturizing.”
“It also says suitable for all hair types,” Hannah shoots back immediately, scandalized. “Which is how you know nobody trustworthy touched this formula.”
Garrett leans one shoulder lazily against the sink, watching her spiral with increasing amusement while water still drips slowly from the ends of his curls.
And God. That’s the tragedy of it.
Because Garrett Graham has beautiful hair. Truly unfair hair. Thick dark curls that try desperately to exist despite years of hockey neglect, bad products, sweat, helmet friction, and the sort of male grooming habits that operate entirely on survival instinct and vibes.
His curls could be devastating. Instead, they exist in a constant state of confused puffiness. Hannah places the bottle down with the solemn care of someone handling explosives.
“Garrett.”
“What?”
“You have the prettiest and the most uncared-for curls I have ever seen.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Do I?”
She stares at him. Actually stares. At the damp waves curling faintly around his forehead already despite the abuse they endure daily.
“Oh my God,” she whispers dramatically. “You don’t even know.”
Garrett laughs then, warm and helpless and beautiful in that infuriating way he has, the sound bouncing softly off tiled walls. “Baby,” he says patiently, “it’s hair, not a science experiment.”
Hannah points at him immediately. “That attitude is exactly why your curls are dehydrated.”
“My curls are what?”
“Dry. Neglected. Abandoned.”
He folds his arms across his chest, deeply entertained now. “Abandoned?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“And you,” Hannah informs him with deep conviction, “are about to experience character development.”
Which is how, two days later, Garrett finds himself sprawled across Hannah’s bed in her dorm room while she appears carrying approximately fourteen bottles like an expensive-haired fairy godmother arriving for battle.
Garrett eyes the collection suspiciously from where he lies shirtless against her pillows, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, broad shoulders relaxed beneath the warm amber glow of her bedside lamp.
“…why are there so many?”
“Because unlike you,” Hannah says calmly, arranging products with terrifying organization across her desk, “I respect your curls.”
“My what.”
Hannah gasps softly like he has personally offended her ancestors.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Garrett immediately starts laughing.
Because she looks genuinely emotional about this.
Rain taps softly against the windows outside while low music hums quietly from Hannah’s laptop, the room smelling faintly of vanilla lotion and clean laundry and the lavender candle she insists helps her study. It feels warm. Intimate in that quiet domestic way neither of them entirely knows how to talk about yet.
Hannah sits on the edge of the bed with her feet dangling far apart and pats her thigh. “Come here.”
Garrett obeys without question, although sighing as he maneuvered himself till he was settled between her legs at the foot of the bed and his head rested comfortably in her lap while Hannah reaches for a small glass bottle filled with rosemary oil.
“You know,” he murmurs suspiciously, “this feels like the beginning of a cult ritual.”
“Shh.”
Warm oil trickles slowly across his scalp. Then Hannah’s fingers slide carefully into his hair. And Garrett very nearly leaves his body.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Hannah smiles instantly. “Yeah?”
Her fingers move slowly, deliberately, massaging gentle pressure into his scalp while the oil warms beneath her hands. Garrett’s entire body loosens inch by inch beneath her touch like tension physically melting from muscle and bone.
Athletes carry stress everywhere. In shoulders. In backs. In jaws clenched unconsciously through exhaustion and competition and constant impact.
Garrett carries it especially badly during hockey season. Hannah knows this. She feels it every time he collapses beside her after practice half-dead on exhaustion and adrenaline.
But now? Now he melts. Completely.
“…okay,” he mumbles after few long minutes, voice already sleepy around the edges, “this is kinda incredible.”
“Kinda?”
“Hannah,” Garrett groans as her nails scrape lightly against his scalp again, “I would confess state secrets right now.”
She beams smugly down at him. “Thought so.”
Garrett closes his eyes obediently while Hannah continues working oil slowly through his curls, separating sections carefully beneath warm fingertips. The room grows quieter around them. Softer. Rain against windows. Music humming low. Garrett half asleep in her lap while she restores moisture to his tragically neglected hair like a woman reviving a dying medieval prince.
“You know,” he murmurs eventually, eyes still closed, “this feels weirdly intimate.”
Hannah snorts softly. “Garrett, I’ve literally seen you naked.”
“Yeah, but this?” He sighs quietly when her fingers massage another slow circle against his scalp. “This feels vulnerable.”
That makes something warm bloom beneath Hannah’s ribs.
Because Garrett trusts her everywhere else so naturally that sometimes she forgets how rare softness actually is for him. Hockey boys are taught to endure things. Pain. Injury. Exhaustion. They treat self-care like a personal insult.
Conditioner, apparently, included.
“That,” Hannah says gently, “is because hockey players think moisturizer is government propaganda.”
He laughs softly. Then nearly falls asleep entirely once she drags him into the communal bathroom sink to rinse the oil out properly.
Garrett tilts his head back obediently while Hannah shampoos carefully through his curls, warm water running over dark strands while her fingers scratch gently against his scalp.
The noise that leaves him should honestly embarrass him. Instead, Garrett just groans shamelessly. “Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“No seriously,” he says dramatically, eyes fluttering shut again, “I understand cats now.”
“You are such a princess.”
“Mhm.”
“And spoiled.”
“Mhm.”
“And dramatic.”
“Baby,” Garrett murmurs without opening his eyes, “you’re washing my hair like a wealthy Victorian woman nursing her sick lover back to health.”
Hannah bursts out laughing hard enough she nearly gets shampoo in his eye. The process takes forever.
Clarifying wash. Deep conditioning. Hair mask. Leave-in cream. Curl mousse.
Garrett watches each new product emerge with mounting suspicion. “At this point,” he says gravely, “you’re just making potions.”
“These are techniques.”
“You scrunched my head.”
“And?”
“…it was weirdly comforting.”
Then comes the diffuser. Garrett eyes the strange hairdryer attachment with profound distrust. “That thing looks fake.”
“You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, Garrett stands frozen in front of Hannah’s mirror in complete silence.
“…holy shit.”
Hannah practically vibrates beside him. “I KNOW.”
The curls have fully formed now. Soft dark spirals falling naturally over his forehead and around his temples, defined properly for what is probably the first time in his entire life. They frame his face beautifully, catching warm light with infuriating perfection.
Garrett turns his head slowly. The curls bounce. He visibly startles.
Hannah almost dies on impact. “Oh my God,” she whispers, clutching his arm dramatically. “You’re so pretty.”
Garrett snorts softly. Then looks again. And again. “…I kinda am.”
“Kinda?” Hannah grabs his face immediately between both hands. “Garrett Graham, you look like you write devastating poetry beside cliffs during thunderstorms.”
“That specific?”
“Yes.”
He reaches up cautiously and runs his fingers through one curl near his forehead. The spiral springs immediately back into place.
Garrett gasps. Actually gasps.
Hannah folds over laughing against the counter while Garrett continues touching his curls with growing fascination like a Victorian man witnessing electricity for the first time.
“Hannah,” he says slowly.
“What?”
“…my hair boinged.”
That completely destroys her. By morning, Garrett has transformed into the single most unbearable person alive. Because now he knows he looks good.
And Garrett Graham with confidence is already catastrophic.
Garrett Graham with moisturized defined curls and confidence? Society never stood a chance.
The locker room falls silent the second he walks in.
Dean sees him first. Then screams. “WHAT THE FUCK.”
Logan physically drops his protein shake.
Tucker blinks once. Twice. “…holy shit.”
Garrett immediately looks smug enough to commit crimes. “Jealous?”
Dean points at him like a man witnessing supernatural activity. “YOU HAVE CURLS?”
“I APPARENTLY DO.”
Logan circles him slowly, studying him with scientific horror. “This is insane. You look like you own vinyl records and have a fandom sighing over you.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Wellsy did this.”
Garrett grins proudly. “My woman respects hair artistry.”
Tucker reaches out cautiously to touch one curl near Garrett’s forehead. Garrett smacks his hand away instantly.
“Don’t touch the definition.” The room erupts.
“You’re moisturized,” Tucker says faintly, sounding personally affected.
“Thank you,” Garrett replies with immense dignity.
By afternoon, half the hockey team is demanding product recommendations from Hannah like desperate Victorian women seeking miracle tonics.
Dean points accusingly toward Garrett, who has now checked his reflection in approximately every available surface. “He keeps bouncing them.”
Because Garrett absolutely does.
Window reflection? Hair check.
Phone screen? Hair check.
Locker mirror? Aggressive curl fluffing.
“You created a monster,” Logan informs Hannah gravely.
Garrett appears beside her instantly, wrapping one arm around her waist while his curls fall perfectly across his forehead in a way that should honestly require regulation.
“You like the monster,” he murmurs smugly.
Hannah looks at him. At the stupidly soft curls. At his impossibly pleased expression. Then back at the curls again.
“…unfortunately yes.”
Garrett beams. Then bends slightly toward her with shameless expectation. “Touch them again.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“They’re soft, baby.” They are. Devastatingly soft. Hannah slides her fingers carefully through the curls near his temple, smiling when Garrett practically melts under the touch while Dean gags violently somewhere behind them.
“Get a room.”
“No,” Garrett says immediately, still leaning into Hannah’s hand like an overgrown spoiled cat. “Everyone deserves to witness my hair journey.”
And honestly? He’s absolutely right.