Chapter 79 Garret
Garrett
Apparently, my life was going great.
Dr. Graves thought things were going great. My mother thought things were going great. Even Trisha’s parents seemed convinced I was some kind of charming future son-in-law after Thanksgiving dinner, which was honestly impressive considering I spent half that night trying not to look like I’d rather be anywhere else.
According to Dr. Graves, my therapy sessions had been “productive.” His word, not mine.
I had told him about the kiss.
Well… most of it.
I told him that after the recital I had a rough moment and confused Aitor for someone else for about half a second. He called it a slip. A moment of emotional instability. Something about stress responses and misplaced attachment.
He didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Which was shocking.
Then again, the man had seen me spiral on a bathroom floor before, so maybe one accidental kiss didn’t even make the top ten.
Either way, therapy kept moving forward, and Trisha, as expected, was a crucial factor.
Our relationship had become… official to them.
Social appearances, family involvement, public displays, and enough hints at intimacy to convince everyone that I was a perfectly stable human being. All perfect.
There was just one small problem.
I felt absolutely nothing.
Not for the future everyone seemed so excited about. Not for Trisha, obviously.
Half the time when we were together I blocked her off and even during sex, the only reason I could get hard was because my brain decided to betray me.
More than once, the image that pushed me over the edge wasn’t Trisha. It was Aslan who was constantly in my head, doing very inappropriate things to me most of the time..
Which was ironic, considering that any time I saw him in real life, he was with Aitor.
Holding hands.
Kissing.
Looking like the two of them had somehow figured out how to exist in a completely different world from the rest of us.
And no matter how many days passed, that sight didn’t get any easier.
Not for me, and sure as fuck not for him. He could act as goddamn loving as he wanted toward Aitor, but his eyes always landed on me. He still wanted me. And sooner or later, I was going to show him that.
I had already warned Aitor, after all.
Once my therapy was over, I wasn’t going to sit quietly on the sidelines anymore. I was going to go after Aslan.
Aitor had understood that and taken it as a challenge. It had practically become his personal mission to keep me from succeeding.
But I would be damned if I didn’t.
Just not yet.
I was still under close watch.
On top of my current responsibilities, my family had apparently decided this was the perfect moment to double down on their expectations, because controlling my romantic life clearly wasn’t enough.
They were coming at me from every direction.
My father had locked onto the wrestling team like it was the second coming of Christ.
“Your coach called,” he had said during one of our weekly phone calls, sounding way too pleased with himself. “He says the upcoming match is deciding the next champion.”
“I know.”
“You understand what that means, Garrett.”
“Yeah, Dad,” I muttered. “I understand how sports work.”
“It means you’re finally stepping into the position you should have had from the start.”
Right.
He went on for another ten minutes about discipline, reputation, and how proud the family name would be when I officially moved up to the main team.
Meanwhile, I was sitting there wondering how many more early morning practices my body could survive before something snapped.
And that was only one flank. My mother had her own battlefield.
“Tell me about your equestrian training,” she said during the last visit, her voice carrying that perfectly controlled tone she used when she was already expecting the right answer.
“It’s… fine.”
“Fine, isn’t a standard, Garrett.”
“I ride the horse,” I muttered. “The horse runs. We both survive.”
Her eyes hardened instantly. “This isn’t amusing.”
Before I could even react, her hand came up and pinched my face between her fingers, forcing my head up so I had to look directly at her.
Not hard. Just enough.
My jaw tightened automatically, every muscle in my body going rigid.
“I didn’t mean it as a joke,” I said quickly, my voice much quieter now.
She held my face there for another second, studying me, deciding whether I had learned the lesson yet.
Then she released me and smoothed the front of my shirt like nothing had happened.
“The William family has always produced exceptional riders. Your grandfather competed internationally. Your cousin is already training professionally.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I expect the same discipline from you.”
“Of course.”
Of course she did, because nothing said healthy teenage life like being pushed into a sport you had absolutely zero interest in.
So between my father obsessing over wrestling and my mother fantasizing about my future as the next great equestrian rider, my schedule had become a kind of personal torture experiment.
Every morning started at five.
Drills.
Gym.
Training.
Classes.
Therapy.
More training.
Apparently, the only way to keep everyone happy was to push myself hard enough that no one could complain.
So that’s what I did.
I woke up before sunrise. I showed up at the field before anyone else.
I ran drills until my lungs burned, and my shoulders felt like they were going to tear off.
Not because I cared, but because when everyone expects you to be exceptional, failing isn’t exactly an option.
The wrestling match came first.
The large gym was already packed half an hour before it even started. Students filled the bleachers, the noise bouncing off the high ceiling while the wrestling mats waited under the bright lights in the center of the room.
The first row was worse.
Parents. Coaches. The committee members who would decide who made the official team out of our entire school.
My father sat right in the middle of them. Watching.
I had trained like a maniac for days leading up to this. Early mornings, late nights, lifting until my muscles trembled, running drills until my lungs burned. More than once I had pushed myself so hard I ended up hunched over the sinks in the locker room, throwing up from exhaustion before dragging myself back out to the mat.
My body felt like it had been put through a grinder.
But I needed this.
If I could give them this—if I could give my father this—maybe they’d back off for a while. Maybe he'd be… proud of me.
Then, maybe I could breathe.
The whistle blew, and the first match started.
The noise in the gym exploded.
By the time it was my turn, my shoulders were already tight with tension and sweat was running down my back under the uniform. I stepped onto the mat, rolling my neck once, trying to loosen muscles that felt like steel cables pulled too tight.
Across from me, my opponent bounced lightly on his feet.
The referee stepped between us.
“Ready?”
I barely heard him. My father’s voice cut through everything from the front row. “Stay aggressive, Garrett!”
Of course. Always aggressive.
The whistle blew again, and suddenly the world narrowed down to the mat, the guy in front of me, and the burning strain already spreading through my arms and legs.
The first match was brutal.
“C'mon, son. You let it stretch more than necessary,” he lectured me.
I hadn't.
“You could've beaten him sooner and saved some strength.”
I absolutely could've not.
The second one was worse.
“Push it, Garrett! Push!” My dad screamed from the bleachers.
By the third, every muscle in my body ached. My lungs felt like they were on fire, and my vision blurred for a second when I stood up too fast.
I felt like puking again and close to passing out, but I took a few deep breaths to keep myself from either. Not a fucking chance.
Across the mat, on the other side of the gym, the other bracket was already fighting. I spotted Aslan there, quick on his feet, blocking attacks and slipping out of holds before they could lock. Smart tactic, but that kind of strategy wouldn’t survive against me.
The thought hit me suddenly: if the brackets held, we’d end up facing each other. And if I lost to him… The idea dug under my skin, so I pushed harder, tightening every hold and forcing strength out of muscles already screaming for mercy.
I could do this. Beat everyone here, even my lion. It would hurt—more than one way—but that didn’t matter.
Growing up in the William family had taught me one thing: respect wasn’t given. It was earned. And if pain was the price, then pain was what I’d pay.