Chapter 8
NAOMI
The soul-sucking fluorescent lights in the Hollis Group office are trying to kill her.
Not quickly—nothing so merciful. Slowly. Psychologically.
Naomi blinks at her monitor, trying to remember how to form actual sentences in English.
Her eyes are dry, her brain is soup, and she’s three hours into writing campaign emails for a luxury mattress brand whose entire visual identity appears to be beige sadness and aggressively heteronormative couples in flannel jammies.
Subject lines so far include: Feel the Whisper of Comfort and Sink Into Stillness.
She’s sinking, all right—straight into madness.
Her cubicle is a charming little disaster, with papers stacked in semi-threatening towers and an open bag of vegan sour gummies she promised herself she wouldn’t touch scattered across the desk.
One drawer is filled to the brim with plant-based snacks.
A small jungle of succulents crowds the corner beside a mug that reads Mostly Sweet, Sometimes Savage, a Secret Santa gift from last year that she now feels obligated to use.
She looks around at her cozy prison and wonders if it’s too early to fake a medical emergency.
It’s been a week since they got back from Hartford. Mila had gone straight from the airport to a client dinner. Naomi had gone straight to bed, face-first.
Seven days home, and she’s still thinking about Garrett Tall’s abs.
Which is...excellent.
Exactly the emotional baseline she was hoping for. Haunted by core strength.
She’s been sitting at her desk for the last hour, pretending to be a functioning adult while her brain replays a fifteen-second highlight reel of her threading a mic cord down the torso of a scowling, wannabe Viking god.
A super productive thought spiral, considering she still needs to finalize three email sequences to send to Richard by end of day.
Her phone pings with an incoming message from Mila.
My office. Bring caffeine.
Naomi sighs, grabs what’s left of her oat milk latte, and weaves through the sea of open-concept cubicles. The bullpen hums with the anxious undercurrent of creatives on a deadline—keyboards clacking and hushed conversations about brand tone.
Mila’s office is tucked in the corner. The door is propped open, sunlight filtering through the tall windows behind her. The view technically includes the CN Tower if you lean just right, but mostly it’s a panoramic sweep of Toronto’s concrete and glass jungle.
Inside, the space is exactly what you’d expect from Mila: curated, clean, lived in.
There’s a blazer draped over the back of her chair, a pair of backup heels under the credenza, and a gallery of photos stuck to the wall with chic gold magnets—family, friends, and a few of Naomi and Mila at past events, champagne in hand, pretending not to be exhausted.
Naomi flops onto the nearest chair. “Tell me this is about something more interesting than mattresses.”
Mila smiles. “It’s about the Whalers gala.”
Naomi perks up. Right. The gala. Their next big event. Tall will be there, and after the last time she saw him, she’s not sure how that makes her feel.
She takes a long sip of her latte, buying time to school her face into what she hopes is a neutral expression. “Okay, hit me. Tell me how much logistical suffering I’m in for.”
Mila swivels her monitor toward her. “We’ve got about a month before we fly back to Hartford. Jim Pearce wants the gala to be bigger this year—black-tie, more press, more donors, more emphasis on the Whalers’ partnership with the Connecticut Children’s Hospital and the Whalers’ Wish Box.”
Naomi nods slowly, filing it away while trying very hard not to imagine Garrett Tall in a tux. Because that way lies madness.
Mila continues, “The hospital’s board has a hand in final approvals, so we need to keep things buttoned up. And we’re responsible for the silent auction.”
“Got it.” Naomi opens her notes app. “I’ll start sourcing prizes. Spa weekends, private dining, luxury pet grooming. The usual suspects.”
“Perfect.”
“What else can I do?” Naomi asks.
“Jesse’s going to emcee,” Mila says.
Naomi brightens. “Good choice. He’s basically human serotonin.”
“Exactly. Which means we need a script that fits the vibe of the night.”
“Define vibe,” Naomi says. “Inspirational underdog? Starchy corporate?”
“Celebratory,” Mila says. “The team’s on a roll right now, and everyone’s feeling it.”
Naomi blinks at her. “Since when?”
Mila laughs. “Since last week. Have you not seen any of the updates?”
“No? I’ve been drowning in mattress metaphors. Why, what happened?”
“They’re winning,” Mila says, eyes lighting up. “Tall’s had two back-to-back shutouts.”
Naomi sips her latte. “Is that, like, really good?”
Mila gives her that soft, pained look—the one that says, you’re pretty, but your sports IQ is tragic. “Naomi. That means the other team didn’t score. At all. Two games in a row.”
“Oh.” Naomi pauses. “So like, goalie wizardry.”
Mila’s voice is warm with pride. “The whole team’s buzzing. You can hear it in Glen’s voice on every planning call.”
Naomi hums, nodding. “Well, good for them. Good for him.”
She doesn’t mean to picture him—sweat-damp hair, muscles flexing under his jersey, that intense stare that turns her insides to liquid.
Nope. Absolutely not doing that.
She straightens, trying to redirect her brain. “Okay. Gala script. Auction items. Got it. I’ll get started on outreach today.”
Mila studies her for a second, a knowing smile tugging at her mouth. “You okay? You seem…distracted.”
Naomi forces a grin. “Just thinking about how to convince a luxury spa to give us a free weekend getaway. For charity, obviously.”
Mila laughs softly. “That’s my girl.”
As she leaves the office, Naomi tells herself the same thing she’s been saying all week.
She’s not thinking about Garrett Tall.
She’s fine. Totally fine.
Except if she’s being honest, she’s pretty sure she could describe every one of his ab muscles from memory.
And that feels like a problem.
Naomi is having what could generously be called a low-energy evening.
She’s in her rattiest sweatpants, hair up in a scrunchie, eating vegan pad thai straight from the container while half-watching a dating show where everyone is twenty-two, sunburned, and allergic to emotional growth.
A candle called Coastal Clarity flickers on the coffee table, allegedly smelling like ocean breeze.
Her phone buzzes with an incoming call next to her.
Unknown number. Connecticut area code.
She sighs. Figures. She’s been calling businesses in Hartford all week for the Whalers gala silent auction—breweries, restaurants, a day spa that put her on hold for seventeen minutes listening to flute music—so an unfamiliar number isn’t suspicious.
She swipes to answer, putting on her cheerful-professional persona.
“Naomi Piccolo, Hollis Group.”
A deep, male voice on the other end growls, “I need you to touch my stick.”
She jabs the red button and launches her phone onto the coffee table with a clatter.
Gross.
“Not tonight, Satan,” she mutters, turning back to her noodles.
Her phone buzzes again. Same number.
She hits decline. It immediately rings again.
“Oh, for the love of tofu.”
Naomi grabs her phone again, her pad thai now abandoned, and answers on the third buzz with full menace in her voice.
“Listen, perv, if you call again I will sign you up for every multilevel marketing scheme known to man. You’ll be getting ads for tummy tea and leggings until the heat death of the universe. Do not test me.”
“Don’t hang up.”
The voice is steady. Deep. And irritatingly familiar in a way that itches her brain.
“It’s Garrett.”
Her mind blanks, mentally thumbing through every awkward first date, bad Tinder match, and one-night flirtation she’s had since university.
Garrett? Did she ever date a Garrett?
Nothing.
The silence hangs long enough for her to hear sirens whine in the distance. Then the voice comes again, flatter this time, with a note of strained patience. “Tall.”
Naomi blinks. “Oh my god.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, like he’s shifting the phone from one giant bear hand to the other. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”
“Like what, exactly?” she fires back.
A pause. Then a full, tortured exhale. “Jesus. You’re making it weird.”
She barks out a stunned laugh. “I’m making it weird? You cold-called me at dinnertime and asked me to touch your dick.”
“It’s my hockey stick,” he growls. “But nice to know where your head’s at.”
Naomi sputters, nearly launching her chopsticks across the room. “Well, what the heck was I supposed to think when—”
“I need you to touch the stick again,” Tall cuts her off.
He sounds completely serious, which is ludicrous. She squints into the dimness of her living room, where her throw blanket is bunched up like it’s also confused. “I beg your what?”
“You touched my goalie stick in the tunnel,” he says, calm and deadly serious. “Do you remember?”
“Vividly,” she says flatly. “You treated me like I’d cursed it with black magic.”
“It ended up in rotation mid-game,” he continues, ignoring her. “We’ve won three straight with it since. Two shutouts. It’s my lucky stick now.”
“Okay, so what? Congrats on the magic stick, I guess.”
“Don’t you see?” he scoffs. “I need you to do it again.”
“Why? You already have a magic stick.”
“Sticks don’t last forever,” he says tightly. “The flex degrades. They get chipped. This blade is already losing its pop.”
“Why do you think it’s because I touched it?” she asks, flopping back onto her couch. “Maybe you’re just an excellent goalie.”
His next words come out clipped, like this conversation is causing him physical pain. “Because I haven’t changed anything else. I’ve kept everything the same.”
He exhales slowly, then adds in a low voice, “I know it’s the stick. I can’t explain it, but I know.”
Her lips twitch with the effort not to laugh. His level of superstition is… honestly kind of impressive.
Okay, goalie man, she thinks. Let’s get weird.
“But how do you know your lucky stick is the one I touched?” she counters. “There were like fifteen, twenty sticks lined up in that hallway. It was a whole tree farm.”
“Sticks aren’t made of wood anymore—”
He stops himself. She can almost hear the sound of him dragging a hand down his face.
“Why am I explaining this to you?” he mutters.
“I have no idea,” Naomi says cheerfully. “It seems inefficient.”
He’s annoyed. She’s amused. A dangerous combination.
“I know because I number them,” he grits out. “Under the tape.”
Her head tilts. “You…number them?”
“That’s how I track rotation and performance metrics,” he says, like it’s obvious. His irritation hums through the phone. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m starting to.”
Naomi presses the heel of her hand to her forehead, shaking her head in disbelief.
“God. You’re serious. You want me to bless your hockey stick like a tiny Italian pope?”
“I’m not calling for fun, Smalls.”
“You’ve officially reached new levels of neurotic, Stretch.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps.
“Sorry,” she says automatically. Not because she feels particularly apologetic towards the chronically grumpy goalie, but because middle child instincts are a hell of a drug. She’s been apologizing for things that aren’t her fault since before puberty.
A beat passes. Naomi chews the inside of her cheek and glances around her messy one-bedroom, as if her leaning towers of shoes and mismatched throw pillows are going to offer sage advice.
“I need you to recreate whatever the hell you did,” he says finally. There’s another pause, then to her complete shock, he adds a suffering, reluctant, “Please.”
Naomi nearly drops her phone. Garrett Tall just said please. Like a real human man.
She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying not to sound as stunned as she feels. “You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t be calling you if I wasn’t.”
Naomi hears his breathing on the line—steady, low, unmistakably annoyed—and can picture him standing there, scowling into his phone like this whole thing is somehow her fault.
She leans back into her couch. Equal parts horrified, flustered, and—okay, fine—curious.
“Well,” she says slowly, drawing the word out. “I’ll be in Hartford for the gala in a few weeks. I could, you know...bless your stick then.”
“No,” he says quickly. “It has to be sooner.”
She blinks. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I live in Toronto. That’s like—an eight-hour drive or a full afternoon of connecting flights and soul decay. No, thank you.”
“I know you live in Toronto, Naomi,” he says, with the voice of a man clenching his jaw hard enough to crack the enamel. “We play the Marlies on Thursday. I’ll be in town.”
Her cheeks flush. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
Another silence. This one less awkward and more...charged, prickling under her skin.
“This is completely ridiculous,” she mutters.
“It’s not ridiculous,” he says, each word clipped. “I haven’t changed anything else in my routine. It’s definitely the stick. I can feel it.”
Naomi crosses one leg over the other, one socked foot dangling with nervous energy. “So what exactly are you asking me here? You want me to come to the arena, walk into the locker room, and what—fondle your stick?”
She can practically feel the tension spike through the line.
“Can you not,” he mutters, horrified.
“I’m just saying, if we’re gonna do this, you should at least buy me dinner first.”
“Jesus Christ.”
She’s grinning now. It’s involuntary.
“You are so annoying,” he says.
“You’re the one who called me,” she points out, voice syrupy sweet. “Begging for my magic touch. I’m just trying to deliver.”
Another exhale from his end. Frustrated. But also—resigned.
“So. Thursday?”
Naomi lets the silence hang for a moment, just to make him sweat. “You’re insane.”
“But?”
She sighs, dramatic. “But, sure. I’ll rub your stick.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“I’ll caress it gently. Whisper encouragement. Maybe slide my fingers around the back—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Text me the details,” she coos. “I want a full itinerary. A sexy playlist to set the mood.”
The line goes dead.
Naomi lowers her phone, grinning to herself. Her heart is still thudding a little too hard. Her face feels warm, and her entire body is buzzing with glee from getting under that massive man’s skin.