Chapter 2
NAOMI
The edges of Naomi’s tablet form little crescents in her palm under her tight grip. The entrance to the Whalers’ facility is bedecked with banners of players frozen mid-slapshot, the faint scent of Zamboni exhaust ghosting the air.
It’s been at least ten years since she’s set foot in a hockey arena.
The last time, she was dragged there under parental duress, parked on freezing cement bleachers while her two brothers chased the puck around.
She remembers being far more invested in the concession-stand nacho cheese staining her fingers than whatever was happening on the ice.
Now’s when her tragic lack of sports knowledge comes back to haunt her.
The Hartford Whalers are a scrappy AHL team affiliated with the Brooklyn Mavericks of the NHL.
For some players, the team is a stepping stone—a place to sharpen their skills and chase the dream.
For others, it’s where they get sent when they’re slipping.
Or when they’re good, but not quite good enough for the big show.
Her heels strike the polished floor in a brisk staccato. Always heels, even when her arches hate her. When you’re barely scraping five-foot-two, flats are an invitation to be overlooked.
She follows Mila inside, dragging her sweaty palms down her trousers. The sad quinoa salad the cashier at Spice World threw together for her out of pity last night has disappeared, leaving nothing but anxiety churning in its place.
This isn’t the office, where she writes email campaigns no one reads and drafts marketing copy that gets stripped down until her voice is unrecognizable. This is real. On-site. The opportunity she’s been desperate for.
And she’ll be damned if she lets joyless, overweening Richard ruin it.
“Try to keep up,” he drawls without looking back.
Ugh. Richard.
He strides a step ahead in a crisp navy suit, blond crew cut, and square jaw. In his late thirties and Hollis’s golden boy in sales, Richard isn’t technically their boss, but that’s never stopped him from acting like it.
Naomi rolls her eyes so hard she nearly loses her balance. He didn’t even glance at her. She could stop walking right now, pull off her blouse, and reveal her ample tits decked out in a pair of bedazzled nipple tassels, and he’d still act like she didn’t exist.
Never mind that she’s been working with Richard for two years, hustling harder than half the senior team, and picking up the slack when he disappears to golf outings disguised as meetings with clients that magically leave him unavailable for hours.
It doesn’t help that she looks young. Freckles sprinkled across her button nose. Reddish auburn hair that refuses to look sleek no matter how many serums she applies. Shorter than most people’s eye level, which is super fun when she’s trying to project confidence and authority.
Richard saves his attention for Mila—if you can call constant nitpicking and haughty disdain “attention.”
He glances sideways at her, mouth curled like he’s smelled something offensive.
“Your briefing packet was thin,” he says, voice sharp. “We can’t afford to look unprepared in front of Glen.”
Ah, yes. Feedback with the warmth of a meat locker.
They’re meeting with Glen Polworthy, the Whalers’ head of communications, to walk through everything Hollis Group has already rolled out from their Toronto office and to nail down the last details for tomorrow’s event at the children’s hospital.
It’s a packed agenda, and, for Naomi, it's her first time meeting Glen in person. This is their chance to press the flesh, show the team how hard they’ve been working behind the scenes.
“You didn’t include comparisons from last year's first quarter to show our success. That should’ve been in here.”
Mila smiles, but it’s thin. She’s learned to weaponize her composure—a skill Naomi hopes to replicate one day. “The packet had everything Glen asked for. If you need more data, it’s in the shared drive.”
Naomi glances at each of them. The air between Richard and Mila practically crackles, and not in the fun, competitive way, more like in the “HR would shit a brick if they knew how much these two hate each other's guts” way.
A receptionist leads them to a tired-looking conference room where Glen is waiting. He’s somewhere in his fifties, with a balding crown and a build that likely used to be fit but has gone a little soft around the middle.
His whole face lights up when he sees them.
The Whalers hired them to handle marketing and events this season—a full-service package covering everything from game-day promotions to digital strategy.
With a tiny in-house crew made up of Glen and a handful of overworked new grads, they’re counting on Naomi, Mila, and the Hollis crew to transform the Whalers from Hartford’s forgotten son, the team that hasn’t seen a playoff berth in seven years, into the city’s favorite legacy.
“Mila! Naomi! Richard.” Glen’s gaze lands on each in turn, warm for Mila, brief for Naomi, brisk for Richard.
They get settled, and soon the table is scattered with glossy mock-ups, sponsorship decks, and Naomi’s color-coded agenda. Glen doesn’t waste time.
“Numbers are fantastic,” he says, tapping the reports Naomi had spent the last week perfecting. “Email open rates are the highest we’ve had in three years. And ticket sales for next weekend are already spiking. Clearly, the campaign your team created is off to a strong start.”
Naomi feels a gush of pleasure at Glen’s praise. She can’t stop the tiny curl of a smile. This is her copy. Her fingerprints. For once, she isn’t the lackey shuffling papers behind the star.
Richard, predictably, clears his throat. “Let’s not pat ourselves on the back prematurely. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
Naomi clenches her pen so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t snap. Of course he’d dismiss it. That’s his whole thing—to piss on the parade before anyone else can enjoy it.
Mila nods smoothly, pressing on as if Richard had not commented.
“So. Tomorrow’s event. We’ve confirmed the pediatric wing is ready for the player visit.
Logistics are locked. The players will arrive at ten, visit with kids, hand out mini sticks and foam pucks.
We’ve invited photographers from all the local papers.
Then, we hold a press briefing and announce the Whalers Wish Box initiative. ”
The Whalers Wish Box is Mila’s brainchild.
Every week, the team will host kids from the hospital in a private suite, complete with jerseys, snacks, player meet-and-greets, and on-site nurses funded by the team to ensure that every child who needs medical support can enjoy the full experience safely and without limitation.
Mila leans forward, voice warm. “It’s a beautiful program. We’ll make sure the launch gets the attention it deserves.”
The meeting wraps with the usual shuffle of papers and polite handshakes. Glen shows them to the reception area and bids them farewell, and Mila makes a beeline for the exit.
Richard’s voice follows, a half-step behind.
“You should’ve taken more control,” he says, not even bothering with a preamble. “Letting Glen open like that set a disorganized tone.”
Naomi watches Mila’s spine go rigid. The only sign she’s seething is the slight flare of her nostrils.
“Actually, Richard,” Mila says over her shoulder, “can you summarize your feedback in an email? Naomi and I are already late for that other thing.”
“Naomi,” Mila says quickly, looping her arm through hers. “We’re due downstairs.”
Richard opens his mouth, likely to bless them with more tart criticisms, but Mila’s already moving—pace brisk enough to yank Naomi into motion.
“We are?” Naomi whispers as they hustle out of range.
“Yep. Due for a break from that man before I throat-punch him.”
Naomi suppresses a snort as they descend the stairs. “What was that even about? You ran that meeting like a machine.”
“He doesn’t like it when I don’t defer to his…whatever. Authority.”
They reach a long corridor lined with framed Whalers jerseys, the air noticeably cooler. Naomi pulls her blazer tighter over her chest.
“Where are we going, anyway?” she asks.
“To meet Jesse,” Mila says. “Come on. You’ll like him.”
They push through a door to ice level. The smell hits first—sweat, rubber, and cold. Naomi blinks as her eyes adjust to the bright lights, catching movement at the edge of the rink.
A tall guy with sandy brown curls emerges from a tunnel, helmet under his arm, his caramel eyes warm and ridiculously earnest. His face lights up when he spots Mila, and he makes his way over, his gait heavy and careful in his skates.
Cute hockey boy alert.
“Mila!” he calls, stretching his long arms out for a hug.
Naomi steps aside as he wraps Mila in his arms. Her face disappears into his chest, then reemerges with a grimace.
“Ugh. Jesse. You reek.”
He grins like she complimented him. “You say that every time.”
“Because your jersey is a biohazard.”
He shrugs, unbothered, and turns to Naomi, bright-eyed and buzzing with uncontainable energy. “Hey! You must be Naomi. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Naomi blinks. “You have?”
“Yeah. Mila says you’re scary smart and like, freakishly good at writing stuff that makes people spend money.”
Mila nods sagely. “All true.” She gestures to the tall, grinning guy beside her. “Naomi, this is Jesse Mitchell. He’s Natalie’s little brother.”
Naomi’s met Mila’s best friend, Natalie Mitchell, once or twice at events. Jesse’s one of the reasons Mila landed this account. Her insider knowledge was crucial in making a good first impression on the team’s owner.
“I don’t think you can call me little anymore,” Jesse says with a lopsided grin.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I used to bribe you with Goldfish crackers. You don’t get a say.”
Naomi snorts, then immediately regrets it. Jesse's cheeky grin sends a flutter of awareness through her belly that pools low and insistent. He's tall, broad-shouldered, clearly lives in the gym...and definitely not little anywhere that counts.
Okay, ew. Dial it back.
He’s like...a golden retriever in human form. A sexy one, yes, but still. He’s younger. The last thing Naomi needs is to thirst after someone who would call her “ma’am” on instinct.
Jesse turns to Naomi, enthusiasm dialed to eleven. “This ticket campaign you guys are running? Straight fire.”
Naomi blinks, momentarily stunned, then laughs. “Um. Thanks?”
He nods so hard his curls bounce. “For real. Y’all are killing it.”
Okay, he’s ridiculously sweet. He’s got that kind of earnest, over-the-top enthusiasm, with a touch of himbo energy. It’s a pleasant change after an hour with Richard sucking the air out of the room.
They’re still chatting by the rink entrance when Jesse cocks his head, eyes darting to the hallway. His tone flips from cheerful to serious. “Yo, move it back, guys. Tall’s coming through.”
Naomi frowns. “Tall?”
“You’ll know him when you see him,” Jesse says, winking at her.
And then she hears it. The heavy thud of skates on rubber flooring. A swish of pads. The stomp of someone enormous barreling closer.
Rounding the corner, in full gear and towering at a frankly disrespectful height, is the same smug skyscraper from the café the night before. Helmet under his arm. Black beanie pulled low over disheveled blond hair.
Naomi’s soul flatlines.
She is dead. Gone. Deceased. Murdered by happenstance.
Her voice escapes in a strangled gasp.
“You!”
The goalie—whose jersey literally says Tall, because subtlety is dead—comes to a slow stop in front of her. His expression is as blank as it had been in the café. His eyes sweep over her, unhurried, as if searching for some internal file on who she is, and then—
There it is.
The tiniest, infuriating lift at the corner of his mouth.
“You again,” he says, like it’s a passing observation.
Naomi’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Of course the universe decided the Sandwich Swindler would also be a Whaler.
Jesse shoves his padded fist into Tall’s chest in greeting. It’s the hockey version of a fist bump, though Tall barely moves under the impact, like he’s made of cinder blocks. He’s still staring at Naomi, blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
Jesse tilts his head, curious. “Hold up—you two know each other?”
Naomi blurts, “We don’t,” at the same time Tall deadpans, “She follows me around.”
Her entire body recoils.
She whirls on him, scandalized. “Oh my god, I do not. You make it sound like I’m stalking you.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks down at her with that maddeningly unreadable face—and the faintest twitch of his mouth like he’s trying very hard not to look amused.
“You sure?” he says, gaze dipping slightly. “You’re small. And sneaky.”
Heat rockets up her neck and floods her face. Her brain blanks. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. She’s pretty sure her soul has detached and is floating somewhere near the rafters with the team’s championship banners from yesteryear.
And the worst part? Mila's trying not to laugh.
While Naomi’s still sputtering, Tall turns to Jesse. “Let’s go. Need you shooting on me.”
Jesse perks up, like a kid being called for recess. “Bet. Let me grab my stick.”
“Wait, you just got here,” Mila protests, her hand reaching for Jesse’s arm.
He grins sheepishly, already backing away. “Sorry, but…he’s the goalie. If he says he wants pucks, I give him pucks.”
Naomi scowls. “What does that even mean?”
Jesse shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Goalies are just...different. They‘re like housecats. We don’t question their rituals.”
Naomi stares at the towering man disappearing down the tunnel, Jesse trailing behind like an obedient puppy. Every nerve ending in her body buzzes with humiliation and rage.
So on top of being infuriatingly literal, the man comes with his own set of special rules.
Perfect. Just perfect.