Chapter 3
NAOMI
The morning sun bounces off the glass facade of the Connecticut Children’s Hospital as Naomi and two dozen others gather in the parking lot. She squints at her reflection in the rental car window, smooths her auburn hair for the fifteenth time, and tells herself to relax.
This isn’t about you. This is for the kids. Be cool. Be capable.
A gust of wind nearly flips her skirt, which feels uncomfortably on brand for someone pretending to have her shit together.
Mila is ten feet away, locked in a heated discussion with Richard. Again. Naomi swears Richard would critique the way Mila breathes if he could.
Which leaves Naomi to wrangle the team of professional hockey players who she’s never met before and are horsing around like kids on a field trip.
She turns to face them, heels wobbling on the cracked asphalt.
They’re all in navy and green Whalers jerseys, paired with jeans or joggers, and looking exactly how one would expect pro athletes to look—tall, fit, and annoyingly photogenic.
Some guys rock haircuts so appalling that Naomi assumes they lost a locker room bet.
There’s a pair of mutton chops so ill-advised they somehow circle back to hot.
Thankfully, Mila had given her a full rundown earlier—names, positions, vibes—while parked and reapplying her lip gloss in the rearview mirror of their rental car. Naomi had tried to commit each face to memory while scrolling the roster on their website.
Time to convince everyone I totally know what I’m doing.
Trayvon Carter, dressed in black joggers and sneakers, flips a hockey puck between his fingers like it’s a coin in a magic trick. His warm brown eyes crinkle as he grins at her, and she can already tell he’s trouble. The fun kind.
Dark-haired Pavel Pekar stands off to the side, hands in his pockets, heavy brows drawn together like he’s translating the entire morning in his head.
Mila said he’s from Slovakia and takes everything literally.
She claims he’s a sweetie, but to Naomi he radiates Quiet Guy with Knife Collection energy.
Tristan Fleischer, who the guys call Flea, is blond, lean, and using the tinted window of an SUV to check his hair. He’s got the bone structure of a male model and, according to Mila, the attention span of a goldfish.
And off to the side is Theo Tilbury, also known as Tilly, the team’s quiet, broody defenseman.
He leans against the hood of a car with downcast eyes.
He hasn’t said a word, but Naomi clocked him instantly—the guy who lives behind his baseball cap and disappears into a room even when he’s the biggest one in it.
A dozen other guys round out the team today. Some are looking at her curiously, others are scrolling their feeds looking bored.
Jesse, bless him, catches her eye and gives her a thumbs-up like she’s about to go on stage instead of manage a handful of overly large men.
Naomi claps her hands, loud and firm.
“Alright, thank you for coming guys. We’ll get started soon, but here’s the deal. These kids are going to be nervous. To them, you’re larger than life. So don’t just walk in, sign something, and leave. Be present. Introduce yourselves. Ask about school, or hockey, or their favorite team.”
Carter raises his eyebrows, puck still spinning. “So, like…don’t lead with that time I got into it with that Utica defenseman?”
Naomi lifts her chin. “Maybe skip the fight stories for today, yeah?”
He grins, unbothered.
Beside him, Pavel tilts his head, confusion written all over his hawkish features. “We…ask them questions?”
“Yes. Questions are good.” Naomi nods encouragingly. “Things like, ‘Do you play hockey?’ or, ‘What do you like to do in school?’ Keep it simple.”
Tristan doesn’t look away from his reflection. “Kids love me. No notes.”
Naomi grins. “Wonderful. Try speaking in full sentences anyway.”
Jesse chuckles. “God, I love her.”
A flush of pride stains her cheeks. For a moment—an actual, golden second—she feels solid. Like she knows what she’s doing. Like she belongs here.
And then the light shifts.
A long shadow stretches across the pavement, and heavy, booted footsteps thud behind her. Naomi doesn’t have to turn to know it’s him.
Yesterday, he caught her off guard.
Today, she’s ready.
Totally prepared.
She spins to face him, channels every drop of PR polish she’s ever faked, and immediately blurts, “Sandwich thief!”
Nailed it.
Tall raises a brow, that arrogant almost-smile tugging at his mouth. “Correction,” he says. “You tried to steal my sandwiches.”
Naomi bristles, pulse ticking faster. “Revisionist history.”
“Call it what you want,” he says, voice light, lip quirking just enough to show how much he’s enjoying her irritation.
Indignation lights up every cell in her body, but before she can demand a retraction, the hospital liaison appears, clapping her hands with cheery authority. “Okay, team, let’s head in and meet the kids!”
The moment Naomi steps onto the pediatric floor, her stomach curls in on itself, too full of nerves to hold anything else.
It’s not the crowd of pro hockey players that has her palms sweating. It’s the kids.
It’s the quiet hum of machines. The gentle beeping from monitors, soft and steady like lullabies.
The colorful murals painted on the walls—jungle animals and superheroes smiling from every corner—doing their best to distract from oxygen masks and feeding tubes.
The stuffed animals clutched tight. And the parents, hovering at the edges, smiling through what looks like months, possibly years, of exhaustion.
She inhales slowly, willing herself to stay grounded. This visit matters. It matters more than engagement numbers and clean copy. These kids deserve joy. They deserve magic, even if it only lasts a few minutes.
And she’s going to make damn sure the guys make that happen.
Naomi hangs near the back as the players file in.
Instead of helmets and sticks, they’re sporting foam swords, capes, and the collective emotional maturity of a kindergarten class.
She watches as tiny faces peek out from beds and wheelchairs, IV poles rattling beside them, eyes wide as they take in the ragtag crew of visitors.
There’s a hesitant wave here, a shy smile there.
Then—like someone flips a switch—the whole room lights up. Grins everywhere. The happiness spreads fast, leaping from face to little face.
Jesse, unsurprisingly, is a rock star. He drops to his knees in front of a little girl in a princess gown and chemo cap, bows with all the drama of a Shakespearean actor, and presents her with a foam sword.
“For Her Highness,” he says solemnly. “May your reign be long and filled with cake.”
He flops dramatically to the floor, tongue out, slain by a single swing of her sword.
The girl’s giggles nearly knock Naomi sideways. Her throat does something weird and squeezy as she watches them. She doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
Carter is across the room making an absolute disaster of the snack tray, trying to juggle apples. One goes rogue, but a nurse snags it midair with reflexes that put him to shame. The kids howl with laughter, chanting for an encore. Carter bows dramatically.
Naomi resists the urge to admonish him for destroying the snack tray. Full-body, unrestrained giggles bubble up from all the tiny chests in Carter’s vicinity, echoing down the sterile hallway.
Kids are happy. Mess it is.
Tristan, meanwhile, is pouring on the charm. He’s nabbed a stethoscope and is letting a five-year-old listen to his heartbeat through his jersey. “Sounds strong, right? That’s from all the chicken nuggets.”
The kid cracks up, and Tristan looks over and winks at Naomi.
Damn, he really is good with kids.
And then—
There’s him.
If awkward were a person, it would be Garrett Tall.
That’s his name, by the way. Naomi looked it up on the roster after their run-in at the arena.
Okay, stalked him on Google for a solid hour last night in her hotel room, learning all she could about the Sandwich Swindler.
Age 24. He’s played three seasons professionally, mostly in the AHL, but was called up to the NHL last season where he had a string of bad games.
He was traded to Hartford before the season began to be their starting goalie. According to the articles, he’s up for another shot at the NHL as soon as they decide he’s ready.
Now the goalie lurks at the edge of the group, looking vaguely uncomfortable and irritated that he's uncomfortable. He’s not doing terribly, exactly—but he sticks out like someone dropped a wild animal into a petting zoo and hoped for the best.
He’s hovering near a pair of parents, nodding like he read once that’s what humans do in social situations. And then, to Naomi’s horror, he opens his mouth.
“I’m not often trusted with delicate things,” he tells a dad holding a toddler in a tiny Whalers onesie.
Naomi blinks.
The dad blinks.
Even the baby looks alarmed.
“Um,” another nearby mom says, shifting her baby on her hip.
Tall nods solemnly, voice deadpan. “It’s okay. Today I’m pretending to be good with kids.”
Nope. Absolutely not.
Naomi inhales through her nose, summoning patience. She crosses the room and grabs him gently by the elbow like she’s escorting a particularly large, elderly relative out of a Best Buy.
“Hi,” she says, tight-lipped, steering him away. “Quick sidebar?”
He doesn’t argue, just follows, and his legs are so damn long she has to scurry to keep up.
Once they’re clear of the playroom, she stops and turns to face him, arms folding.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we need to workshop your people skills.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You can’t say things like that.”
His brow furrows, genuinely confused. “Like what?”
“All of it. Literally all of it. The whole vibe,” she says, gesturing vaguely at him. “You sound like a Bond villain doing a daycare internship.”
“I was being honest,” he says, stone-faced. “Just because I play hockey doesn’t mean I’m suddenly Mr. Rogers.”
Naomi pinches the bridge of her nose, summoning patience. “Look, you’re very…intense. You need to soften the edges. Smile more.”
He blinks, utterly unbothered. “I smiled at that baby.”
“She cried.”
“Not my fault she lacks taste.”
Naomi holds up a hand. “I don’t think it’s a taste issue.”
He scoffs. “Well, I can’t make myself smaller.”
“No, but you can kneel,” she says, poking him in the chest. “Or sit. Get down on the kid’s level.
Try complimenting their light-up shoes, their superhero backpack.
Ask them about their stuffed dinosaur. You make it about them, not you.
You’re not here to be mysterious. You’re here to make them smile. ”
He watches her closely, like she’s giving him step-by-step instructions on how to operate a nuclear reactor. But then, shockingly, he nods.
“I’ll try to be…less ominous.”
“Great. Go do that.”
He turns without another word, walking back into the room with a lumbering grace that’s slightly more thoughtful now. Naomi exhales and wipes her palms against her skirt.
She watches as he approaches a kid and lowers himself onto one knee. The boy in a Whalers jersey and cap, a feeding tube taped under his nose, looks up, wide-eyed.
“Nice hat,” he says. “You want to trade it for something cooler?”
The kid blinks up at him.
Tall retrieves his goalie stick from where he’d placed it against the wall and holds it out. “This is mine. It’s cursed, probably. Do not use it for evil.”
The kid’s mouth drops open. He clutches the stick, looking at it in awe.
Tall guides the boy’s tiny hands over the grip. “Like this,” he murmurs. “But, you know…cooler. Meaner.”
The boy mimics him, grin stretching from ear to ear. The stick is twice his size, but you’d think he was ready for the NHL.
And Tall—the Sandwich Swindler, Mr. I-Don’t-Share—actually smiles. Crooked. Soft. Like maybe he’s not made entirely of stone after all.
Naomi’s stomach lurches. No. Nope. Absolutely not. She refuses to be taken in by that.
She forces her eyes away, busying herself with her tablet.
Naomi is one item away from death by avalanche.
Rolled-up banners slide off her shoulder, the box of mini jerseys in her arms threatens to blow out at the seams, and a tote of leftover swag thumps against her thigh like a clingy toddler.
If she makes it across the parking lot without a full-blown yard sale, it’ll be a miracle worthy of its own press release.
Naturally, she’s alone. Mila has mysteriously vanished—though Naomi’s not dumb. She saw how Mila’s eyes kept drifting toward Theo, the hunky defenseman. If Mila’s off batting her lashes at Mister Tall, Dark, and Tragic, Naomi can’t even be mad. They’d look disgustingly good together.
Richard, meanwhile, disappeared twenty minutes into the visit to take a Very Important Call and has yet to reappear for cleanup.
Which leaves Naomi to play pack mule.
She wrestles everything against her ribs, muttering curses under her breath, when a low, lazy drawl cuts through the night behind her.
“Interesting.”
She freezes.
Tall is leaning against an enormous black truck, arms crossed, looking wholly unimpressed.
“Why are you carrying all of that?” he asks, voice flat. Curious. Like he’s genuinely puzzled.
Naomi shifts the weight higher on her hip. “Because the marketing elves were busy.”
He blinks.
She squints up at him. “That was sarcasm.”
“I got that,” he says slowly. “I just didn’t expect you to actually carry it all yourself.”
She jabs the car key at the rental, which chirps obligingly. “Wow. Thank you for that deeply moving display of concern. I’ll treasure it always.”
He stays where he is. Not moving to help. Not offering some smug one-liner. Just...observing. Like she’s some kind of human science experiment.
Naomi grits her teeth and wrestles the trunk open with her elbow.
She heaves the box inside with a grunt, followed by the banner tubes and the bag of giveaway items she may or may not fantasize about setting on fire later.
When she straightens, her heel snags on the curb and she stumbles—an awkward little lurch that makes her want to evaporate on the spot.
Tall tilts his head.
“You good?” he asks.
Naomi shuts the trunk with a crisp thunk. “Thriving. Living the dream.”
She walks past him, head high, shoulders squared. If there’s one thing worse than him stealing her sandwiches, it’s him catching her looking small.
And Naomi Piccolo refuses to look small.
As she heads back to the hospital front entrance to find Mila, she throws a glance over her shoulder.
“Appreciate all the help, by the way,” she calls. “Real inspiring stuff.”
She doesn’t wait for a reply.
But she hears it anyway—quiet, almost an afterthought.
“You looked like you didn’t want help.”
She keeps walking. But her jaw tightens.
He isn’t wrong.
And somehow, that’s even more annoying.