Chapter 4
GARRETT
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the tape room, Garrett rests his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the flat screen.
His lucky beanie is pulled low over his ears, and he’s wearing the same black hoodie he’s worn for their last three wins—soft, faded, slightly stretched at the cuffs.
He hasn’t washed it since the streak started, and he won’t. Not until it ends.
He’s been staring at game footage of tonight’s opponent, the Syracuse Storm, for forty-seven minutes.
The Storm run the same play off the right boards in three out of four power play shifts. He clocks it on instinct. Pauses the clip. Rewinds. Watches the left winger swing wide like he’s creating space for the point shot. He isn’t.
It’s a decoy. They’re setting up the backdoor tip.
“Storm’s telegraphing again,” he mutters.
Next to him, Jesse grunts in agreement and makes a note on his phone.
This is why he likes Jesse. The kid talks far too much—yes. But he doesn’t interrupt. And more importantly, he respects the ritual of game days. Quiet analysis in the tape room with no distractions or bullshit.
Carter is here too. Unfortunately.
He’s draped across an armchair, flipping a puck between his fingers with a lazy arrogance that sets Garrett’s teeth on edge.
The Whalers have attempted to make their tape room comfortable but can’t quite disguise their minor-league budget.
There’s a smart TV mounted to the far wall, a battered whiteboard beside it peppered with color-coded magnets denoting line combos and matchups.
Carter isn’t watching. Garrett would bet half his salary the guy’s never studied tape in his life. He probably absorbs strategy through sheer force of ego. Vibes-based learning or some shit.
Carter messed with his locker last week, switching out his matcha packets for powdered ranch dressing. Garrett didn’t catch it until he’d already made a cup and taken a full swallow of hot ranch water.
Asshole.
Jesse rewinds the clip again, squinting. “They’re leaving their slot open too. If you get a rebound, it’s there.”
He nods once. Jesse gets it.
Garrett hears her before he sees her.
Clicking heels, like punctuation marks hitting the end of every sentence. Or maybe warning bells. Either way, he knows it’s her.
The redhead from the sandwich shop is outside the media room.
A pen stuck in her bun. Her voice is brisk as she speaks with the man she always seems to be organizing things with—short and middle-aged with a potbelly, forgettable.
Garrett doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t care to.
The man has big clipboard energy with no clipboard.
He tells himself to keep watching the tape. No distractions on game day. He watches a full hour of game tape before every game, minimum. The last time he didn’t, they ate a loss. It’s not luck—it’s routine. And he doesn’t screw with routine.
But his eyes slide toward the crack in the media room door anyway.
“You said you’d confirmed this with ops last week,” she’s saying. “If we have to reroute the kids coming in the medical transport through the side entrance, that needs signage.”
The man shrugs. “Can you handle it? I’ve got a meeting in ten.”
Garrett tilts his head. Watches through the sliver of open door.
She doesn’t answer right away. There’s a tiny hitch in her delicate shoulders—barely noticeable.
Most people would miss it. He doesn’t.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “I’ll handle it.”
Of course she will.
Because no one else will. Not the potbellied manager. Not her responsibility-dodging coworkers.
He saw her setting up banners by herself today. Saw her hauling equipment like the world’s tiniest sherpa at the hospital the day before.
No one notices how much she’s doing.
He should turn back to the screen. He knows that.
It’s game day—no room for drift. Focus is everything. Control. Mental clarity. Stillness before the storm.
He’s built his entire routine around it.
Rituals stacked like armor. Same warmup playlist, same stretching sequence.
He tapes his stick left to right, always.
Drinks one bottle of water, one of electrolyte mix—never more, never less.
On off days, he eats the same exact sandwiches from the same spot near his apartment.
Doesn’t matter if he’s in the mood for them. That’s not the point.
The point is control. Stability. Focus.
And yet here he is, attention snagged on someone who barely clears the height of a regulation net.
Before Garrett can stop him, Jesse perks up and calls out, “Naomi! Come here! We need a tie-breaker.”
Garrett doesn’t move, but a sharp, cold knot forms in his gut, tightening with each second.
No.
No interruptions during game tape. No idle conversations. No distractions that might smite his focus. Jesse knows this.
But she turns. Smiles. Walks toward the tape room.
She drifts to Jesse’s side next to where Garrett is seated on the floor, planting a hand casually on the back of his chair. She smells of girl shampoo and peppermint. It scrapes the inside of his ribs in a way he does not appreciate.
Garrett doesn’t move. Just clenches his jaw and watches the screen.
“What am I tie-breaking?”
“Backdoor play versus perimeter cycle,” Jesse says, gesturing at two Syracuse forwards frozen on the screen. “Who looks like more of a threat?”
She squints at the image. Tilts her head. “That one. Number 17 looks like he’s about to nail someone’s rebound.”
Jesse grins and turns to Garrett and Carter. “Told you.”
She lifts a palm defensively. “But for the record, I have no idea what I’m talking about. I picked the one who has the most mudery energy.”
Garrett scoffs before he can stop himself. It slips out, audible enough to draw her attention.
Naomi turns toward him, blue eyes bright, expectant. “You agree?”
He gives a noncommittal shrug and says nothing, staring at the screen. Silence is safer. He needs his focus, needs the sharp edge of it, and letting her in—letting anything in—risks dulling it.
But the silence drags. Her foot starts tapping. Light, rapid. Irritated.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her smile falter at its edges. “Ooookay, on that note.” She reaches down and squeezes Jesse’s arm.
Garrett feels his eyes narrow, annoyed. Flirting doesn’t belong in the tape room.
“I’ve got to finish organizing for the kiddos, guys. See you tonight.”
She walks out. Garrett doesn’t watch her go. Doesn’t notice the delicious curve of her ass in her tight skirt or the way her ponytail swings over her shoulder.
Not technically.
Jesse spins in his seat to face him, wide-eyed. “Dude,” he says, dragging the word out. “What’s your deal?”
He shrugs, irritated. “What?”
“You were glaring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Bro,” Carter chimes in from behind them, still sprawled across a chair arm. Garrett had forgotten he was there. “You looked like a cat watching a Roomba for the first time. Suspicious and slightly aroused.”
“She’s loud,” Garrett mutters.
“She’s hot,” Jesse counters.
“She’s distracting.”
“Yeah, that’s what hot means.”
“She’s kind of spicy, actually,” Carter offers, sounding delighted. “I like it.”
Garrett exhales through his nose, wishing he could mute this conversation the same way he can mute the TV. “Watch the tape.”
He hits play and the footage rolls again, but his focus doesn’t follow. It’s halfway down the hall, tracking the click of heels and the smell of peppermint to the woman who’s somehow crawled under his skin without permission.
She’d smiled at Jesse. Everyone always smiles at Jesse. But the way she did it was different. Not like he’s harmless, but like he’s good. And Jesse is good—loyal, a good teammate, someone who respects tape room silence and doesn’t mess with other people’s lockers.
He doesn’t blame her for liking him. But he hated the peculiar, suffocating feeling in his chest when he watched them together.
He rewinds the clip. Watches the backdoor play unfold again.
Same players. Same movements. Same setup.
He presses pause.
The Storm doesn’t look dangerous anymore.
They look predictable.
He knows how to shut it down.
But this weird tightness in his chest? Still unsolved.