Chapter 7
NAOMI
Naomi is smiling.
It’s a brittle, polite smile. The kind you might carve into a Jack-o’-lantern if you were aiming for “definitely fine, not internally screaming.”
“Just along that wall,” she says to the AV guy, nodding toward the pre-approved setup area. “We’ve got six players rotating through for individual shots and then a group setup after that.”
The man named Brad, or Chad, or one of those names, doesn’t move. He’s too busy staring directly at her chest.
She crosses her arms. “The backdrop goes there,” she says, sharper this time. “You have about twenty minutes to load in and run a test shot before the players get here.”
BradChad finally nods, slow like it takes effort. “You got it, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
Naomi bites back the urge to roll her eyes.
She pivots to grab the cases of gear from the loading area before she says something that turns this into a legal situation.
Mila had hired this crew through a vendor she didn’t know—last-minute replacement after their first choice flaked—and so far the experience ranked just above an airport security pat-down.
Five minutes later, she’s hauling two cases of equipment across the concrete like an angry bellhop.
Why, she wonders, am I always the one carrying heavy shit?
This is not her job. Her job is to run point on a multi-tiered marketing rollout, keep everyone on schedule, and make sure none of the players accidentally say something offensive on camera.
She grunts in effort, muttering to herself as she readjusts her grip, her palms already sweating.
And then—
“Jesus Christ.”
The voice is low. Dry. Utterly unimpressed.
Naomi looks up, still dragging the case, and there he is. Blond hair poking out from underneath a gray beanie, jaw tight like he’s been grinding it. He’s got a frown etched so deeply into his face it probably has its own zip code.
He eyes the equipment case and folds his arms over his muscled chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” he says.
Naomi blinks. “Oh, good morning to you, too.”
He doesn’t smile, eyes narrowing. “Why are you carrying their shit?”
He looks mad. And just like that, she’s mad too.
Because why is he mad at her?
She stops, shifting the weight in her arms and fighting the urge to chuck the case at his broad chest. “Because if I don’t, it doesn’t get done. Not everyone has people running in circles for them.”
His scowl deepens. His gaze drops to the case, then climbs slowly back up to her face. It lingers—longer than necessary, longer than polite. Her skin prickles.
Then he steps closer.
Not a huge move. Just one long-legged stride. But it’s enough. He’s in her space now, and the sheer size of him glowering down at her, smelling faintly of cedar and rain, sets something off in her chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
More like…heat.
Oh no. No no no. Not him.
She stares up at his frowning face, heart hammering.
Do not notice how hot his neck tattoo looks from this angle.
Too late.
Naomi drags her eyes away before she does something stupid, like sigh wistfully. Or lick him.
“You could help me,” she mutters, trying to focus on her anger, not how unsteady her knees feel. “Instead of just glowering at me.”
His eyes flick down, as if he’s just realized how close they’re standing. She sees the muscle in his jaw tick.
And then the heat in his eyes is gone.
That moment—whatever it was—is wiped clean from his face like it never happened.
He steps back. Not far. Just enough to let cold air fill the space he had been taking up.
His voice, when it comes, is flat as ice.
“Not my job.”
A beat.
“Also not yours.”
Then he turns and walks away.
Just—leaves.
Naomi stands there, chest heaving, arms trembling from the weight and embarrassment.
Teeth clenched, she hauls the last two gear cases inside, nearly wiping out over a coiled extension cord on her way in.
Her face is flushed, and it’s not entirely because of the manual labor.
How does he do that?
How does he manage to be the most aggravating man on Earth while also looking like an off-duty Norse god?
She takes a breath, swipes her sweaty hair out of her eyes, and heads back to find Mila.
Tall’s voice slices through the ambient hum of the arena.
“If I see the little redhead hauling your equipment again, we’re going to have a problem.”
Naomi freezes mid-step, breath catching.
She doesn’t hear BradChad’s response. Doesn’t even want to. Her brain short-circuits somewhere between him calling her little and the fact that he could be arsed to care about something other than himself.
For a full three seconds, she’s indignant.
She doesn’t need defending. Especially not from someone as rude and arrogant as Garrett Tall. Especially not from someone who just walked away from her without offering a lick of help.
But he noticed.
Of everyone in this building, it was Tall who saw her hustling to keep the shoot on schedule while the AV guys stood around debating lighting temperatures. It was Tall who spoke up.
And now she’s malfunctioning.
She spins on her heel and speed-walks down the hallway in search of Mila, trying to pull herself back together.
She finds her easily, standing just outside the players’ entrance. To Naomi’s absolute non-shock, she’s deep in conversation with the silently smoldering defenseman, Theo Tilbury.
Again.
Naomi slows her pace, narrowing her eyes like she’s examining a crime scene. A lusty one. Because she did not stumble upon chit-chat. No, this is not “oh hey, great game last night” vibes.
This is heat.
Theo’s looking at Mila like he’s one sentence away from pinning her against the nearest wall.
His jaw is tight, arms crossed like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching out.
His eyes never leave Mila’s face, and Naomi can’t even blame him—Mila looks amazing.
But the intensity in Theo’s stare is next level.
Forget shy. This man is making plans. With his eyes.
For one wildly unprofessional second, she considers leaving them alone. Maybe Theo deserves to make a move. Maybe Mila deserves to be kissed breathless in the bowels of a hockey arena, possibly in the locker room.
But also?
They have a goddamn shoot to run. And Naomi’s done juggling this circus act alone.
She snaps back into motion.
“Hey,” she says brightly, pulling a set of cue cards from her tote and handing them to Theo. “Got your lines here.”
Theo takes the cards, horror etched on his handsome face. His Adam’s apple visibly bobs as he reads the cards.
“Cool,” he mutters, eyes flicking once more to Mila before he turns and walks away.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Naomi grabs Mila’s arm. “Oh my god. The heat.”
Mila rolls her eyes, cheeks flushing. “Stop it.”
“Ma’am, I will not,” Naomi says, wiggling her eyebrows. “I need full details.”
Before Mila can respond, one of the AV guys calls from across the room. “Hey, we’re good to roll! First player’s ready.”
Naomi sighs. “Later.”
They head toward the set, cue cards in hand, Naomi already mentally prepping for whatever nonsense is about to unfold under the soft-box lights. Glen from the communications department is here, carrying a clipboard.
Carter is up first, and as predicted, absolutely nails it.
He delivers his lines with a cocky, lopsided grin. Naomi watches the footage on the monitor, double-checking the audio levels—and okay, admiring his face a little.
“That was perfect,” she calls out, giving him a thumbs-up. “If hockey ever doesn’t work out, you’ve got a future in deodorant commercials.”
Carter winks. “Say the word, and I’ll rap the next one.”
Naomi snorts. “Please don’t.”
“No promises.”
He lingers by the monitor, watching the next few takes. And Naomi lets him. Flirting with Carter is fun and low-stakes. And why not?
He’s funny.
He’s hot.
He knows it—but not in a gross way. More in a “look at my biceps, aren’t they neat?” way.
If Mila’s going to spend her time in Hartford flirting, why can’t she?
She’s still turning that thought over when the next name gets called.
“Garrett Tall,” the AV guy says.
And boom.
There goes her entire brain.
Garrett strides into frame, his Whalers jersey stretched over broad shoulders.
He’s ditched the beanie, and the effect is…
catastrophic. His dark blond hair is shaved close at the sides, longer on top, the waves tousled like someone just dragged their fingers through it mid-kiss.
It’s criminal. Unfair. A personal attack.
And the tattoos. Oh god, the tattoos. They crawl down one arm from beneath his pushed-up sleeve, black ink etched in sharp lines and dark shadows. She’s been pretending not to wonder how far they go, but now she’s very much wondering. Like, full dissertation-level curiosity.
She’s still staring when Carter leans in, stage-whispering, “Well. That’s my cue to leave.”
Naomi startles, blinking like she’s just surfaced from a dream. “Sorry—what?”
Carter nods toward Tall. “Pretty sure I just got death-glared off the set.”
Naomi whips her head around—and yep.
Tall is looking at them.
Correction: Tall is glowering at them. His blue eyes are narrowed, jaw tight, and he’s frowning like he’s deciding which wall to shove Carter through.
She’s still transfixed when someone nudges her elbow.
“Naomi?” Glen clears his throat, barely hiding a grin. “The mic pack?”
It takes her a second to understand what’s happening. Everyone—including Tall—is looking at her.
Because apparently she missed her cue to fix his mic.
“Right. Yes. Of course,” she stammers, grabbing the spare lavalier from the table. Her palms are already sweating.
She clears her throat and walks across the set, trying not to trip over her own feet. Or drool. That would be bad. Career-ending, possibly.
Tall is standing completely still, arms relaxed at his sides, expression locked in what could generously be called disapproval.
“Um, lift your jersey,” she mutters, flustered. “I’ve got to thread the cord.”
He doesn’t speak, just grabs the hem of his jersey and yanks.
Naomi blinks.
He doesn’t just lift it a little. No. He hauls the hem halfway up his torso, revealing a ridiculous stretch of lean, golden abs.
There’s a scattering of freckles across his stomach.
Several lines of script inked just under his ribs.
A sharp indent at his hips that definitely shouldn’t make her feel lightheaded, but here they are.
She forgets what air is for a second.
“Still waiting,” he says, voice like gravel.
Right.
She steps in, threading the cord with shaky fingers, trying not to let her hands brush his skin and failing twice. He smells stupidly good—like cedar and soap—sending a shiver down her spine and heat curling through her belly. It's subtle, not cologne-y. Just…him.
God, this is a mistake.
“Hold still,” she says, because she has to say something.
“Am,” he replies, which is a lie because his muscles shift beneath her fingers, tensing slightly at her touch.
She clips the transmitter to his waistband. Her hand grazes skin. Electricity. Brain static.
“You okay down there?”
She nearly drops the mic pack.
“Fine,” she snaps, way too fast. “Just—technical stuff.”
Her fingers brush his shoulder as she adjusts the last piece, and for half a second, he doesn’t move.
Neither does she.
It’s like the air between them folds in on itself. Like the hum of a building just before the lights flicker.
She forces herself to step back, cheeks burning. “All set.”
Tall watches her closely, like he knows exactly how flustered she is and is silently cataloging every tell. His face is unreadable—classic goalie—but there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Smug bastard.
Naomi hurries off set, pretending not to feel every pair of eyes trailing her—including his.
She needs a gallon of water and a moment alone.