Chapter 9
NAOMI
As she speed-walks down King Street West, Naomi narrowly avoids a rogue taxi splash and a slushy crater disguised as a puddle.
The downtown sidewalks are a minefield of snowmelt and suited office workers on their lunch breaks.
She tucks her chin into her scarf and pushes forward, boots clicking, eyes scanning for a clear path and a miracle.
Her heeled ankle boots are already damp, and she regrets wearing the nice ones.
She has approximately one hour to find Garrett Tall somewhere inside the labyrinth that is the Marlies’ arena, touch his stick, and make it back to the office in time to pretend she didn’t almost get frostbite doing a favor for a superstitious goalie.
This morning had been a full-blown gong show. She’d already lived through back-to-back client calls and a caffeine shortage of biblical proportions. Then Richard had summoned her to his corner office to redline her email sequences for the mattress client. Again.
“‘Sink into Stillness’ sounds like a slogan for a drowning,” he’d said, smirking. “Maybe let’s not suggest our mattress is a gateway to the afterlife?”
Okay. Fair. But also? Shut up, Richard.
She speeds up, tugging her wool coat tighter around her as flurries drift down from the relentlessly gray sky, sticking to her hair and lashes. The wind claws at her face, icy and rude.
By the time she reaches the arena’s threshold, her toes are fully numb, her carefully faked loose curls are crisping into tiny icicles, and her patience—already hanging by a thread—is officially gone.
She’s been here before for concerts, mostly. Student discount nosebleeds in university, a few post-grad girls’ nights with overpriced drinks and ears ringing for days after. It’s not as big or flashy as where the Leafs play, but it still seats thousands.
Now, it’s eerily quiet. No crowds, no beer lines, no bass thumping through the walls. Just the low hum of refrigeration systems and the occasional flicker of ancient fluorescent lights overhead. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath.
She stops in the concourse, fingers stiff as she digs through her purse for her phone and jabs out a text to him.
Here.
Come find me down below.
She rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t detach a retina.
“Cool,” she mutters. “Love a scavenger hunt.”
She heads down the corridor, the soles of her boots echoing on polished concrete. Somewhere behind the cinderblock walls, she hears the low clatter of pucks and the rhythmic scrape of blades.
She types again, fingers starting to tingle and burn from the change in temperature.
Hotter/colder clues or nah?
No response.
She glares at her phone.
God, he’s annoying.
A burst of laughter echoes down a side hallway, and she pivots toward the sound, hurrying around the corner. A cluster of Whalers players in warmup gear have taken over a stretch of the corridor, clearly unsorry about it. They’re playing keepy-uppy with a soccer ball.
She exhales in relief and beelines toward the only guy whose name she remembers with full certainty.
“Hey, Carter,” she calls. “Have you seen Tall?”
Carter juggles the ball off his knee, flicks it toward another player, then turns and gives her a full-wattage grin.
“Hey, Red,” he says. “You come to watch us cook tonight? We’re on a heater.”
Naomi blinks. There are at least four sarcastic comebacks loading in her brain like tabs she needs to close. Instead, she forces a smile.
“Um,” she says.
Because no, she does not, in fact, want to spend her precious alone time freezing her ass off watching a bunch of twenty-something adrenaline monsters punch at each other on ice.
But now is not the time to crush this man’s spirit. She needs his help.
Naomi adjusts her scarf and gives Carter a look, equal parts pleading and I-swear-I-don’t-have-time-for-this.
“Seriously though—Tall?” she repeats, checking her phone again like he might have suddenly learned how to text back.
Carter nods toward a hallway branching off from the main corridor. “Equipment room. I’ll take you.”
As she falls into step beside him, she doesn’t check him out. Definitely not. She just becomes aware—in a purely observational, non-horny way—that even in sweaty warm-up gear, he’s objectively hot. Fresh fade, that troublemaker grin, and biceps that honestly deserve their own fan club.
“So what’s the emergency?” he asks.
She snorts, clutching her coat tighter. “No emergency, just a superstition-related errand. I’ll spare you the details.”
“I like details,” he teases, flashing her a sideways glance. “Especially when they involve you and Tall. Didn’t have that on my bingo card.”
"It's not like that," she blurts out, then wishes she'd sounded less frantic. “I’m just…helping him with a weird request. Very professional. Very normal.”
He raises a brow. “So you’re single?”
Naomi falters mid-step. “Um…”
Technically yes. Unless you count being married to her inbox. She considers saying that, but Carter’s still smiling, and she’s not here to flirt, no matter how charming the man is.
They round another corner. Naomi checks the time on her phone again and grimaces. She’s got maybe thirty-five minutes to touch the stupid stick, avoid getting roped into conversation, and hustle back to the office before Richard notices she’s breathing unsupervised.
“Relax,” Carter says. He places a hand on the small of her back. “I’ll protect you, Red. From whatever weird goalie voodoo you got mixed up in.”
He steps a little closer. Naomi feels the heat of his arm near hers and catches a whiff of his musky cologne. It occurs to her that this man would flirt with a houseplant if it somehow made eye contact.
She tilts her head, smirking. “Carter, do you even remember my name?”
He pauses—long enough to confirm she’s nailed him—then his grin widens. Busted. But before he can charm his way out of it, a deep voice cuts in like a slapshot.
“Naomi.”
She freezes.
Tall leans against the equipment room doorway, arms crossed, jaw set in a scowl that could curdle milk.
His gray beanie is yanked low over his ears, hoodie worn at the seams but still managing to stretch across his unfairly broad shoulders.
There’s a serious amount of stubble on his jaw, and somehow it just makes him look hotter, in a grumpy lumberjack kind of way.
His stormy gaze cuts between them before locking onto Carter’s hand—still resting on the curve of her back.
Carter drops it like he’s been burned.
“See you around, Naomi,” he says with a wink, already swaggering down the hall.
She turns to Tall, her voice laced with sugary fake sweetness. “Hello to you too.”
He doesn’t respond. Just turns on his heel and disappears back into the equipment room.
She follows, muttering under her breath, “Okay, sure. Let’s skip basic manners.”
Inside, the room is dim and chilly. Racks of sticks line one wall, standing at attention like soldiers. There’s a bench cluttered with skate blades, laces, sweat-stained pads, and gloves that smell like someone fought a war in them.
Naomi wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. Has anyone here ever met a bottle of Febreze?”
Tall glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Smells like winning.”
She eyes the gear pile again. “This place needs a cleansing fire.”
“There are blowtorches over there,” he says, nodding toward the far wall. “They’re usually for curving stick blades. But go off.”
She peels off her mittens and shoves them into her bag. “Alright,” she says, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “Let’s get this over with.”
He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t move. Just leans back against the counter, eyes on the floor.
“I wasn’t planning to make it a hangout,” he mutters, voice flat.
Heat rises in her cheeks as she blinks, caught off guard by his gruffness.
Oh, okay.
Guess he forgot who summoned whom.
She squares her shoulders. “Wow. You do realize you’re the one who asked me to come down here and give your stick a handy, right? I sacrificed my lunch break for you, and I don’t think my toes will ever recover. You could at least pretend to be house-trained.”
She crosses her arms and stares at him, daring him to say something else stupid.
Tall winces, dragging a hand down his stubbled jaw like he’s trying to scrub the words off his face. “That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off, jaw twitching, then exhales through his nose like an apology physically hurts. “I’m sorry, I just meant…I didn’t think you’d want to hang out. Or whatever.”
Naomi blinks again, slower this time.
His voice is still rough, but the edge has dulled. His posture's all wrong—shoulders bunched up like he's bracing for a hit, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. One hand grips the counter like he's holding himself back, and he still won't meet her eyes.
She softens a fraction. Not enough to let him off the hook—God no, this guy is basically a skyscraper with the personality of a winter parking ticket.
But now that she’s really looking at him, she can feel the tension wound around him like tightly pulled ropes. The pressure he’s under must be brutal—she can see it in every line of his body.
Naomi exhales and breaks the silence, deciding to throw him a bone. “Alright, goalie boy. Where’s the soon-to-be-lucky stick?”
Tall nods toward a rack and pulls one out with a fresh tape job, the blade still pristine. He holds it for a second, as if he’s debating something, then finally offers it to her.
She reaches for it, but before her fingers graze the shaft, he stops her with a quiet, “Wait.”
She glances up, brows raised. “Seriously?”
He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. His voice is low. “It has to be the same. Like in Hartford. The same way you did it before.”
Naomi stares at him for a beat. “You want…what? The exact hand placement? Should I recreate the weather too?”
He doesn’t answer. Just tips his head toward the hallway. “Come on.”