Chapter 11
NAOMI
Naomi tucks her frozen fingers deeper into the sleeves of her coat and leans forward in her seat, exhaling sharply as the puck rockets across the ice.
The crowd around them shifts and murmurs with the rhythm of the game—bursts of shouting, groans, scattered applause.
Her butt is cold, her tea’s already lukewarm, and she’s not entirely sure what she’s watching.
Still, she’s trying.
“Okay,” she says, squinting at the players lining up for a faceoff. “Tell me again what icing is. But explain it like I’m five.”
Anthony sighs beside her, the suffering sound of a man humoring his little sister who is, for the first time in her twenty-five years on earth, showing an inexplicable interest in sports.
“You don’t need to know about icing,” he says, sipping his beer. “No one really knows icing.”
Naomi smirks. “Well, that makes no sense. What about offsides?”
He groans. “Even worse. Assume half the whistles are for some invisible crime.”
She laughs, bumping his shoulder. “Cool. So I just clap when everyone else claps and hope no one notices I’m googling ‘what is a power play’ under the table.”
Anthony turns to her, brow raised. “Wait, are you actually trying to learn hockey?”
Naomi lifts her chin, feigning casual. “It’s called research. I’m a professional.”
He squints at her. “You work in marketing, not journalism.”
“And yet here I am,” she says, gesturing to the arena. “Making an effort.”
Truthfully, she doesn’t know why she cares this much. Or maybe she knows, and she just doesn’t want to say it out loud.
She still isn’t sure what shocked her more this afternoon—the freezing rain or the moment Tall reappeared like a scowling delivery boy and placed an oat milk matcha latte on the table beside her.
Followed by two Whalers tickets.
No explanation. No eye contact. Just a muttered “Here,” like he was allergic to generosity. Like doing something thoughtful physically hurt him.
She’d nearly fallen out of her chair.
“Is this poison?” she’d called after him, lifting the cup with suspicion.
“Please,” he’d said without missing a beat, walking backward toward the tunnel, a sardonic smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You’d haunt me out of spite.”
“I absolutely would,” she’d called after him.
Now she watches him on the ice, eyes narrowed, wondering if he’s playing with the stick she “blessed” this afternoon—before the freezing rain, before everything went sideways.
Anthony curses as the Marlies miss another scoring chance.
Her brother grumbles about the Leafs by proxy, having been wronged by another Toronto sports franchise.
He’s thirty, married, baby on the way, and still emotionally chained to the Toronto Maple Leafs like it’s a toxic relationship he refuses to leave.
Ask how they’re doing and she gets the same answer every time: “Don’t.”
On the ice, there’s a sudden shift in energy. The crowd rises slightly as a Marlies forward tears down the rink on a breakaway.
He dekes left, fast and fluid—but Tall’s already in motion.
Skating out past the crease like a predator out of its cage, he crouches low and snaps his stick out. The puck ricochets off the blade and clatters harmlessly into the boards.
The Marlies forward stumbles. The crowd groans. The chance is gone.
Naomi blinks. “Is he…allowed to do that?”
Beside her, Anthony lets out a low whistle. “Yup. That was a poke check.”
She arches a brow.
“It’s legal,” he adds, grinning. “Risky, but legal. You gotta time it just right or you look like an idiot flopping out of the crease. But when this guy does it…” He trails off with an appreciative shake of his head. “It’s mean. Beautifully mean.”
Naomi squints back down at the ice.
Tall stands motionless now, watching the play reset, chest heaving behind his pads. The guy he just undressed skates away muttering. Another forward says something chirpy near the crease—and Tall doesn’t react. He stares straight ahead like a statue forged out of grumpiness.
Anthony chuckles. “He gets under their skin. Real quiet like. Doesn’t even have to say much.”
Naomi hums. “Sounds familiar.”
He pokes people. Disarms them. Throws them off-balance with nothing but a deadpan stare and a flick of his stick.
On and off the ice.
She watches him skate backward toward his net, calm and contained again, like he didn’t just ruin someone’s night.
God help her, she finds it...hot.
Naomi crosses her arms, like that’ll keep the flush from creeping up her neck. She really needs to stop watching this man play hockey.
Anthony raises a brow, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Since when do you care what the goalie’s doing?”
Naomi shrugs, sipping her tea. “I’m just making conversation. You’re the sports guy.”
But her pounding heart betrays her, drumming an annoyingly honest rhythm.
Because she’s definitely not watching Garrett Tall too closely. Not at all. She’s simply…evaluating the efficacy of his lucky stick.
She eyes the crease as Tall drops into another smooth butterfly save.
Beside her, Anthony leans back in his seat, stretching out his legs and cracking his knuckles. “He’s good,” he says, nodding at the net. “Real good. I remember reading about him last season—he got called up to the NHL for a few games but totally imploded. Like, actual meltdown.”
Naomi glances over. “Meltdown how?”
Anthony winces. “He was getting lit up, got pulled halfway through the game, and then puked on the bench. Full exorcist moment into a bucket.” He shakes his head.
“The headlines were brutal the next day. Said he couldn’t ‘stomach the pressure.’ One paper went extra savage—ran with ‘Stretch Retches.’ Shit like that. ”
Naomi’s mouth parts slightly. Her hand tightens around her cup.
A puzzle piece clicks into place.
That’s why he bristles every time someone calls him Stretch. Why the nickname clearly gets under his skin, even if he tries to act above it.
She swallows hard. That sucks.
Tall may be an emotionally constipated grump with a superiority complex, but still. Nobody deserves to have their worst moment broadcast on national TV.
No wonder he’s so tightly wound. So guarded. So allergic to attention.
Before she can dwell on it any further, Anthony nudges her with his elbow. “Don’t feel too bad for him, Nomes. The guy’s on a two-way contract. He’ll get another shot.”
Naomi scrunches her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
“Means he can get called up to the big league anytime,” Anthony explains. “If someone gets hurt or bombs, he’s next up. His pay changes depending on whether he’s playing in the AHL or the NHL.”
Naomi nods, but a lump forms in her throat that she can't swallow past. She can't stop replaying the look on Tall's face when he told her another goalie had been called up instead of him.
He'd looked gutted, like the air had been knocked out of him and he was still pretending to breathe.
And that hurt—that helpless, hollow kind of hurt—is a feeling she knows well.
Being passed over. Watching someone else get the thing he had bled for.
Her grip stays tight on her cup as she returns her focus to the game.
The Whalers are leading, but the Marlies don’t go down easy.
With two minutes left and the faceoff in the Whalers’ zone, the Marlies’ goalie bolts to the bench. A sixth skater hops the boards in his place.
Naomi blinks, scanning the ice. “Wait, where’d the other goalie go?”
Anthony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “They pulled him. Extra attacker. It’s desperation time.”
“And they just… leave the net wide open?”
“Yep. Risk versus reward.”
Naomi narrows her eyes at the empty crease on the far end. “Feels a little unhinged.”
Anthony grins. “It is. That’s why it’s fun.”
The Marlies take control fast, cycling the puck around, trying to get the best angle for a shot.
Whalers scramble to keep up, blocking passing lanes, breaking up plays.
The crowd’s volume climbs—a cacophony of stomping feet, shouted names, and groans as the puck zips dangerously close to the crease but gets batted away.
Naomi grips the edge of her seat, tea long forgotten, heart thumping.
Tall tracks every movement with lethal precision. He crouches low, eyes locked on the puck. He lunges for a save and the crowd gasps, the puck pinging off his pad and bouncing into open ice.
Jesse snags it. Clears it.
The seconds tick down.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
The puck winds up back into the Whalers’ zone and another slapshot sails in, but Tall knocks it away with his blocker like it’s nothing. Another shot. Another save. The horn finally blasts through the arena.
Game over.
The scoreboard blazes: 2–1 Whalers.
The Whalers players flood the ice, pounding gloves, clapping backs, rapping stick blades against each others’ shins. Jesse slams against the glass near the bench, laughing as a teammate knocks his helmet off and musses his hair.
Naomi exhales, tension finally loosening its grip on her spine. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound during those last few minutes. How into it she’d gotten. And—more unexpectedly—how proud she feels watching Jesse beam like that, caught in the joy of it all.
Her eyes scan the ice automatically.
And there he is.
Tall doesn’t join the chaos. Just stands near the net for a moment, helmet tipped back, shoulders heaving with slow, measured breaths.
Then—just barely—his mouth twitches. A smile. Small, crooked. Real.
Naomi’s stomach does a stupid, swoopy flip.
Oh damn, she thinks. Not him.