Chapter 20
NAOMI
Post-gala ennui hits Naomi hard. She’s back at her cubicle in downtown Toronto, bombarded with soul-destroying deadlines and surrounded by the rhythmic clack of overachievers.
Her inbox is filled with little red flags signifying unactioned action items, mostly from Mila and Glen.
They’re deep into logistics for the next Whalers email campaign: ticket packages, promotional countdowns, pre-playoff urgency.
She’s building out A/B subject line tests and subtly fighting Glen on tagline choices.
It’s not glamorous, but it keeps her mind busy and off other things.
In the weeks since the gala, she’s been lightly stalking the Whalers—okay, one Whaler in particular—and it’s gotten a little out of hand.
She tells herself it’s just professional curiosity, part of staying on top of client accounts, but it’s become her ritual to check box scores every night before bed.
They’ve been playing well, like actually good. Even the most pessimistic fans and sports commentators are whispering about playoff chances.
But something’s off with Tall. She can see it, even through a screen.
He’s still making saves, still anchoring the crease like a glacier in goalie pads, but he’s letting in more goals than usual.
His frustration bleeds through—a clenched jaw, a snapped head tilt toward the rafters, the way he skates off without acknowledging fist bumps or the tap of sticks on his pads.
It’s not catastrophic. Not yet. They’re still winning more than they’re losing.
But something’s off.
And it gnaws at her. Not because of the account, but because she can’t stop thinking about the look on his face at the gala.
It’s all she does now. She works late, stumbles home, then tortures herself with hockey highlights while scarfing takeout in her apartment like a Hobbit.
Outside, the sky is the same color as the concrete sidewalk and her mood: drab.
Naomi stands abruptly and makes a beeline for the office kitchen, pouring herself a coffee from the good pot. She adds too much sugar, then heads down the hall toward Mila’s office.
She knocks once on the open door. “Please tell me you’re still alive.”
Mila glances up from her screen, does a double take, and sets her mug down slowly. She’s in soft wool trousers and a cream turtleneck, her blonde hair twisted into a sleek bun, nary a lipstick smudge or hair out of place in sight.
“I am,” Mila says carefully, brows knitting. “But are you okay? You look like you haven’t seen sunlight in days.”
Naomi drops into the visitor chair. “It’s the aesthetic I’m going for. Haunted Victorian doll. Or, like, vampire chic.”
Mila doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she angles her head, studying Naomi carefully. “What’s going on with you?” she asks gently. “And don’t say work. You thrive under pressure. This is something else.”
Naomi glances down at her chipped nail polish like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. “It’s nothing,” she mutters.
Mila waits.
Naomi sighs, dragging a hand through her hair, which immediately rebels. “Fine,” she grits out. “It’s—ugh. It’s Tall.”
Mila straightens in her chair, eyes glinting with delight.
“Are you finally going to tell me what happened,” she says, “or should I keep relying on the visual evidence of your post-coat-closet dishevelment?”
Naomi groans, slouching deeper in the chair. “Nothing happened.”
Mila lifts a brow, skeptical.
“Okay, something happened,” Naomi admits, voice muffled as she tips her head back. “And I messed it up.”
“You hooked up with him?”
“Kind of.”
“That’s not a thing you can kind of do, Nomes.”
Naomi winces. “Okay. Yes. We…coat closet-ed. And it was—” She waves a hand vaguely. “Very coat closet-y.”
Mila’s grin is instant. “Oh my god.”
“And then I said something stupid, and now I think he hates me.”
“What did you say?”
Naomi scrunches her face. “That we weren’t catching feelings. Like, plural. We. As if I was speaking for both of us.”
“Oof.”
“Yeah. Big oof.” Naomi’s voice drops. “He looked so…hurt. For, like, half a second. And then he did that goalie thing, where he just shuts the door emotionally like a puck’s coming at his face. Slam. Then nothing.”
She swallows hard, guilt pooling low in her gut.
“I went to talk to him after,” she says quietly. “But he didn’t want to hear it. He wouldn’t even look at me.”
Mila's smile fades, her features gentling with unspoken empathy. “Okay. But do you want to catch feelings?”
Naomi picks at her cuticles, unable to meet her friend’s eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think about him?”
“I try not to,” she says miserably. “It doesn’t work. He’s just…there. In my head. Like a pop-up ad I can’t dismiss. With stupid nice abs and an even stupider face that won’t leave me alone.”
Mila’s lips twitch. She’s fully in big-sister mode now. “You know what I’m going to say.”
“Nope.”
“Text him.”
Naomi makes a strangled sound. “That’s so lame. He probably forgot I exist. Or worse—he’s mocking me in the locker room with the guys right now.”
Mila gives her the most unimpressed look she’s ever seen, and Naomi once saw her verbally disembowel someone for suggesting Hollis run a “female-targeted pinkwash campaign.”
“Naomi, you’re a grown woman. A terrifyingly competent one. Are you really going to ghost someone because you’re afraid of being vulnerable?”
“Yes,” Naomi says immediately. Then softens. “Maybe. I just…what if he doesn’t want to hear from me?”
“Then you’ll know. And you can stop torturing yourself.”
Naomi sighs and slumps further into the chair, her stomach churning with equal parts dread and longing. Her fingers itch toward her phone, but she doesn’t move yet.
Naomi tries to focus on the draft glowing on her screen, but her traitorous eyes keep flicking to the phone flipped face-down beside her keyboard, like it’s mocking her.
She’s picked it up, typed out a message, groaned, and put it back down at least a hundred times since her talk with Mila.
One hundred and counting.
She’s composed every kind of text imaginable to him.
Funny:
If I apologize for being a flaming idiot, do I get a do-over or a restraining order?
Stupid:
What’s your favorite kind of vegan sandwich? Asking for a friend who definitely doesn’t miss you.
Horny:
Tell your lucky stick I said hi. And that I miss it.
Self-Aware:
Just checking if you’ve recovered from the trauma of kissing me.
Honest:
I didn’t mean it.
Even more honest:
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Every single one.
For someone who writes catchy shit for a living, she is catastrophically bad at apology texts.
She can’t hit send. Every time she comes close, her thumb freezes and all the panic floods back in.
He doesn’t want to hear from you. You told him not to catch feelings. He listened.
The office is mostly empty now. Her heels are stuffed under her desk, her cardigan is draped over the back of her chair, and there’s a mug of lukewarm tea next to her monitor.
She’s updating the rollout doc for the Whalers’ late-season playoff push—tweaking subject lines, optimizing calls to action, trying not to think about Tall—when she hears footsteps heading toward her cubicle.
She glances up, expecting Mila. Or one of the admin team on their way out.
It’s Richard.
Naomi nearly knocks over her tea. Richard does not visit lowly cubicles. Richard summons.
He’s dressed like he’s already halfway out the door—long charcoal wool coat buttoned over his suit, leather gloves tucked beneath one arm, phone in hand, brows drawn into their usual position of disapproval.
Peering over the top of her divider, he fixes her with a look that could curdle milk.
“Still here?” he says, sounding entirely unimpressed.
Naomi blinks. “This is a workplace. That’s what people do in them.”
He ignores her. “Glen called. We need someone in Hartford in two days. They’re shooting the next round of TV spots for the end-of-season packages. Mila can’t go. She’s double-booked with the pet food people.”
Naomi sits up straighter. “So…you’re going?”
“I’m not on that account anymore,” he replies, barely looking up from his phone, his thumb flicking across the screen like this conversation is already stealing too much of his time. “Mila’s handling it on her own.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why do I feel like there’s more to this story?” she asks, watching his face.
Richard doesn’t flinch, but the way he keeps his eyes locked on his phone tells her everything. “There’s not,” he says blandly. “It’s a logistics issue, that’s all.”
“Then maybe they should reschedule for when Mila’s free.”
At that, he finally looks at her. Really looks. “They specifically asked for you.”
Naomi blinks. “What?”
“Glen asked for you. Said you’re good with the players. That you got the best footage last time and kept things running smoothly.” He shrugs. “He wants you. Not Mila.”
Her throat goes dry. Panic skitters up her spine. She is absolutely not prepared to return to Hartford and face Tall. Not alone. Not after everything that happened. She needs backup. A buffer. Maybe a five-step emotional containment plan and a really big pair of sunglasses.
She sits forward. “I really think it would make more sense if Mila—”
“Naomi.” His voice cuts in, firm but not unkind. “Suck it up. You say you want to grow here? You want more opportunities? This is one. Take it.”
She swallows, throat tight. “It’s just...I don’t know if I’m the right person to—”
“You are,” he says, folding his arms, gaze unflinching. “You’re the one Glen trusts. You’re the one the players respond to. And I don’t say that because I enjoy feeding your ego.”
Naomi forces a laugh, but her stomach keeps turning slow, anxious somersaults.
She’s not ready to face Tall. Not even close.
Still, warmth unfurls in her chest at Richard's reluctant praise—at being believed in by someone whose enthusiasm for her usually ranks just above a man being dragged to a root canal.
Richard sighs. Then, almost as an afterthought, adds, “I know you and Mila think I’m the bad guy. Mila’s got her reasons, and she’s earned them. But I do what’s best for the company. And right now, that’s sending you.”
Naomi blinks, momentarily stunned.
He gives her a final, pointed look—one that clearly means don’t fuck it up—then turns and walks away.
Naomi sinks back into her chair, suddenly very aware of the knots in her stomach and the adrenaline spiking through her veins.
Glen asked for her. Not Mila.
She’s going to Hartford.